I know I’m prepared for the final exam—I could answer half of these questions in my sleep—but getting Knox to a place where he feels confident taking the test is way more difficult than memorizing Hardwin’s bloated lesson plans.
I deadpan, “You’ve only gotten five questions right.”
His head perks up like he’s a cat hearing a tin can being peeled back. “That’s good, right?”
I know it’s my sacred duty to ply him with reassurance, but I have to be realistic. “Out of twenty-five questions.”
“Oh.”
I don’t particularly love petting his ego when I know he has enough testosterone to air out a room, but I don’t want to dampen his spirits either—a balancing act that I have yet to conquer.
Knox rolls onto his back, starfishing, his eyes lasered on the dusty ceiling that hasn’t had a good sweep in ages. “I’m nevergoing to remember this many things,” he says, his tone notched with defeat, as if he’s already decided that he’ll tank the entire thing.
I hate seeing him so hard on himself. Hardwin’s tests aren’t for the faint of heart. The concepts are difficult and extensive, the wording is convoluted, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the bitter, old man doesn’t want to see any of his students succeed.
My brain—which has been half-submerged in the linework of literary analysis—logs back into the present, my senses yanked out of a murky lake like a fish bobbing on a line. I grab his hand (which, yes, has become second nature for me), and try to mollify his worries with a palm squeeze. Sympathy is an adverse reaction—the downfall of being exposed to the secondhand high of potent self-doubt.
“Hey, no. Don’t say that. We’re not setting ourselves up for failure today, okay?”
“What if I just prove my dad right?” Knox asks, his voice charred with a darkness that I’ve never been privy to. Even the silence expands to accommodate for the heft of the question.
No longer does Mr. Hockey sit before me—on a campaign to crush his father’s expectations—but a lesser man takes his place, one who still conflates his self-worth with Daddy’s elusive praise.
“You won’t,” I growl, the two syllables fanged. “Remember what I said earlier in the quad? You’re capable of whatever you put your mind to. You just…you have to believe it.”
Knox doesn’t bother debating me, which is uncharacteristic of him.
Mr. Fuckface Mulligan is so obsessed with his son’s star quality that he’s made it his life’s goal to dim Knox’s light so he, in all his unimpressive mundaneness, can steal a taste of what it means to be extraordinary. He wasn’t born with it, obviously.
Well, newsflash, buddy, Knox might want to keep the peacebetween you two, but he’s got a guard dog with the bullshit tolerance of a kindergarten teacher pre-coffee at seven in the morning.
From the few months I’ve known Knox, it’s clear that he doesn’t fall into the conventional learning styles. He zonks out when I lecture him, visual is more promising but less time-effective, and reading slash writing is a big no-no. I have to switch up my teaching technique.
Knox plays a sport—a hard one, at that—which means he’s doing a lot of hands-on learning when it comes to strategy. Maybe he’s a kinesthetic learner. Or maybe he just needs a little more incentive than a big, red A on a flimsy piece of paper.
“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do: I’m upping the stakes,” I decide, thumbing through the Rolodex in my head for a quick solution.
Knox’s hand falls from mine, and he ticks his head. “What do you mean?”
While I scramble for something to crack the algorithm, I land on quite possibly the most humiliating and discredited technique of them all, and an anxious heat works into the corners of my body—two criteria away from probably being an occupational hazard.
My tongue is the consistency of papier-mâché. “For every answer you get right, I’ll take a piece of clothing off.”
Is this a good deal on my part? Maybe not, seeing as I only have socks to spare for two rounds. Though, judging by the immediate intrigue sparkling in his eyes, I think my decision is more than justified.
Plus, I haven’t stopped thinking about the first time we had sex. It wasn’t at all how I imagined losing my virginity—it wasbetter. No gaudy rose petals or overly expensive champagne bottles or swanky sex playlist to add to the first-time jitters. It wasn’t contrived in any way. The only thing I was worried about was fitting Knox’s Pringle can of a dick insideof me. He laid down a safety net, and now I need to return the favor.
“Fuck,” he moans, drinking my ensemble in—doing the math in his head of how many questions he has to get right until I’m straddling him in my birthday suit.
Six questions. He only has to get six right.
The tension suddenly turns flammable, and my nipples pebble against the inside of my bra despite the steady sixty-eight degrees of the house. He’s about to flatten every boundary with enthusiasm, and I have a feeling his carnivorous hunger won’t ebb until he’s making a meal out of me.
I clear my throat, trying to ignore the way my pussy clenches around a phantom fullness. I’m no better than him. If I wasn’t so determined to make this man a straight-A student, I’d strip all my clothes off right here, right now.
“What does the term ‘ekphrasis’ refer to?”
Knox doesn’t even have to think about it.
