Play Me Right

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Knox

The bass hits before I even cross the threshold.

Low. Steady. A rhythmic thrum that vibrates in the soles of my boots and settles into my chest, syncing with a heartbeat I’ve spent all day trying to ignore.

That’s the point of this place.

I don’t come here to think. I come here to let the noise do the thinking for me.

“Parker!”

I hear it over the snare, over the low roar of the crowd, over the clink of glasses. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. The tone is always the same—a mix of borrowed pride and the desperate need to be noticed. I lift a hand without looking back, a mindless reflex of acknowledgment, and keep moving.

The bar is exactly where it always is. Same amber lighting that hides the cracks. Same bodies pressed too close. Same heavy expectation hanging in the air the second I step into the light.

A glass slides toward me before I even reach the rail.

“The usual, Knox,” the bartender says, his voice barely carrying over the track.

I nod once, my fingers wrapping around the cold condensation of the glass. I take a slow drink, letting the burn of the whiskey sit on my tongue a second longer than necessary. I want to feel it. I want it to distract me from the static in my head.

Around me, the room is in motion.

Girls laughing just a pitch too high to ensure I hear it. Hands brushing my bicep—accidents that are anything but. Eyes tracking my every move from the dark corners of the booths, waiting for a signal. A look. An opening.

It used to mean something.

I think.

Now, it just feels like part of the scholarship. Expected. Routine. Exhausting.

“Thought you had media tonight,” Hayes says, appearing at my shoulder. He’s leaning back, looking like he owns the place just by association.

“Had,” I say, the word short and clipped.

He grins, flashing that look that says he thinks he’s in on a secret. “And?”

I take another sip, staring at the reflection of the neon beer sign in the liquid. “Didn’t feel like staying.”

Hayes laughs like I’ve just delivered the punchline of the century. I don’t bother responding. I don’t have the energy to explain that sometimes the lights are just too bright and the questions are too empty.

I lean back against the bar, letting the chaos of the room wash over me without letting any of it in. My eyes move over the crowd out of habit, scanning for nothing in particular.

It’s always the same.

Different faces. Same night. Same predictable outcome.

I don’t have to work for it anymore. I haven’t had to try in years. That should feel like a win. It should feel like I’ve made it.

It doesn’t. It feels like a script I’ve memorized so well I can say the lines in my sleep.

“Knox.”

I glance to my right.

She’s already inside my guard. Closer than most would dare if they didn't have a reason. She’s got long, blonde hair falling over one shoulder and eyes sharp enough to tell me she’s practiced this approach.

“You’re Knox Parker, right?” she asks. She doesn't wait for an answer; she asks it like she’s confirming a kill.

I take a beat. Not because I’m interested, but because I’ve learned that silence makes them try harder.

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Her lips curve into a smirk. She liked that. They always do.

“Riley,” she says, stepping half an inch closer. “And yeah… I definitely already know.”

Of course she does. They all do.

“I am,” I tell her, my voice dropping an octave.

Her expression shifts—a tiny flicker of triumph. I just gave her the confirmation she wanted, a tiny piece of the "Knox Parker" brand to take home. It happens a dozen times a week.

“You going to buy me a drink, or do you always make girls do all the work?” she asks, tilting her head.

I glance down at my glass, then back at her. The challenge is scripted. The flirtation is hollow.

“Already did,” I say, nodding toward the bartender who’s already reaching for a glass for her.

She laughs, a soft, breathy sound, and slides her hand onto my forearm.

That’s usually how it starts.

Time blurs after that.

It’s a series of frames without a reel. One drink turns into three. Conversations happen around me, but I’m not really in them. Riley’s hand stays on my arm—light at first, then lingering, then sliding up to the edge of my sleeve to test boundaries she knows I won’t enforce.

I don’t stop her. I never do. Why would I?

“You don’t talk much,” she whispers, her breath warm against the shell of my ear.

“No need to.”

“Confident.”

“Efficient.”

She laughs again. It’s a nice sound, objectively.

It’s just not one I’m going to remember tomorrow morning.

At some point, we’re moving.

Through the crowd. Out the door. Away from the heat and the bass. I’m not sure if I’m leading or if she’s pulling, but the result is the same. Her fingers lace with mine—a familiar weight, a practiced connection. She moves like she’s done this a thousand times.

She probably has. We both have.

“You always this hard to read?” she asks, glancing back over her shoulder as we hit the cool night air.

I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You always this curious?”

“Only when I’m interested.”

Interested.

I roll the word around in my head, looking for the spark it’s supposed to ignite.

I should feel something. A rush. Anticipation. Anything.

I feel nothing but the cold.

The door shuts behind us, and the silence is violent.

For a heartbeat, everything slows down. No music. No Hayes. No expectations from the fans. Just the quiet.

Then Riley steps into me.

Her hands find my chest, her touch certain and demanding. She knows exactly how this goes. She knows the role I’m supposed to play.

I let her.

I always let them.

Her lips brush my jaw, trailing down my neck. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, pulling at me like she’s trying to find something hidden beneath the surface. Like there’s a secret version of me waiting to be discovered.

My hands settle at her waist automatically. It’s muscle memory.

Easy.

Everything about this is easy. The way she leans into me, the way she moves like she’s already anticipated my next breath. I don’t have to think. I don't have to feel. I just have to be the Knox Parker she expects.

I should want this.

That’s the part that sticks in my throat. I should feel the heat, the hunger, the edge of something real.

Instead, it’s just… a Tuesday.

It’s routine.

Riley tilts her head back, looking at me with eyes that say I’m something worth holding onto. I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s holding onto a ghost.

I don’t say anything at all.

Because this? This is exactly how it always goes.

And that’s the problem.