2. Clay
Chapter Two
CLAY
The moment Ruby opens her apartment door, something shifts inside me.
A primal, white-hot awareness I’ve never felt before. It’s like someone flipped a switch, turning on parts of me I didn’t know existed. I stand there for a half-second too long, taking her in. My job is to protect her, not want her.
But fuck, do I want her.
She steps back, pulling her tank top down where it’s ridden up, revealing a slash of pale stomach inked with delicate flowers. I force my eyes up and follow her into the apartment. The door clicks shut behind me, and I find myself in Ruby’s world.
It’s chaos.
Art supplies are scattered across every surface. Half-finished sketches pinned to walls. A blanket fort on the couch with a book facedown on the cushion. Mismatched furniture that somehow works together. The scent of coffee, paint, and something uniquely her.
I catalog everything, building a mental map. Security instincts, sure, but there’s something else driving me. I want to know her. All of her.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says, moving a stack of books off a chair. “Wasn’t expecting company until later.”
“It’s fine.” I remain standing, scanning the room. Original tattoo designs cover one entire wall—intricate, dark, beautiful work. Nothing like the commercial flash I’ve seen in most shops. These tell stories. “These yours?”
“Yeah.” She tucks a strand of purple-streaked black hair behind her ear. “Do you need coffee? I need coffee.”
“Already had some.”
She pads to the kitchen, and I watch her move. She’s wearing tiny sleep shorts that barely cover her ass and that worn tank top. Her body is a canvas—tattoos swirling down her arms, across her shoulders, disappearing under fabric. I spot a large piece on her thigh—a wolf surrounded by night-blooming flowers.
When I look up, Ruby’s watching me, coffee mug in hand, head tilted. Something passes between us. Her lips part slightly, and heat pools low in my gut.
I’ve heard the stories about this town. People meeting and just knowing. Love at first sight. Always thought it was bullshit. Small-town fairy tales for bored locals. Now I get it. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s fucking brutal, like being hit by lightning and wanting more.
Ruby breaks eye contact first.
“I should get dressed. We need to be at the shop in twenty.” She sets down her mug. “Can you make sure Spike’s carrier is by the door? He comes with us.”
“Sure.”
She disappears down the hallway, and I exhale, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I’ve been a bodyguard for years. Had plenty of attractive clients. Never once felt this instant, overwhelming need to claim someone. To protect them, not because it’s my job, but because the thought of anything happening to her makes my blood run cold.
I find Spike’s carrier beneath a pile of sketchbooks and move it to the door. The little dragon watches me from his perch on a small rock under a heat lamp. His enclosure is immaculate. It’s the one organized space in this chaotic apartment.
“You’re the priority, huh?” I say to him.
Spike blinks at me, unimpressed.
I circle the living room, taking in more details. A photo of Ruby with an older couple, presumably the Morrisons, owners of Fit Mountain Ink where she works. A small collection of vintage lighters on a shelf. Medical textbooks mixed with art references. The more I see, the more I want to know.
“Checking for security threats or just nosy?”
I turn to find Ruby in the doorway, transformed.
Gone are the sleep shorts and tank, replaced by ripped black jeans and a fitted gray tank that shows off her tattooed arms. Combat boots. Hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow looks deliberate. A small silver hoop glints in her nose.
“Both,” I admit, not bothering to hide that I was studying her belongings. “It’s my job to know your environment.”
“And what have you learned?”
“You’re an artist first, tattoo apprentice second. You like order in your work but not your living space. You take better care of your pet than yourself. And you don’t sleep enough.”
Her eyebrows rise. “All that from ten minutes in my apartment?”
“I’m observant.”
“Clearly.” She grabs a leather jacket from a hook. “So, Mr. Observant, any insights on how Holloway managed to escape from Blackwater?”
I move closer to her, not missing how her breathing changes when I enter her space.
“Not my job. My job is to keep you safe until the police figure it out.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
I reach past her to grab Spike’s carrier, my arm brushing hers. The contact is brief but electric. “By not leaving your side.”
She swallows, her throat working. “That might get awkward in the bathroom.”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
Ruby throws me a sharp look. “We need to establish some ground rules before we head to Fit Mountain Ink.”
I straighten, recognizing the shift in her tone. “I’m listening.”
“Nobody knows about this...” she waves her hand in the air between us, “...arrangement. And I want to keep it that way. As far as anyone at the shop is concerned, you’re a friend visiting from out of town. Not a bodyguard, not security, and definitely not someone my dad hired.”
I consider her request.
From a tactical perspective, announcing my purpose would potentially make her more of a target. From a personal perspective, I can understand her reluctance to admit she needs protection.
“That works,” I agree. “Friend from out of town.”
Ruby studies me for a moment, like she’s trying to decide if I’m being reasonable or if there’s a catch.
“Good. And stay out of the way when I’m working. No hovering.”
“I can be inconspicuous.” It’s what I’ve been trained for.
“With that body? Doubtful.”
The words slip out, and I catch a flash of color creeping up her neck as she busies herself with Spike’s carrier. I find myself fighting back a smile at her accidental compliment. I step forward, reaching for the carrier and bag of supplies.
“I’ve got it, sweetheart.”
She hesitates, then hands them over. “Fine. But remember?—”
“Friend from out of town,” I finish for her. “Not your personal security detail. Got it.”
As she grabs her keys and phone, I notice a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Progress.
“And just so we’re clear,” she says, pausing at the door, “I still think this whole thing is ridiculous. My dad is overreacting, as usual.”
I meet her eyes, letting some of my professional mask slip.
“Maybe. But until Holloway is recaptured it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Something in my tone must convey the seriousness, because she doesn’t argue further. Instead, she squares her shoulders and walks out the door, leaving me to follow with Spike in tow. For a brief moment, I find myself admiring more than just her professional independence.
Focus, Dover. This is a job, not a date.
I repeat this to myself as I follow her down the stairs and into the bright Wyoming morning. But even as I scan the street for potential threats, I can’t shake the feeling that Ruby Wilson is going to be more than just another assignment.
* * *
Fit Mountain Ink sits on a corner in downtown Cooper Heights, its brick facade gleaming in the morning light.
The place looks exactly like Ruby. I follow her through the glass door, taking in the exposed brick walls covered in framed artwork, the polished hardwood floors, the leather seating in the waiting area. My eyes catalog every entrance and exit, every potential threat point, every defensive position, but part of me is just admiring the space she inhabits.
“Home sweet home,” Ruby says, flipping on lights that illuminate the interior even more. Sunlight pours through the large front windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air.
I set Spike’s carrier on a counter near the reception desk. “The owners are on vacation?”
Ruby nods, moving behind the reception desk with practiced ease.
“Twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Two weeks in Hawaii.” She shoots me a glance as she boots up the computer. “The Morrisons hardly ever take time off. I practically had to push them out the door.”
“They must really trust you.”
“I’ve been here for three years. And they know I’d rather die than let anything happen to this place.”
The words send an uncomfortable jolt through me. That’s exactly what I’m here to prevent.
While Ruby checks appointments on the computer, I do a walkthrough of the space, assessing security measures. The main area is open concept with several private tattooing stations. Glass display cases showcase jewelry and artwork. There’s a small kitchenette in the back, a storage room, a bathroom, and an office. Two exits—the front door and a back door leading to an alley. The windows are large, which isn’t ideal from a security standpoint, but gives clear visibility to the street.
“First client isn’t for another twenty minutes,” Ruby calls out. “I’m going to set up Spike in his spot.”
I watch as she takes the bearded dragon to a terrarium set up in a corner near one of the tattooing stations.
“Who’s coming in first?” I ask, leaning against the reception desk.
“Margaret Johnson. Seventy years old and getting her first tattoo.” Ruby’s face softens. “She’s been talking about it for months. A small butterfly on her wrist to celebrate her birthday.”
“Seventy-year-old rebel,” I say, and Ruby laughs.
“You’d be surprised how many older clients we get. It’s like once they hit a certain age, they stop giving a damn what anyone thinks.” She glances at me. “Something to look forward to in your golden years.”
“I’m thirty-five, not eighty.”
Ruby giggles. “So, in other words, practically ancient.”
I’m about to respond when the bell above the door chimes.
A slender woman with silver hair cut in a stylish bob enters, her posture straight and elegant. She’s dressed in a crisp blouse and slacks, looking more like she’s headed to a garden club meeting than a tattoo parlor.
“Margaret!” Ruby’s whole face lights up as she rushes from behind the counter to embrace the woman. “You’re early!”
“Couldn’t sleep a wink last night,” Margaret says, returning Ruby’s hug with equal enthusiasm. “Too excited.” Her sharp eyes move to me, curious but not wary.
“This is Clay,” Ruby says, gesturing to me. “He’s an old friend visiting from out of town.”
I step forward, offering my hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Margaret’s grip is surprisingly firm.
“Such manners. And so tall.” She looks between Ruby and me with an expression I can’t quite decipher before adding, “You found yourself a good one, dear.”
Ruby’s cheeks flush. “It’s not—we’re not—he’s just a friend.”
Margaret winks at me. “If you say so.”
I clear my throat. “I hear today’s a big day. Seventieth birthday?”
“Indeed. Finally getting the courage to do what I’ve been dreaming about for decades.” Margaret follows Ruby to her station, settling into the chair with a contented sigh. “My Harold always said I’d chicken out, but I’ll show him. Even if he’s not here to see it.”
Ruby begins preparing her tools, organizing ink caps, laying out the stencil. I take a seat nearby, close enough to observe but far enough not to crowd them.
“How long has Harold been gone?” Ruby asks gently as she cleans Margaret’s wrist.
“Five years this December.” Margaret’s voice is steady, tinged with nostalgia rather than fresh grief. “We had forty-three wonderful years together. Met right here in Cooper Heights, you know. At the Piney Creek Diner.”
“Love at first sight?” Ruby asks, her tone suggesting she’s heard this story before.
Margaret’s eyes light up. “Absolutely. The moment he walked in, I knew. He was supposed to meet someone else. A blind date his sister had set up. But he took one look at me serving coffee, and that was that. Walked right up and said, ‘I think I’m supposed to be meeting you.’”
I find myself leaning forward, drawn into her story.
“His poor blind date was furious,” Margaret continues with a chuckle. “But when it’s right, it’s right. That’s the magic of this town, you know. Fit Mountain has a way of putting the right people in the right place at the right time.”
I catch Ruby’s eye briefly, and something electric passes between us before she returns her focus to applying the stencil.
“Harold proposed six weeks later,” Margaret says. “Everyone said we were crazy. Too fast, they said. How could we possibly know? But when you know, you know. It happens in an instant and changes everything.”
The words hang in the air, and I suddenly feel too warm in the sunlit shop.
“That’s how you ended up with the butterfly design?” I ask, desperate to focus on something other than the way Ruby’s hair falls across her cheek as she works.
Margaret nods.
“Harold always called me his butterfly. Said I brought color into his world.” She glances at the stencil now transferred to her wrist. “Perfect, Ruby. Just as I imagined.”
As Ruby begins the actual tattooing, Margaret barely flinches. Instead, she launches into more stories about Harold, about growing old together, about the life they built. All the while, I find myself watching Ruby’s face.
I’ve seen a lot of professionals at work in my time. Soldiers, security specialists, even artists. But there’s something about watching Ruby that hits differently. Pride, passion, and precision all wrapped up in a five-foot package of fire and talent.
When the tattoo is complete, Margaret examines her wrist with tears in her eyes.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “Harold would have loved it.”
Ruby walks Margaret through aftercare instructions, though I sense they’ve had this conversation before in preparation for today. After Margaret pays, refusing Ruby’s birthday discount offer, she hugs Ruby tightly.
“Thank you, dear. For making an old woman’s dream come true.”
As Margaret gathers her things to leave, she pauses in front of me.
“It was lovely meeting you, Clay. I hope you’re enjoying our little town.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s been... illuminating.”
She pats my arm, her eyes twinkling. “Sometimes the things we aren’t looking for are exactly what we need to find.”
With that cryptic statement and a knowing smile, she’s gone, the bell chiming as the door closes behind her.
“She’s something else,” I say, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet shop.
Ruby glances up, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Margaret’s one of my favorites. Comes in at least once a month to talk about getting a tattoo. I never thought she’d actually go through with it.”
“Guess turning seventy changes your perspective.”
“Or gives you courage.” Ruby straightens, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. I can smell her shampoo again, something citrusy and clean. “Kind of amazing to think about, isn’t it? Loving someone for over forty years. Knowing from the first moment.”
I take a step closer to her.
“You believe in that? Love at first sight?”
She shrugs, but doesn’t step back.
“I don’t know. Haven’t experienced it myself. But Margaret and Harold, they were the real deal. And there are a lot of stories like theirs in Cooper Heights. People call it the ‘Fit Mountain Instalove Magic.’”
“So I’ve heard.”
Ruby tilts her head, studying me with an expression I can’t read.
Then suddenly, a loud crash from the back room shatters the moment.
Adrenaline floods my system.
I spin toward the sound, positioning myself between Ruby and the potential threat.
“Stay here,” I command.