Chapter 4
Ruby
Nash picks me up the next morning.
The Harley is already idling at the curb when I come down the front steps. He's got one boot braced on the concrete, watching me. His eyes track me from the door to the steps to the sidewalk. I almost trip on the bottom step because he wasn't scanning the street. He was waiting for me.
"Oh good, my Uber's here." I shoulder my bag higher and take the last step.
"Five stars, very prompt. The car has excellent legroom and a hot driver who gives off serial-killer energy in a way I find personally compelling.
Do I tip, or is that covered under the protection racket?
Because I budget for these things and my spreadsheet only has columns for 'therapy,' 'impulse tattoos,' and 'apologies to my mother. '"
He holds out the helmet. The faded red elastic on his wrist catches the light.
I shove the coffee into his free hand. "Hold this. If you sip it, I will know." I turn it over in my hands. "Helmet protocol. Very responsible. Very OSHA. Do I get a little reflective vest, or—"
"Get on."
I clip the helmet on, take the coffee back and drain it in three swallows that absolutely scald my esophagus, toss the cup in the bin by the curb, sling my leg over the back of the bike, then wrap my arms around his waist.
My brain goes quiet.
He is warm. The leather of his cut, the soft cotton of the T-shirt underneath, the solid line of his back where I press into him, all of it radiates heat through my shirt.
My hands link at his stomach and every muscle under my fingers pulls tight, a full compression from his chest to his abdomen.
His shoulders lock. His breathing goes still.
I tighten my arms. Just enough.
His right hand lifts off the grip and lands flat over both of mine where they're linked at his stomach. Rough palm covering my knuckles. The contact shoots up my forearms, behind my teeth. My breath catches. Then he lifts his hand back to the throttle, and the bike leans forward.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
The ride to Amaranth is his body heat bleeding through my shirt, the vibration of the engine between my thighs, my fingers linked at Nash's ribcage. When we roll up to the shop, I can still feel the weight of his palm across my knuckles.
He kills the engine. His head turns toward me first, eyes on my face, checking. Then the sweep starts. Street, alley, rooftops, shop front.
I swing off and hand the helmet back. Our fingers brush on the chin strap. He goes still, his hand closing around the strap where my fingers just were, holding instead of taking. Then he clips it to the bike.
I push through the front door. The bell jingles. Sage and green soap fold around me. Nash follows me in, takes the wall by the door. Feet set. Hands loose at his sides. Eyes through the front window.
Frankie is already at her station, coffee in hand, record player going. She looks at Nash. Looks at me.
"Malachi called," she says.
"Of course he did." I drop my bag on the counter. "Did he give you the full briefing or the executive summary?"
She takes a sip of her coffee and turns back to her station. "Both."
My noon appointment is a walk-in. Marco. Tall, dark-haired, grinning in a way that tells me he hasn't noticed the man standing by the door. He sits down, and we talk about the piece, a forearm memorial for his grandfather, and I prep the stencil while he laughs at a joke I make about font choices.
I lean in a little closer than the consultation requires. I'm placing the stencil on his forearm, my fingertips pressing along the edge, then I laugh at his next comment and tip my head back, throat in the overhead light.
Nash's eyes hit the back of my neck. I can feel them. On my shoulder blades, on the bend of my throat, on the corner of my mouth.
I leave my hand on Marco's forearm a beat too long.
Nash's boot scrapes the floor, and he crosses the shop in six strides. His hand closes around my upper arm. Firm. Steady. The pressure of his palm radiates through the cotton of my sleeve.
"Need a minute," he says to Marco. Calm. Even. Then he's steering me toward the back hall.
"Excuse me," I say to Marco over my shoulder with a bright smile that is doing a lot of structural work. "My emotional support enforcer needs to check something."
Nash walks me through the back hall, past the supply closet. My shoulders hit the wall. He stands close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to see his face, one hand flat against the wall beside my head, the width of his body blocking the hallway.
My pulse is in my throat. My skin is hot where his hand was on my arm.
"What are you doing?" His voice is low.
"Working. On a client. Which is my job."
"Ruby."
"Listen, this is a very confusing message. You've got me pinned in a hallway with one hand on the wall and the jaw of a man who's about to recite Bible verses, but I'm getting mixed signals. Is this a reprimand or are we about to have a conversation about my Christmas bonus?"
His jaw clenches harder. His eyes drop to my mouth. Stay there. Come back up.
"You're testing me."
"I'm doing my job."
"You had your hand on his arm for forty-five seconds."
"I was placing a stencil."
"You were making a point."
My breath catches. The heat coming off his body fills the space between us. Sandalwood. Leather. Warm skin. His hand is flat against the wall next to my head, his thumb an inch from my hair.
"Stop," he says. Quieter. "You don't need to do that."
"Do what?"
"Use him to get a reaction out of me." His eyes hold mine. "You already have one."
My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can hear it. He pushes off the wall. Steps back. My shoulders drop an inch off the wall behind me.
"Finish the consult," he says. "I'll be at the door."
He walks back to the front. I stay against the wall for three seconds with my hand on my chest and my face on fire. Which is exactly the amount of time it takes for my brain to short-circuit and reboot into 'defensive sarcasm' mode. Welcome back, asshole.
Around two, I finish the consultation with Marco. I wipe down my station and keep my eyes on the disinfectant bottle. It's safer than the alternative.
I look at the wall.
He's running his sweep. Shop front. Window. Door. Me. Shop front. Me. Shop front. Me. It's like a fucked-up version of Simon Says where the only command is 'exist provocatively.'
On my way to the back counter, I take the narrow path on purpose. My shoulder catches the edge of his cut and his whole body goes still, a controlled freeze that doesn't move a single visible muscle.
"You know," I say over my shoulder, pouring coffee I absolutely do not need, "for a man who's supposed to be watching the street, you're doing a lot of watching the shop."
"Street's clear."
"Mm-hmm."
I turn around with the mug in my hand. He's exactly where he was. I'm the one who turned around and forgot we only had four feet to begin with.
"Do you ever blink?" I lift the mug. "Genuine question. I've been monitoring."
His mouth twitches. The corner, barely.
"Oh-ho." I point at him. "That was almost something. I saw it. I'm counting it."
"Counting what?"
"Your half-smiles. You're at three for the week. If you hit five, I win a prize."
His eyes cut past me to the front window. The street. The alley. Street again. Then they come back to me and stay, holding mine over the rim of the mug. My stomach flips. My hand tightens on the ceramic until I think it might crack.
"Bold of you, Sergeant-at-Arms. Looking away from the threat like that."
"Who said I looked away?"
My fingers press into the ceramic. I take a sip of coffee that I absolutely taste and don't just use to buy time. His eyes stay on mine.
The afternoon runs warm and slow. He adjusts his stance to track the sun through the window. I catch his reflection in the glass and pretend I was checking the street. My pencil moves a little less predictably over the flash sheet with every hour that passes.
Frankie comes back from her lunch break with two coffees and hands one to Nash without a word.
He takes it. She catches my eye on her way back to her station and mouths he's intense behind his back.
I mime dying, one hand clutching my chest, one hand reaching for the sky. Frankie snorts into her coffee.
"Something funny?" Nash asks from the wall.
"Your posture," I say. "It's giving 'statue with commitment issues.' I'm taking notes for my thesis."
Frankie flips the sign at seven. I pack up my station. Nash has been on his feet all day.
"You can sit down, you know." I shove a sketchbook into my bag. "Chairs exist. There's like three of them right there. It's in the Constitution. The right to bear chairs."
"I'm good."
"Your knees are going to file a formal complaint with HR." I zip the bag. "HR is me. I am also Legal, Payroll, and the Department of Stop Glaring At My Clients."
His mouth twitches again.
"Four," I say. "You're at four."
"That one didn't count."
"Scoring system's discretionary."
He walks me out to the Harley and I swing on behind him, arms around his waist, chin hovering near his shoulder. The ride home is short and sun-warmed, and I press my forehead between his shoulder blades for one block because I can blame the wind.
He parks. Walks me up the exterior stairs to my second-floor landing. Waits while I dig out my keys. The upstairs hall smells like the neighbor's dryer sheets. I get the door open.
"Goodnight, Sergeant-at-Arms." I turn in the doorway. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Lock the deadbolt. Check the windows."
"Yes, sir."
It comes out lower than I intended; the teasing is gone from my voice before I can catch it. His eyes hold mine. The beat between us stretches longer than any beat between a bodyguard and his assignment should.
"Goodnight, Trouble."
There's low warmth underneath his voice that he'd deny under oath.
I close the door. Slide the deadbolt. Lean my back against the wood and listen to his boots descend. The Harley starts up and idles at the curb, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three, before the engine kicks up and the sound pulls away.
After I kick off my shoes, I shower until the water runs cold, then pull on sleep shorts and a tank top. Hair wet down my back. I pad to the kitchen in bare feet and pour a glass of water, drinking half of it standing at the counter.
I turn toward the hallway and stop.
My bedroom door is open, which is how I left it. My sketchbook is open on my bed, which is not.
I cross the hallway in four steps. The sketchbook is the one I keep in the bottom drawer of my desk, the one with the designs I never take to the shop.
It's open to a drawing of Nash. Side profile.
His jaw set, arms crossed, the line of his shoulders under the cut.
I drew it at two in the morning with a glass of wine going warm on the nightstand and shoved it back in the drawer.
Now it's open. On my bed. Turned to that page.
The apartment is intact. Nothing taken, nothing moved. Just my most private sketchbook pulled from the bottom of a stack and left open to the drawing of the man who just walked me to my door.
My hand is shaking.
I pick up my phone and call Nash.
He answers on the first ring. "Ruby."
"Somebody was in my apartment." My voice comes out level. "While I was at the shop. My sketchbook is open on my bed. The one from the desk drawer. Nothing else is touched."
"Lock yourself in the bathroom. I'm coming."
"I'm not locking myself in the damn bathroom. I'm standing in my bedroom and I'm fine." A breath. "Don't tell my parents. My dad will have a SWAT team here by morning."
"Ruby." My hand stops shaking. "Five minutes."
The line goes dead.
I hear the Harley at the curb, then his boots taking the exterior stairs two at a time. His fist hits the door once, hard. I open it. He is past me before I've finished stepping back.
He goes through every room. Kitchen, living room, bathroom, closets, then presses each window latch with his thumb. Back door chain. Front door jamb, two fingers running along the frame. He clears my apartment the way he reads a room: systematic, thorough, every entry point tested.
He stops in the bedroom doorway, and his eyes find the sketchbook.
His jaw locks. The muscle near his ear jumps.
Both hands close into fists at his sides.
Nash crosses to the bed and stands over the open sketchbook, looking at the drawing of himself.
He stares at it until I want to slam the book shut myself.
Then he reaches down and closes the book, one-handed, slow.
His palm stays flat on the cover.
I'm standing in the doorway in bare feet and sleep shorts, wet hair soaking the back of my tank top.
"They got in clean," he says without turning. His voice is low, stripped down. "No pry marks. Nothing taken."
He turns and closes the distance between us until he's standing in front of me. Sandalwood and leather. His eyes move over my face. My throat. My hands. Back to my face.
"You okay?"
His voice breaks on the second word, the control slipping just enough that I hear everything underneath it.
"I'm fine."
"Ruby."
My hand, which had started shaking again, goes still at my side.
His right hand lifts. Slowly. It stops an inch from the side of my jaw, his palm so close to my cheek that I can feel the heat of it without contact. His thumb hovers near the corner of my mouth.
I stop breathing. My whole body leans toward his hand, pulling, aching to close the gap.
"You're not fine," he says.
"I'm working on it."
His hand holds. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from turning my face into his palm.
"Okay," he says. To himself.
His hand lowers and the backs of his knuckles graze the hem of my tank top at my waist deliberately with a touch that barely qualifies as contact. Then his hand is at his side.
The spot on my hip burns.