Chapter 5 #2
Her focus shifts the moment the needle touches skin.
The jokes stop. Her brow furrows. Ruby's grip adjusts between outline and shading with a precision that's all muscle memory.
The design takes shape under her hand. The lettering curves, the petals build layer by layer, and the shading is so delicate the flowers look alive on the woman's forearm.
Her shirt rides up at her hip when she leans forward. A strip of skin at her waist. I track it. Look away. Look back. Look away.
My eyes stay on the window for thirty seconds before they're pulled back to her station.
The memorial client leaves with mascara on her cheeks and Ruby's card in her hand. Ruby cleans the station, wipes down surfaces, and organizes her inks. Quietly. Ruby quiet is something I notice the way I'd notice a missing sound in a perimeter sweep.
Frankie crosses the shop and picks up the reference sketch. Holds it up.
"The petal shading," Frankie says. "Where did you learn that gradient?"
"Nowhere. I just felt it."
Frankie studies the sketch. Sets it down. Taps the edge. "You're past apprentice-level on work like this."
"I mean, we've already established that I'm amazing, so this feels redundant, but I appreciate the reminder." Ruby grins, but her fingers grip the edge of the station hard enough that I can see the tendons from across the room.
"She's right."
Both of them look at me. My jaw tightens.
"The memorial piece. Good work."
Frankie's eyebrows lift. She glances at Ruby. Back at me. A smile pulls at the corner of her mouth, and she turns away toward her station, but not before I catch her mouthing something to herself that I'm better off not reading.
Ruby sets down the cleaning supplies and crosses the shop until she's standing in front of me.
"'Good work.'" She tilts her head. "That's what you're going with? I just made a grown woman cry happy tears. My shading was flawless, and I get 'good work'? That's what you say to someone who filed your taxes correctly."
"Take the compliment, Ruby."
"I'm trying. The compliment is just very small. I need you to know that. For a man who watches everything, I expected a more detailed review. I'm a little insulted."
"The gradient on the third petal. You shifted pressure mid-stroke. The transition was seamless."
Her mouth opens. Closes. The grin stalls. "You noticed the petal shading."
"I noticed everything."
The words hang between us. Her lips part. Her eyes drop to my mouth and come back up. The shop is quiet enough that I can hear the record player needle tracking between songs.
"Oh, don't mind me," Frankie says from her station without looking up. "I'm just going to sit here and pretend I'm not witnessing this."
"Witnessing what?" Ruby asks, too fast.
"Exactly." Frankie flips a page in her sketchbook.
Ruby's cheeks flush. She holds my gaze for another beat, and whatever joke she's reaching for doesn't arrive.
"Well," she says. Softer. "Okay then."
"Okay then."
She turns back to her station. Her hand grips the edge of her chair once before she sits down.
The quiet lasts about four minutes.
"Hey, Nash." She doesn't look up from her sketchpad. "If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?"
I look at the window.
"I'm going to guess protein. Just straight protein. Like a raw chicken breast. No seasoning. Eaten standing up in a dark kitchen."
Frankie snorts from her station.
"No? Okay. What about a hobby? Do you have a hobby? Besides standing and staring? Because I feel like you'd be really good at puzzles. The thousand-piece kind. No picture on the box. Just vibes."
"Ruby."
"That's not an answer."
"It's not supposed to be."
"One day I'm going to get a full sentence out of you that isn't my name, and I'm going to frame it."
Frankie glances over. "I'll build the frame."
The afternoon runs on Ruby's engine. She tries everything.
"Favorite color," she says while prepping for her next client. "Go." I look at the window. "I'm going to say black. No. Wait. You strike me as a dark green guy. Very moody. Very forest-at-midnight."
"Ruby."
"Not a denial. Filing that as confirmed." She snaps on gloves. "Have you ever been to a concert?"
I don't answer.
"That's a no. Okay. We're fixing that. Frankie, add it to the list."
"There's a list?" Frankie asks.
"There's always a list."
Her client settles into the chair, and Ruby starts the linework. The shop goes quiet for a while, just the buzz of the machine and the record player. I run the sweep. Window. Street. Door.
"And he's scanning left," Ruby says, her voice dropping into a low, exaggerated baritone without looking up from the needle. "Moving past the window. Checking the street. Classic Sergeant-at-Arms technique. Beautiful form."
Frankie's head lifts.
"He's cleared the front window. He's moving to the door. Oh, there it is, folks, the chin tilt. Textbook. Judges would give that a nine-point-five. He lost half a point for the lack of dramatic wind in his hair."
Frankie's shoulders start shaking. Her client looks up from his phone.
"Now he's back to the window. Full rotation. This man has been doing laps with his eyeballs for six hours and hasn't once complained. That's Olympic-level stamina. That's dedication to the craft. Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing greatness."
Frankie puts down her machine because her hand isn't steady enough to hold it. Her client is grinning. Ruby takes a bow from her stool, still holding the tattoo gun, one gloved hand sweeping wide.
My mouth twitches. I kill it.
"I saw that," Ruby says, pointing her pencil at me. "Frankie, did you see that?"
"I saw it."
"He's cracking. The fortress is crumbling. By Friday, I'll have a full smile. Mark my words."
Ruby moves around the chair and her path takes her past the wall, past me, close enough that vanilla and warm skin fill the space between us. Her shoulder drags across my chest.
"Oops." She glances back over her shoulder. "Just trying to see what happens."
My own words from the cookout, thrown back at me. My jaw flexes. She grins and keeps walking.
An ink bottle rolls off her station and across the floor toward my feet. I bend at the same time she does. My hand closes over the bottle. Her hand closes over mine.
Her skin is warm. Rough from the soap. The weight of her fingers presses my knuckles into the glass. Her pulse beats against the back of my hand. She goes still.
I release the bottle into her palm. My fingers brush the inside of her wrist on the way. On purpose. I step back to the wall.
She stares at the ink bottle. At her hand. Me. Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out. She turns back to her station, and her hand shakes once before she sets the bottle down.
Frankie puts on a new record. Something slower. Ruby stretches at her station, arms overhead, and the motion pulls her shirt up at the hem. A strip of skin at her hip. I track it. She drops her arms and catches me watching.
A slow smile spreads across her face. She holds it. Lets me see it.
"Staring at the threat again, Sergeant-at-Arms?"
I hold her eyes. Don't answer.
Her smile widens. She turns back to her station and grips the edge of her chair. I put my eyes on the window.
They don't stay there.
Frankie flips the sign at seven. Ruby wipes down her station and packs her bag. Her eyeliner is smudged from rubbing her eyes during the memorial piece. She hasn't fixed it. It looks better this way.
"Ready?" I say from the door.
"Born ready. Currently exhausted. Emotionally compromised. Physically stunning." She slings her bag over her shoulder. "But mostly exhausted."
"You talk this much when you're tired?"
"I talk this much all the time. You're just usually better at ignoring it."
"Who said I'm ignoring it?"
Her step falters. One beat. Then the grin comes back, wider than before.
"Sergeant-at-Arms. Was that banter? Did you just banter with me? Frankie, did you hear that?"
"Goodnight, Ruby," Frankie calls from the back.
"He bantered, Frankie. Mark the calendar."
The Harley is at the curb. She climbs on behind me, arms around my waist, looser than this morning. Tired. Her chin settles against my shoulder blade and stays there.
A block from the clubhouse, I slow for a turn. Her weight tips left. My hand releases the handlebar and reaches back toward her hip to steady her, to pull her closer, and my palm hovers two inches from her body. I feel her heat through the gap. The fabric of her shirt shifts with her breathing.
My hand hangs there.
Fuck.
I grip the handlebar and accelerate through the turn.