Chapter 8 #2
I find Naya backstage between rounds in the corridor that runs behind the main space.
There are folding chairs lining both walls, and the air is thick with antiseptic and tape adhesive.
A fighter is getting his hand wrapped at the far end, and Naya sits on a bench near the exit door with her hands already wrapped, dark hair pulled back tight, a bruise forming on her left cheekbone where the skin is already darkening around the bone. She looks up when I enter and nods.
"Nash."
"How'd you do?"
"Split decision. Should've had it clean. Bastard judge on the left scored the third round wrong." She flexes her wrapped hand, testing the knuckles as each finger extends and curls to check the tape tension. "You're not here about the fight."
"No."
She reaches into the gym bag at her feet and pulls out a folded piece of paper, holding it out between two taped fingers.
"I asked around carefully, just names with no context. One of the older fighters, Calhoun, used to run security for the people who moved product through the Gulf route. He's out now, retired, drinks too much and talks when he shouldn't. But he talked."
I unfold the paper to see a single name in Naya's precise handwriting: Garrett Webb. And beneath it, one word: fixer.
"Calhoun says Webb was the man who handled logistics when someone needed a case to disappear.
He knew which judges could be reached, which clerks looked the other way.
" She watches me, her eyes steady and dark.
"That's all I got. Calhoun gave me the name and shut down.
Wouldn't say where Webb is now, wouldn't say which jurisdictions. "
"It's a thread," I say.
"It's what I have." She meets my eyes. "She'd want you to find it. Even if it costs."
Naya reaches over and adjusts the headband on my wrist, straightening the knot the way she's done a hundred times before, her taped fingers careful against the faded fabric.
Her hand lingers there for a second. The gesture is familiar.
Old. Something between us that predates the club, the fights, everything.
"Your girl," she says, quieter. "The redhead. Is she safe?"
"She's at the clubhouse with the detail covering the building."
"That's not what I asked."
I stand. "She will be."
Naya looks up at me. Her bruised cheekbone catches the fluorescent light. "She's in your head, Nash. I can see it." Her mouth tilts. "Be careful. Women like that get under your skin and stay there."
I leave with the promise intact, carrying it through the crowd, past the ring where two new fighters are circling, through the warehouse door into the parking lot where gravel and exhaust hang on the night air. The crowd noise muffles behind the metal walls.
The ride back runs through the same dark roads, the headlight cutting asphalt, the tree line blurring. Webb. A fixer who knew how to make cases disappear. Ruby in my head. Naya's words. Under your skin.
I pull into my apartment lot and kill the engine. The windows are dark. One a.m.
I sit on the bike. The engine ticks as it cools. I should go inside, pull up the investigation files, and run Webb through Knox's databases. That's what tonight is for. That's what the ride was for.
Instead I'm wondering if Ruby is still awake. She's a night owl. I've watched her light stay on past two enough times to know that sleep isn't where she goes when the day gets heavy. She draws. Sketches. She fills silence with pencil on paper until whatever is keeping her up loses its grip.
I start the engine and ride back to the clubhouse. The lot is quiet. Rider's bike is by the front door. I park, give him a nod on the way in.
"She's up," Rider says. "Been sketching in the spare room all night."
"I've got it. Get some sleep."
Rider heads out. I take the stairs and knock twice on the spare room door.
Silence. Then footsteps. The door opens.
Ruby is in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, big enough to belong to someone, and the question of who makes my chest tighten.
Her hair is piled on top of her head with a pencil stuck through the bun.
Ink stains mark her fingers. Her face is bare.
No makeup, no red lipstick, no glitter. Just freckles across her nose and cheeks, more of them than I've ever seen, and I'm eager to count every one.
The thought arrives, and I wish it hadn't.
"Nash." Her eyes widen. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine."
"You're here at one in the morning to tell me everything's fine?"
"I'm taking over the detail."
She leans against the doorframe. "Rider get tired of watching my thrilling evening of sketching and bad reality TV?"
"Something like that."
"You're lying," she murmurs.
"I'm here."
"That's not what I said."
She steps back and opens the door wider. "Come in. Since you're apparently my new overnight security."
I step inside. The spare room smells like coffee and ink. Sketchbooks are stacked on the bed, pencils scattered across the nightstand, and a lightbox glowing on the desk with a half-finished design spread across the surface.
She closes the door and turns to face me.
"You're worried," she says.
"I'm doing my job."
"Bullshit." She crosses her arms, and the T-shirt slips lower on her shoulder.
No bra strap. Just bare skin from her collarbone to the curve of her shoulder, and I keep my eyes on her face through sheer force of will.
"You left hours ago, you come back at one in the morning, and now you're standing in my doorway looking like that. What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Then why are you here?"
My jaw sets. "I wanted to check on you."
The words hang between us.
Ruby's arms drop to her sides. Her mouth opens, then closes. "Oh." She walks to the desk, picks up a pencil, puts it down, and turns back to me. "I'm fine, Nash. Really."
"I know."
"Then why..."
"Because I needed to see it."
The lightbox glows on the desk. Ruby takes a step toward me, then another. She stops two feet away, close enough that I can smell her shampoo. Coconut. Warm.
"You could have called," she says.
"I'm here now."
Her eyes search my face. "You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you stand there like a statue and pretend you're not feeling anything. Your jaw is tight enough to crack walnuts."
I don't answer.
She reaches out, her hand moving toward my arm, stopping an inch away, hovering. The warmth of her skin radiates across the gap.
"You can tell me," she murmurs. "If something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong."
"Then why won't you look at me?"
I look at her. Her eyes are wide, green, serious.
My hand moves, reaching for hers, stopping midair. My fingers curl, and I drop my hand to my side.
"Go to bed, Ruby."
"Make me."
The words hang between us, charged. My breath catches somewhere low in my gut. Ruby's eyes widen. Her cheeks flush. It slipped out.
I take a step forward. She holds her ground. The distance between us shrinks to inches.
"Go to bed," I say again, lower.
She looks up at me. Her breath hitches. "Or what?"
"Or I'll put you there."
Her lips part with a soft inhale. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up.
I hold her gaze and let her see what's behind it.
She takes a step back, then another, and turns toward the bed.
"Goodnight, Nash."
She climbs under the covers and pulls them up to her chin. I watch her settle, her copper hair fanning across the pillow, her eyes finding mine one more time in the dim light of the spare room.
I turn off the lightbox on the desk. Her breathing slows.
I step into the hallway and pull the door shut behind me.
Downstairs, the clubhouse is dark. I sit on the couch, grab the remote, and turn on the TV. The blue light fills the room. Some late-night rerun plays on the screen. I stare at it without seeing a single frame.
Her voice is still in my head. Make me. The flush on her cheeks. The way her eyes dropped to my mouth.
The TV plays. I don't sleep.