Chapter 11
Ruby
I wake up to the smell of coffee.
Nash is in my kitchen. His back is to me, his shoulders filling the doorway, pouring coffee from the pot he set up before I went to bed last night. He's in a black T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, his hair still damp from the shower he took while I was sleeping. The cut is draped over my kitchen chair.
I stand in the hallway in my sleep shorts and a tank top as I watch him pour two mugs. Two sugars in mine. Splash of cream. He knows.
"Morning," I say from the doorway.
He turns. His eyes drop to my bare legs, my tank top, the mess of copper hair I haven't touched yet. His jaw flexes once before his gaze returns to my face.
"Morning." He holds out my mug.
I take it. Our fingers brush on the handle. Neither of us pulls away.
"Sleep well?" I ask.
"Fine."
"You didn't sleep."
"I slept."
"You know there's a spring that sticks up on the left side of that couch." I take a sip. "My bed's big enough for two. You could actually sleep."
He doesn't answer. His jaw shifts. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. I can see him thinking about it, running through every reason he should say no while his gaze drops to my mouth and back up.
"The couch is fine."
"It's not fine. You haven't slept."
"The couch is fine, Ruby."
My name in that voice. Low. Final. The voice that shuts down arguments and makes my pulse do things I'm not going to examine before coffee.
I take a sip of coffee and grin at him over the rim. "We need to leave early today."
"Why?"
"It's a surprise."
"I don't like surprises."
"You don't like anything. Yet here you are, making me coffee at six a.m. with the exact right amount of sugar." I pat his arm on my way to the bathroom. "Get dressed, Sergeant-at-Arms. We've got a mission."
The mission is Knox's motorcycle.
Sloane's been planning this for a week. The group chat has been a war room of logistics, supply lists, and timed execution strategies that would make Malachi proud.
Today's target is Knox's Harley that's currently parked in the clubhouse lot.
The window is forty-five minutes between when Knox leaves for his morning run and when he gets back.
Nash parks at the curb. I pull the duffel bag out of his saddlebag where I stashed it last night while he was checking the windows.
"What's in the bag, Ruby?"
"Supplies."
"What kind of supplies?"
"The classified kind." I sling it over my shoulder and head for the lot. "You can stand there and look threatening, or you can help. Your choice."
Nash follows but doesn't help. Takes a position by the fence, crosses his arms, and watches. Which is exactly what I expected and also exactly the audience I wanted.
Sloane is already at Knox's bike with a bag of pink streamers and a set of handlebar tassels.
Candace has rhinestone decals and a sparkly helmet cover.
Darla brought the seat cover, a custom cushion in hot pink velvet she ordered online with the words PRINCESS RIDE embroidered in gold.
Frankie is leaning against the picnic table with her coffee, watching the operation unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a woman whose idea this was.
Maggie is beside her, arms crossed, a smile on her face that says she raised better children than this, but she's proud anyway.
Under my arm, there's a pink wicker basket with a bell that jingles.
"Ruby." Sloane waves me over. "Did you bring the sign?"
I pull the hand-painted sign from the duffel. KNOX'S PRINCESS CHARIOT in pink and gold paint, complete with a glitter border I spent two hours on last night while Nash sat on my couch pretending to watch TV.
"It's beautiful," Candace says, taking it with both hands. "This is your finest work."
"I peaked as an artist last night. Everything after this is downhill."
We move fast. Sloane wraps the handlebars in tassels and pink streamers.
Candace presses rhinestone decals across every chrome surface and fits the sparkly helmet cover over Knox's lid.
Darla secures the seat cover, smoothing the velvet with her palms, her pregnant belly pressed against the side of the bike.
I zip-tie the wicker basket to the front, press the PRINCESS plate frame around the tag, stick the rhinestone TURNER decal across the fender, and clip the bell to the handlebar. It jingles when I flick it.
Beautiful.
Frankie walks over, inspects the bell, flicks it once, and nods. "The bell is what sells it."
Maggie tucks a folded note into the basket and walks back to the picnic table without a word.
I open it. Ride safe, queen.
"Maggie." I press the note to my chest. "You are a national treasure."
I glance back at Nash.
He's watching. Arms crossed. Jaw set. But something in his posture has loosened. His weight has shifted to one hip. His head is tilted.
"You're enjoying this," I call across the lot.
"I'm observing."
"You're enjoying it and you won't admit it." I hold up a strip of rhinestones. "Want to do a row? Just one. Nobody has to know."
"No."
"One row, Nash. For the culture."
"No."
"Your loss." I turn back to the saddlebag. "More rhinestones for me."
Darla looks at Sloane. "You're not nervous? About what he's going to do when he sees this?"
Sloane shakes her head, her smile slow and private. "He secretly loves it. Besides." She smooths a streamer along the handlebar. "I quite enjoy the punishments."
The word lands in my chest. Punishments.
My eyes find Nash before I can stop them.
He's still at the fence, arms crossed, watching.
His gaze meets mine and holds, steady, unreadable, and my brain goes to Vesper.
To the rooms behind those heavy doors. To "when you're ready, I'll take you" and the register his voice dropped into when he said it.
What kind of punishment would Nash give?
My face goes hot. I look away first.
Candace steps back to admire the full effect.
Knox's matte black Harley is now a rolling beauty pageant.
Tassels on the handlebars. Pink streamers.
Rhinestones across every chrome surface.
A sparkly helmet. A wicker basket with a note inside and a bell that catches the morning light.
The velvet seat cover gleams under the sun.
I prop the sign against the front wheel and take a photo.
"Masterpiece," Sloane says.
"We're not done." I pull a roll of pink ribbon, a bag of balloons, and a pair of ceremonial scissors from the bottom of the duffel. "East's shop. Phase two."
Frankie sets down her coffee. "My favorite phase."
We cross the lot to East's garage. Sloane strings the ribbon across the bay door while I blow up balloons and Darla ties them to the door handles.
Candace tapes the laminated sign I made last night to the wall beside the entrance: GRAND REOPENING!
EAST'S BIKE BOUTIQUE. Frankie arranges the ceremonial scissors on a stool by the ribbon with a bow on them, adjusting the angle twice.
"Presentation matters," she says.
Then I tape the laminated reviews to the wall inside the bay.
Frankie's idea. Laminate them so they can't be ripped down in the first five seconds.
Five stars across the board. "'Manager was professional, kind, and emotionally available.
'" "'Brought in a boring black Harley and left with a statement piece.
East's Bike Boutique doesn't just modify bikes.
They empower them.'" "'Finally, a service that understands motorcycles have feelings. '"
Darla reads them over my shoulder, her hand on her belly. "He's going to combust."
"That's the goal."
Maggie reads the emotionally available review, turns to me, and says, "That boy has never been emotionally available a day in his life." Then she smooths the laminate against the wall to make sure it's straight.
I pull out my phone and build the Yelp page while Sloane adds the finishing touch: a chalkboard easel propped at the entrance reading TODAY'S SPECIAL: FULL PRINCESS PACKAGE. INCLUDES TASSELS, STREAMERS, AND EMOTIONAL SUPPORT.
I turn the phone toward Nash. The Yelp page, the laminated reviews, the balloons, the ceremonial scissors. He reads the screen. His mouth twitches. Both corners. He holds it for a full second before he kills it.
"That's the closest thing to a smile I've gotten out of you in fourteen months," I say. "I want it acknowledged."
"Acknowledged."
"That's not the same as a smile."
"It's what you're getting."
I step closer. Close enough that sandalwood and leather fill the space between us, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to see his face.
"One day, Nash. One day I'm going to get a full smile out of you.
Both sides of your mouth. Teeth visible.
The whole thing. When it happens, I'm going to take a photo and make it my lock screen. "
His eyes drop to my mouth. Hold. Come back up.
"Keep trying," he says. Low.
My stomach drops through the pavement. That voice. That register. My knees become unreliable, and I take a step back before he sees it.
Knox's truck pulls into the lot. East's bike is right behind him.
"Positions," Sloane whispers.
We scatter to the picnic table and sit down with our coffees like we've been there all morning.
Knox parks. East parks. They walk toward the clubhouse together. Knox stops first.
The silence stretches. He stands in front of his motorcycle. His arms cross slowly. His head tilts. A pink streamer flutters in the breeze.
He turns toward the picnic table. "Which one of you?"
"Which one of us what?" Candace says, sipping her coffee.
"Sloane."
"Morning, baby." Sloane waves. "How was the supply run?"
Knox's jaw works. He picks up the sign. Reads it. Sets it down. Looks at the velvet seat cover. The rhinestones. Looks at the tassels. Reaches out and flicks the bell on the basket. It jingles.
"There's a basket on my bike."
"Is there?" I say. "That's weird. Must be a factory upgrade."
"There's a CUSHION on my SEAT."