Chapter 12
Ruby
We ride to Amaranth. Three blocks. With my chin on his shoulder blade, and my arms around his waist. My grin still hasn't come down.
"Did you see his face when he flicked the bell?" I shout over the wind. "That was the face of a man questioning every decision he's ever made. That was a man in crisis, Nash. A man reckoning with the basket."
His chest shakes against my hands. Barely. A vibration I wouldn't catch if I weren't pressed against his back with every nerve ending on high alert.
I go still. "Did you just laugh?"
The bike accelerates through the turn.
"You laughed. You definitely laughed. I felt it. That was a laugh, Nash. A real one. Against my hand. I have physical evidence."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't deny it, either.
He parks at the curb outside Amaranth. The engine cuts. Before I climb off, his hand reaches back and taps my knee twice. Quick. Light. Something he's never done before.
My breath catches. I stare at the back of his head.
I climb off on legs that feel new. He follows, pulling the key, scanning the street. Like the tap didn't happen. Like his hand didn't just touch my knee on purpose.
The shop is warm but quiet. Frankie's station is dark, her apron still on the hook. She told me at the clubhouse she was meeting Arden before coming in. Something about picking up supplies for a stray she'd been feeding.
I glance at the basement door on my way past. The padlock is in place.
Nash takes the wall by the door. I tie on my apron and start my prep.
My first consult is a college kid with a nose ring and a binder full of reference images. She wants a compass rose on her wrist.
"I've been researching for like six months," she says, flipping through printed pages. "I want something that feels like it belongs on old nautical charts but also has a modern edge? Like vintage but not costumey?"
"You want it to look like it was carved into a ship's wheel by a drunk sailor with excellent taste."
She lights up. "Yes. Exactly that."
I walk her through placement, sizing, how the lines will age on the inner wrist versus the outer. She asks smart questions. Clearly, she really did do her homework. I pull out my sketchpad and flip to the compass rose I've been working on, the shattered one with wisteria growing through the cracks.
Her eyes go wide. "Can I get THAT?"
"That one's not ready yet. But we can work toward something in that family."
We schedule a follow-up. She leaves practically vibrating. I watch her go and feel the warm hum I always get when someone trusts me with the thing they've been carrying in their head for months.
I glance at Nash. He's watching me. I catch his eyes and he holds my gaze. My stomach tightens and I turn back to my station because if I hold that gaze any longer I'm going to say something I can't take back.
My second consult is a couple getting matching mountain ranges. His-and-hers. A trip to Colorado that changed everything, they tell me, finishing each other's sentences the way couples do when they've been telling a story so long it's become one voice.
"We want the same range," she says, "but from different angles. Like we're standing next to each other looking at the same thing."
"Same mountain, different perspectives," I say. "I love that."
"Is that doable?" he asks.
"Honey, I once tattooed a man's fantasy football lineup on his ribcage in a font that matched his wedding invitation. A mountain range from two angles is a vacation."
They laugh. He squeezes her hand. I measure his forearm and hers, noting the difference in circumference, calculating the scale adjustment so the ranges will line up when they stand side by side.
They're holding hands the entire time. His thumb traces circles on her knuckles. I watch the gesture and my brain, uninvited, supplies the memory of Nash's thumb stroking my pulse point over a stolen fry. My hand cramps on the measuring tape.
Focus, Ruby. Professional. You are a professional.
I catch Nash in the mirror behind my station. He's watching my hands. The way he watches my hands when I work, as if my fingers are doing something worth studying. The thought of what else these fingers could be doing to him arrives fully formed and settles between my thighs.
Jesus Christ, Ruby. There are clients present. There are MATCHING MOUNTAIN RANGES present. Get it together.
The couple leaves. I sit at my station and press my palms flat on the surface.
"You okay?" Nash asks from the wall.
"Fine. Great. Just had a very professional thought about mountain ranges."
He doesn't respond. I don't explain.
Frankie arrives after one, bag over her shoulder, coffee in hand, looking like a woman who has done something complicated before breakfast and intends to say nothing about it. She sets up her station, puts on a record, and the shop fills with the low, familiar sound of it.
"How's the stray?" I ask.
"Fed." She doesn't elaborate. I don't push.
The afternoon is a sleeve session for a woman named Hargrove.
Three hours of precise linework, thorny vines wrapping across the client's shoulder blade, the negative space holding the composition together.
I lose myself in it. The buzz of the machine, the rhythm of wipe-and-ink, the way the design transfers from paper to skin.
This is where everything goes quiet. Just hands and ink.
Except it doesn't go entirely quiet because I can feel Nash's eyes on me the entire time.
I don't have to look. It's a warm weight that settles between my shoulder blades and spreads down my spine.
When I lean forward and my shirt rides up at the hip, the weight shifts lower.
When I stretch my neck and tip my head to the side, it moves to my throat.
He's tracking me the way he tracks a perimeter, except perimeters don't wear low-rise jeans.
My skin prickles under it. Every time I adjust my grip on the machine, every time I wipe the ink and lean closer to the client's skin, I can feel him watching my hands, my fingers, and the way they move. The awareness of it settles between my thighs and stays there.
I catch him looking in the mirror. He's watching my hands again.
My hands on the client's shoulder, my fingers adjusting the needle angle.
His jaw has loosened. His arms have dropped to his sides.
His weight has shifted forward, just barely, like he's leaning toward me without realizing it.
The expression on his face is open, unguarded, and hungry in a way that makes my thighs press together under the station.
I hold his gaze in the mirror. He holds mine.
The shop narrows to the two of us. His eyes darken.
My breath shallows. The needle buzzes in my hand and my client's skin is under my fingers.
I should be working, but every nerve I have is pulled toward the man at the wall who is looking at me like he's deciding how much longer he can stand there before he crosses the room.
My client shifts in the chair. I look down. My hand is steady. The rest of me isn't.
Two more hours of this man watching me work and I'm going to climb him like a tree.
I'm going to walk over there, straddle him against that wall, and ride him instead of the Harley.
He can scan the perimeter from over my shoulder for all I care.
Hargrove will get a two-for-one. Came in for a sleeve, left with a live show.
Five stars on Yelp. "Excellent linework.
Also the tattoo artist mounted her bodyguard mid-session. Very entertaining. Would recommend."
I adjust the needle. Wipe. Ink. Breathe.
The sleeve comes together. The thorns are sharp, the vines fluid, the negative space between them holding a shape the client didn't ask for but will notice later.
I pull the wrap material and start the aftercare instructions.
"So for the first two weeks, you're going to want to keep it moisturized and avoid direct sun—"
"That's exceptional work," Nash says from the door. The client looks at him. I look at him. His eyes are on mine, warm, and the compliment hangs in the air between us.
"Thanks," I say, and the word comes out softer than I meant it to. I clear my throat. "Did you just compliment my art from across the room while maintaining eye contact with me? That's new. Frankie, are you witnessing this development?"
Frankie looks up from her station. "He's right, Ruby. The negative space on that piece is the best work you've done."
"I don't know what to do with both of you complimenting me at the same time. My system isn't built for this. I need at least one person in this room to insult me so I can recalibrate."
"Your coffee is terrible," Frankie says.
"Thank you. Balance is restored."
"Ruby."
Nash's voice. Low. Close. He's crossed the room without me hearing him move, and when I turn he's right there, two feet away, looking down at me.
I look at him.
"Take the compliment."
"I did. I said thanks."
"You said thanks, then you turned it into a bit." His eyes hold mine. Steady. Patient. The voice he uses when he's not asking. "Your work is exceptional. Take it."
The shop is quiet. Frankie is watching us. My client is watching us. My hands are shaking because Nash doesn't give compliments. When he does, he means every syllable. He's standing close enough that I can smell sandalwood and leather.
I open my mouth for the next joke. It doesn't come. He's looking at me like he'll wait all night, and something in my chest cracks open because I realize what I was doing. I was running. I didn't even know I was running.
"Okay," I say. My voice comes out small. "Okay. Taken."
His jaw softens. He nods once.