Chapter 34
Ruby
The jukebox has been fixed.
"It works," Knox says from the corner, arms crossed. He exudes the particular satisfaction of a man who considers a jukebox his least impressive conquest.
"Does it play 'Barbie Girl?'" East asks from the couch. Declan is asleep on his chest, Rowan in Darla's arms beside him.
"Every third song," Knox says.
"That wasn't a feature request," East says.
"It wasn't optional."
The clubhouse is full. Karaoke-night full.
The kind of full that happens when Candace texts "jukebox is fixed" to the group chat and every person connected to this club materializes within the hour.
Because the last karaoke night was over a year ago; the night Candace opened her mouth and the entire room stopped breathing.
I have been waiting for this night for months.
Nash is beside me on the couch, his arm across the back behind my shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my upper arm.
He's been doing this all night. His hand low on my hip when we walked in, fingers tucked close enough to make me lose track of what Kyle was saying about the playlist. His mouth was on my temple mid-sentence, his breath on my skin, and my words dissolved into a sound I had to cover with a cough.
His palm slid across my lower back when I stood up to get a beer.
It stayed there two beats longer than necessary, then his fingertips dipped just below my waistband.
My stomach flipped so hard I grabbed the bar to steady myself.
Maggie and James are at their table. James has a beer, Maggie has a glass of wine.
Victor and Olivia are at the far end of the bar, Olivia's gold necklace catching the overhead light.
Frankie is near the back with a beer, Arden a few feet away, his stillness a permanent installation.
Amelia is at the bar with a drink, watching Kyle talk to the goat about song selection.
"The goat does not get a vote," Kyle says. "The goat does not have musical opinions. It has opinions about boots and nothing else."
The goat chews Kyle's bootlace.
"That is not a rebuttal."
Candace is behind the bar, her hair piled up, her fingers tapping the wood in a rhythm only she hears.
Malachi sits in his chair at the head of the room, his arm draped across the back, watching her the way he always watches her.
The way a man watches something he still can't believe he gets to keep.
"Who's first?" Candace says.
Silence. It's the particular silence of a room full of motorcycle club members who would rather fight a man than sing a song in front of their partners.
"I'll go," Darla says. She hands Rowan to East, stands, smooths her shirt, and walks to the jukebox with the focused energy of a woman who has been planning this moment since the group chat text.
"What are you singing?" East asks.
"'Cool Rider.'"
"What?"
"'Cool Rider.' From Grease 2. The greatest musical sequel ever made, which you would know if you had any taste. But you don't, which is why your name is Greg."
"My name is NOT—"
"Shh." Darla holds up one finger. "Mommy's performing."
The music starts. Darla wraps her hand around the microphone, plants one heel, cocks her hip, and becomes someone else entirely.
She sings "Cool Rider" with the polish of a woman who dreamed of Juilliard and the fire of a woman who performs at the community theater because the stage is where she comes alive.
She points at East during the chorus, then does a spin that belongs on Broadway.
Darla hits the high note clean, full, holding it two beats longer than the track, and the room erupts.
East is holding both babies with his mouth open while his face cycles through pride, confusion, and the specific terror of a man watching his partner commit a public performance that he will be hearing about for the rest of his life.
"THAT'S MY WOMAN!" East yells. Declan startles. East drops to a whisper. "That's my woman. She's incredible. I'm marrying her. Someone write that down."
"You haven't proposed," Kyle says.
"Details."
Darla takes a bow. The room applauds. She walks back to East, takes Rowan from his arms, sits down, and crosses her legs.
Nash's hand slides from my arm to my hip. He pulls me closer on the couch, his fingers curling around the curve of my waist. Just above my jeans, his thumb rubs a slow circle. I lean into him. His mouth finds the spot below my ear.
"You're next," he says against my skin.
"I'm strategizing. A performance of this caliber requires mental preparation."
His teeth graze my earlobe. My breath stutters. In front of everyone. He's doing this in front of everyone, and he doesn't care. The not caring is so new and so hot that my brain is short-circuiting.
"Your turn," Darla says to the room. "Sloane." Darla leans forward. "You look uncomfortable."
"I'm fine."
"You've been holding your stomach for twenty minutes."
"The baby is active."
Knox glances at her. "The baby is active because she ate something she said she'd never eat."
Sloane's head snaps toward him. "Knox."
Darla sits up straight. "What did you eat?"
"Nothing."
"Knox just said—"
"Knox is a traitor who sleeps on the couch tonight."
"Olives," Knox says.
Darla's mouth falls open. Then closes. Then opens again into a grin so wide it takes over her entire face.
"I TOLD YOU." Darla points at Sloane with the authority of a woman who has been vindicated.
"I told you that you would crave them. You said you hated olives.
You said, and I quote, 'I will never in my life voluntarily eat an olive.
' I told you it would happen. The pregnancy would make you crave them.
You looked me in my face and told me I was wrong. "
"They were Kalamata," Sloane murmurs.
"The VARIETY does not matter, Sloane. You ate the thing you swore you'd never eat. I called it. I called it months ago."
"They were on a charcuterie board. They were right there," he says.
"Don't help me," Sloane says to Knox.
"I'm confirming the circumstances."
Sloane throws a napkin at Knox. He catches it without looking. Candace comes out from behind the bar. She walks to the jukebox, selects her song, and turns to face the room.
The room goes quiet.
Candace can sing. This is not a secret anymore, not since the first karaoke night over a year ago when she opened her mouth and every person in this clubhouse stopped breathing.
But hearing it again, every time, is the same experience.
The silence that falls is the kind that only happens when a voice that good fills a room that rough.
She sings something slow. An older song, the kind that lives in the chest. The kind that makes grown men look at their hands. Her voice fills the corners of the room, the high ceilings, the spaces between the tables. Malachi's hand stops moving on the arm of his chair. James sets his beer down.
I watch Candace sing, and my throat tightens.
The woman who used to hum under her breath and stop when anyone noticed.
The woman who hid her music in notebooks and sang in her car alone.
She's standing in front of a room full of people she loves, singing with her whole chest, her eyes finding Malachi halfway through the chorus.
Nash's hand is still on my hip. I put my hand on his thigh. High. My fingers pressing into the denim, my pinkie tracing the inseam. His grip on my waist tightens. I slide my hand higher. His jaw clenches. I feel the muscle jump under my palm.
Two can play, Nashville.
I press my mouth to his neck and leave it there through the rest of the chorus, breathing against his skin. My hand is still on his thigh, and his hand is gripping my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
The song ends. The room exhales. Applause loud enough to wake both babies. Darla reaches for the bottles while East produces a pacifier from his back pocket with tactical precision.
"Ruby." Candace points at me. "You're up."
"I am absolutely up. I have been waiting for this moment since the group chat text. Which I saw while I was in the middle of something I am not going to describe in mixed company." I glance at Nash. "I'm going to need a duet partner." Nash doesn't move. "Nash."
"No."
"Nash, I need you to come up here and sing with me."
"I don't sing."
"You don't have to sing. You just have to stand next to me, hold the microphone, and look intimidating while I sing, which is basically what you do all day anyway, except this time there's music."
"No."
I walk over to him. Stand directly in front of him. Tilt my chin up. "Please," I murmur. Just for him. "For me."
His jaw works. His eyes hold mine. The room watches. Every person in this clubhouse watching the Sergeant-at-Arms process a request from the woman who has been dismantling his defenses for months.
He stands.
The room loses its mind. East whoops. Kyle slams his hand on the bar. Darla grabs Sloane's arm. Candace covers her mouth.
Nash walks to the jukebox and stands beside me with his arms at his sides. There's an expression on his face that clearly communicates he is doing this under protest so everyone in this room should be grateful and also afraid.
I pick the song. "Livin' on a Prayer." The only acceptable choice for a woman with zero vocal talent and maximum commitment.
The music starts. I sing. Badly, loudly, with my entire body, pointing at people during the verses. I dance with the microphone, climb onto a chair during the key change before being quietly removed from the chair by Nash's hand on my waist.
Nash holds the microphone. He does not sing. He stands beside me holding the microphone approximately four inches from his mouth, moving it no closer, participating through proximity and the sheer force of standing next to a woman who is singing badly enough for both of them.
At the chorus, he mouths one word. One. The room catches it. The eruption is louder than Darla's Cool Rider spin.