Epilogue
Nash
Three Years Later
Ruby is arguing with Kyle about the mural.
"It's a twelve-foot painting of Nasty Nash Jr. in a crown," Kyle says, standing in the clubhouse yard with his arms crossed.
He's staring at the side of the building where Ruby spent three weekends painting a pygmy goat wearing a jeweled crown, a velvet cape, and an expression of absolute authority. "On the side of our clubhouse."
"It's art, Kyle."
"It's a goat in a crown."
"It's a goat in a crown, AND it's art. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. The Mona Lisa is a woman in a chair, and nobody complains about that."
"The Mona Lisa doesn't have a sparkly collar."
"The Mona Lisa would be improved by a sparkly collar, and that is a hill I will die on."
The goat walks across the yard, stops at Kyle's feet, and sits on his boot. Kyle looks down. Looks at the mural. Looks at the goat.
"He's sitting on my boot again."
"He's admiring his portrait. Let him have his moment."
I'm leaning against my bike as I watch this.
Sunday cookout is winding down, the grill still smoking, the string lights coming on across the yard.
East and Darla are loading the twins into their truck.
Declan fights the car seat with the determination of a man who inherited his father's opinions about being restrained.
Knox and Sloane left an hour ago with Lena asleep on Knox's shoulder.
Malachi and Candace are inside, Candace's laugh carrying through the open door.
James and Maggie are at the picnic table, Maggie's head on James' shoulder, his hand covering hers.
"Ruby," I say. "Bike."
"One second. I need Kyle to formally acknowledge that the mural has improved the structural integrity of this building."
"It has not improved the structural integrity," Kyle says.
"It has improved the spiritual integrity, which is more important. Frankie would agree with me."
"Frankie isn't here."
"Frankie is always here. Her sage is in the walls, and her energy is in the foundation. Her spirit lingers like a benevolent haunting, and I will not hear otherwise."
"Ruby." I swing my leg over the bike. "Now."
She grins at Kyle, pats the goat on the head, and walks toward me across the yard.
She's in shorts that barely cover her ass, a crop top that shows a strip of stomach every time she moves, and the red lipstick she put on this morning specifically to ruin my concentration.
It worked. I've been watching her mouth all day.
The red caught the light every time she laughed, every time she bit into something, every time she pressed her lips to a beer bottle and looked at me while she did it.
Her hair is down. Her boots crunch on the gravel.
She's carrying two beers she forgot to put down and a brownie wrapped in a napkin that she's eating with one hand while she walks.
"I'm coming. I'm coming. I was in the middle of an important artistic negotiation."
"You were harassing Kyle."
"Harassing Kyle IS an important artistic negotiation.
I'm training him to appreciate beauty. It's a long-term project.
" She sets the beers on the picnic table, finishes the brownie, wipes her hands on her shorts, and climbs on the bike behind me.
Her arms wrap around my waist. Her chin hooks over my shoulder. "Take me home, Nashville."
I hand her the helmet. She straps it on, clicks the Bluetooth to connect to mine. I start the engine. The Harley rumbles beneath us.
"I trained you well," she says as we pull out of the yard.
"Trained me."
"You made a joke at dinner tonight. An actual joke. With a setup and a punchline. East almost choked. Malachi smiled. Kyle dropped his fork. I have spent months training you in the art of comedic timing, and tonight you graduated."
"I've always been funny."
"You've always been funny in a dry, terrifying, nobody-is-sure-if-he's-joking way. Tonight you were funny in a people-actually-laughed way. That's growth. That's my influence. I accept full credit."
"You want credit for teaching me to make people laugh?"
"I want credit for everything. My influence is vast and uncontainable."
I shake my head. She squeezes my waist.
"And yet," I say, "I still haven't been able to teach you to be aware of your surroundings."
"Why should I be aware of my surroundings? I'm always with you. And I know you'll beat the shit out of anyone who even looks at me wrong."
"That's not situational awareness."
"That's outsourced situational awareness. I've delegated. It's called efficiency, Nash. Look it up."
The road opens up outside of town. The trees press in on both sides, the last light of the day bleeding through the branches.
Ruby's arms tighten around me. Her hands, which started on my chest, begin to drift until her fingers can trace my belt line.
Her palm slides lower, pressing flat against my abdomen, her pinkie dipping below my waistband.
"Ruby."
"Mm?"
"I'm driving."
"You're driving and I'm appreciating you. Both things can happen at the same time. It's called multitasking."
Her hand presses lower. Her fingers trace the line of hair below my navel, back and forth, teasing. My grip tightens on the handlebars.
"You're going to make me wreck this bike."
"You have never wrecked anything in your life. You are the most controlled man I've ever met. I have complete faith in your ability to operate a motorcycle while my hand is in your pants."
"Your hand is not in my pants."
"Yet."
I reach back with one hand and grip her thigh. Squeeze. High. My fingers pressing into bare skin where the shorts end. Her breath catches in my ear. She stops talking for three full seconds, which is a record.
"Nash."
"Mm?"
"That's not safe driving."
"Outsourced safety. I've delegated."
She laughs in my ear. The sound fills the helmet, warm, close.
The house is ten minutes from the clubhouse.
A two-bedroom off the county road, set back in the trees, with a porch that wraps around the front.
We moved in three months ago. Ruby painted the front door red the first weekend.
The second weekend, she hung string lights on the porch.
By the third weekend, she rearranged every piece of furniture twice before putting it all back where it started and said, "I was testing the energy flow. "
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. The quiet settles. Crickets fill the silence. The trees shift. Ruby's arms are still around me.
She climbs off the bike. I follow. She takes my hand and walks backward toward the porch, pulling me, her eyes on mine, with a grin on her face. The one that means she started planning something three miles ago and the planning involves me being naked.
"Ruby."
"Nash."
"What are you doing?"
"Taking you inside. To our bed. Where I intend to do things to you that would make East blush and Darla take notes."
"Darla doesn't need notes."
"Darla always needs notes. That woman is a student of the craft."
She pulls me through the front door, through the living room where her shoes are piled by the couch and my jacket hangs on the hook, through the hallway where she's hung three of her designs in frames I built, into our bedroom.
Our bed. The one we picked together. The one where she sleeps on my chest, steals the blankets, talks in her sleep about things that make no sense, and occasionally wakes me up at three in the morning to tell me something she forgot to say before she fell asleep.
She turns in the bedroom doorway and puts her hands on my chest.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
She pushes my cut off my shoulders. I let it fall. She pulls my shirt over my head, her hands running down my chest, over the ink, over the heartbeat she tattooed on my forearm. Her fingers trace it every time she undresses me, a ritual she doesn't know she's made.
I reach for the hem of her crop top. Pull it over her head. She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts bare, her nipples already hard. I cup both in my hands, squeezing, rolling the nipples between my fingers.
"You've been walking around all day in this outfit," I say. "No bra. Those shorts. That lipstick."
"You noticed."
"I noticed six hours ago." Dragging my thumb across her nipple, I watch her shiver. "I've been thinking about getting you out of those shorts since you put them on this morning."
"Yet you waited. Such restraint."
"The restraint is over."
I walk her backward until her knees hit the mattress.
She sits. I kneel in front of her and pull her boots off.
Then hook my fingers in the waistband of her shorts and panties together and drag them both down her thighs in one pull.
She lifts her hips to help. When I toss them aside, she's naked on our bed with her legs parted, her pussy already glistening.
"Fuck." The word comes out rough. "You're already wet."
"I've been wet since you grabbed my thigh on the bike."
I press my mouth to the inside of her knee. Kiss higher. Her thigh. Higher. The crease where her leg meets her hip. Her fingers find my hair.
"Nash. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please put your mouth on me."
I press my mouth against her pussy and lick from her entrance to her clit in one slow, flat stroke.
She cries out, her back arching off the mattress, her hips lifting into my face.
I grip her thighs, push them wider apart, and lick her again.
Slow. My tongue parts her folds, tasting her, the salt and heat of her filling my mouth.
"You taste so fucking good," I say against her pussy. The words vibrate against her clit, and she whimpers. "Every time. You taste better every time."
I circle her clit with my tongue, lazily, taking my time. Her hips rock against my face. Her fingers twist in my hair, pulling. I slide two fingers inside her. She clenches around them immediately, her pussy gripping me tight and wet.
"Oh god." Her voice breaks. "Oh god, Nash, your fingers and your mouth at the same time. I can't—"