Page 11 of Nash
Ruby
Nashpicksmeupthe next morning.
The Harley is already idling at the curb when I come down the front steps. He's got one boot braced on the concrete, watching me. His eyes track me from the door to the steps to the sidewalk. I almost trip on the bottom step because he wasn't scanning the street. He was waiting for me.
"Oh good, my Uber's here." I shoulder my bag higher and take the last step. "Five stars, very prompt. The car has excellent legroom and a hot driver who gives off serial-killer energy in a way I find personally compelling. Do I tip, or is that covered under the protection racket? Because I budget for these thingsand my spreadsheet only has columns for 'therapy,' 'impulse tattoos,' and 'apologies to my mother.'"
He holds out the helmet. The faded red elastic on his wrist catches the light.
I shove the coffee into his free hand. "Hold this. If you sip it, I will know." I turn it over in my hands. "Helmet protocol. Very responsible. Very OSHA. Do I get a little reflective vest, or—"
"Get on."
I clip the helmet on, take the coffee back and drain it in three swallows that absolutely scald my esophagus, toss the cup in the bin by the curb, sling my leg over the back of the bike, then wrap my arms around his waist.
My brain goes quiet.
He is warm. The leather of his cut, the soft cotton of the T-shirt underneath, the solid line of his back where I press into him, all of it radiates heat through my shirt. My hands link at his stomach and every muscle under my fingers pulls tight, a full compression from his chest to his abdomen. His shoulders lock. His breathing goes still.
I tighten my arms. Just enough.
His right hand lifts off the grip and lands flat over both of mine where they're linked at his stomach. Rough palm covering my knuckles. The contact shoots up my forearms, behind my teeth. My breath catches. Then he lifts his hand back to the throttle, and the bike leans forward.
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
The ride to Amaranth is his body heat bleeding through my shirt, the vibration of the engine between my thighs, my fingers linked at Nash's ribcage. When we roll up to the shop, I can still feel the weight of his palm across my knuckles.
He kills the engine. His head turns toward me first, eyes on my face, checking. Then the sweep starts. Street, alley, rooftops, shop front.
I swing off and hand the helmet back. Our fingers brush on the chin strap. He goes still, his hand closing around the strap where my fingers just were, holding instead of taking. Then he clips it to the bike.
I push through the front door. The bell jingles. Sage and green soap fold around me. Nash follows me in, takes the wall by the door. Feet set. Hands loose at his sides. Eyes through the front window.
Frankie is already at her station, coffee in hand, record player going. She looks at Nash. Looks at me.
"Malachi called," she says.
"Of course he did." I drop my bag on the counter. "Did he give you the full briefing or the executive summary?"
She takes a sip of her coffee and turns back to her station. "Both."
My noon appointment is a walk-in. Marco. Tall, dark-haired, grinning in a way that tells me he hasn't noticed the man standing by the door. He sits down, and we talk about the piece, a forearm memorial for his grandfather, and I prep the stencil while he laughs at a joke I make about font choices.
I lean in a little closer than the consultation requires. I'm placing the stencil on his forearm, my fingertips pressing along the edge, then I laugh at his next comment and tip my head back, throat in the overhead light.
Nash's eyes hit the back of my neck. I can feel them. On my shoulder blades, on the bend of my throat, on the corner of my mouth.
I leave my hand on Marco's forearm a beat too long.
Nash's boot scrapes the floor, and he crosses the shop in six strides. His hand closes around my upper arm. Firm. Steady.The pressure of his palm radiates through the cotton of my sleeve.
"Need a minute," he says to Marco. Calm. Even. Then he's steering me toward the back hall.
"Excuse me," I say to Marco over my shoulder with a bright smile that is doing a lot of structural work. "My emotional support enforcer needs to check something."
Nash walks me through the back hall, past the supply closet. My shoulders hit the wall. He stands close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to see his face, one hand flat against the wall beside my head, the width of his body blocking the hallway.
