Page 161 of Nash
"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.
