Page 19 of Nash
"Not a denial. Filing that as confirmed." She snaps on gloves. "Have you ever been to a concert?"
I don't answer.
"That's a no. Okay. We're fixing that. Frankie, add it to the list."
"There's a list?" Frankie asks.
"There's always a list."
Her client settles into the chair, and Ruby starts the linework. The shop goes quiet for a while, just the buzz of the machine and the record player. I run the sweep. Window. Street. Door.
"And he's scanning left," Ruby says, her voice dropping into a low, exaggerated baritone without looking up from the needle. "Moving past the window. Checking the street. Classic Sergeant-at-Arms technique. Beautiful form."
Frankie's head lifts.
"He's cleared the front window. He's moving to the door. Oh, there it is, folks, the chin tilt. Textbook. Judges would give that a nine-point-five. He lost half a point for the lack of dramatic wind in his hair."
Frankie's shoulders start shaking. Her client looks up from his phone.
"Now he's back to the window. Full rotation. This man has been doing laps with his eyeballs for six hours and hasn't once complained. That's Olympic-level stamina. That's dedication to the craft. Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing greatness."
Frankie puts down her machine because her hand isn't steady enough to hold it. Her client is grinning. Ruby takes a bow fromher stool, still holding the tattoo gun, one gloved hand sweeping wide.
My mouth twitches. I kill it.
"I saw that," Ruby says, pointing her pencil at me. "Frankie, did you see that?"
"I saw it."
"He's cracking. The fortress is crumbling. By Friday, I'll have a full smile. Mark my words."
Ruby moves around the chair and her path takes her past the wall, past me, close enough that vanilla and warm skin fill the space between us. Her shoulder drags across my chest.
"Oops." She glances back over her shoulder. "Just trying to see what happens."
My own words from the cookout, thrown back at me. My jaw flexes. She grins and keeps walking.
An ink bottle rolls off her station and across the floor toward my feet. I bend at the same time she does. My hand closes over the bottle. Her hand closes over mine.
Her skin is warm. Rough from the soap. The weight of her fingers presses my knuckles into the glass. Her pulse beats against the back of my hand. She goes still.
I release the bottle into her palm. My fingers brush the inside of her wrist on the way. On purpose. I step back to the wall.
She stares at the ink bottle. At her hand. Me. Her mouth opens. Nothing comes out. She turns back to her station, and her hand shakes once before she sets the bottle down.
Frankie puts on a new record. Something slower. Ruby stretches at her station, arms overhead, and the motion pulls her shirt up at the hem. A strip of skin at her hip. I track it. She drops her arms and catches me watching.
A slow smile spreads across her face. She holds it. Lets me see it.
"Staring at the threat again, Sergeant-at-Arms?"
I hold her eyes. Don't answer.
Her smile widens. She turns back to her station and grips the edge of her chair. I put my eyes on the window.
They don't stay there.
Frankie flips the sign at seven. Ruby wipes down her station and packs her bag. Her eyeliner is smudged from rubbing her eyes during the memorial piece. She hasn't fixed it. It looks better this way.
