Page 32 of Nash
Aweekattheclubhouse and Ruby has learned exactly what "make me" does to me.
Monday morning she demanded to go home. I told her Tuesday. Tuesday I told her Wednesday. Wednesday she stopped asking and started retaliating. She said "make me" when I told her to stay inside while I checked the perimeter. Thursday she said it when I told her to eat something before her noon appointment. This morning she said it while looking me dead in the eyes and taking my coffee out of my hand.
She wrapped her fingers around the mug, lifted it to her red lips, took a slow sip, and held it against her chest without breaking eye contact. "Sorry. Was that yours?"
My jaw locked so hard I heard it click.
"Get your own coffee, Ruby."
"Make me."
She grinned. I didn't move. The silence between us stretched while she waited to see what I'd do, her chin tilted, her eyes bright, her whole body leaning into the dare.
I stepped forward, wrapped my hand around the mug with hers still on it, and pulled it toward me. Her fingers tightened. I held the mug steady, my hand over hers, and leaned down until my mouth was level with her ear.
"Ask nicely."
Her breath caught. Her fingers loosened on the mug. I could feel her pulse through her knuckles.
"Can I have a sip of your coffee?" Quieter than her usual register.
"Try again."
"May I have a sip of your coffee? Please."
I let go of the mug. She took a sip with shaking hands and walked away with it; I let her because the flush on the back of her neck was worth more than the coffee.
Candace watched the whole thing from the kitchen doorway, eating a piece of toast. She caught my eye as Ruby passed her. Her eyebrows lifted so high they disappeared under her bangs.
The ride to Amaranth is three blocks of Ruby pressed against my back with her chin on my shoulder blade, humming along to a song only she can hear. Her fingers trace patterns on my stomach through my shirt. Circles. Lines. Letters, maybe, though I can't tell what she's writing, and the effort of not asking is costing me more than I'd admit.
The shop is open by noon. Frankie is at her station with a client. Ruby ties on her apron, sets up her inks, and begins the day's campaign of testing every boundary I've set since I started this detail.
She bends over to reach the bottom drawer of her station, and the shorts she's wearing today are shorter than yesterday's. The hem rides up the backs of her thighs. She stays bent over for three seconds longer than the drawer requires.
I look at the window. The window is clear. I look back. She's still bent over.
"Ruby."
"I'm looking for my liner set. It's in the back of the drawer."
"It's on your station."
She straightens, looks at the liner set sitting exactly where I said it was, and turns to me with a grin that doesn't even pretend to be innocent.
"Oh. Would you look at that."
I hold her gaze. She holds mine. The shop hums around us. Frankie's tattoo machine buzzes. The record player turns.
"You're at a seven," I say.
"A seven what?"
"You started the week at a four. You're escalating."
Her grin widens. "Is there a ten?"
"You don't want to find out."
