Page 47 of Nash
Except it doesn't go entirely quiet because I can feel Nash's eyes on me the entire time. I don't have to look. It's a warm weight that settles between my shoulder blades and spreads down my spine. When I lean forward and my shirt rides up at the hip, the weight shifts lower. When I stretch my neck and tipmy head to the side, it moves to my throat. He's tracking me the way he tracks a perimeter, except perimeters don't wear low-rise jeans.
My skin prickles under it. Every time I adjust my grip on the machine, every time I wipe the ink and lean closer to the client's skin, I can feel him watching my hands, my fingers, and the way they move. The awareness of it settles between my thighs and stays there.
I catch him looking in the mirror. He's watching my hands again. My hands on the client's shoulder, my fingers adjusting the needle angle. His jaw has loosened. His arms have dropped to his sides. His weight has shifted forward, just barely, like he's leaning toward me without realizing it. The expression on his face is open, unguarded, and hungry in a way that makes my thighs press together under the station.
I hold his gaze in the mirror. He holds mine. The shop narrows to the two of us. His eyes darken. My breath shallows. The needle buzzes in my hand and my client's skin is under my fingers. I should be working, but every nerve I have is pulled toward the man at the wall who is looking at me like he's deciding how much longer he can stand there before he crosses the room.
My client shifts in the chair. I look down. My hand is steady. The rest of me isn't.
Two more hours of this man watching me work and I'm going to climb him like a tree. I'm going to walk over there, straddle him against that wall, and ride him instead of the Harley. He can scan the perimeter from over my shoulder for all I care. Hargrove will get a two-for-one. Came in for a sleeve, left with a live show. Five stars on Yelp. "Excellent linework. Also the tattoo artist mounted her bodyguard mid-session. Very entertaining. Would recommend."
I adjust the needle. Wipe. Ink. Breathe.
The sleeve comes together. The thorns are sharp, the vines fluid, the negative space between them holding a shape the client didn't ask for but will notice later. I pull the wrap material and start the aftercare instructions. "So for the first two weeks, you're going to want to keep it moisturized and avoid direct sun—"
"That's exceptional work," Nash says from the door. The client looks at him. I look at him. His eyes are on mine, warm, and the compliment hangs in the air between us.
"Thanks," I say, and the word comes out softer than I meant it to. I clear my throat. "Did you just compliment my art from across the room while maintaining eye contact with me? That's new. Frankie, are you witnessing this development?"
Frankie looks up from her station. "He's right, Ruby. The negative space on that piece is the best work you've done."
"I don't know what to do with both of you complimenting me at the same time. My system isn't built for this. I need at least one person in this room to insult me so I can recalibrate."
"Your coffee is terrible," Frankie says.
"Thank you. Balance is restored."
"Ruby."
Nash's voice. Low. Close. He's crossed the room without me hearing him move, and when I turn he's right there, two feet away, looking down at me.
I look at him.
"Take the compliment."
"I did. I said thanks."
"You said thanks, then you turned it into a bit." His eyes hold mine. Steady. Patient. The voice he uses when he's not asking. "Your work is exceptional. Take it."
The shop is quiet. Frankie is watching us. My client is watching us. My hands are shaking because Nash doesn't givecompliments. When he does, he means every syllable. He's standing close enough that I can smell sandalwood and leather.
I open my mouth for the next joke. It doesn't come. He's looking at me like he'll wait all night, and something in my chest cracks open because I realize what I was doing. I was running. I didn't even know I was running.
"Okay," I say. My voice comes out small. "Okay. Taken."
His jaw softens. He nods once.
I turn back to my station. My eyes sting. After I finish the aftercare instructions, I walk my client to the door and tell her to text me if she has questions. She leaves. The bell jingles. I go back to my station, organize my ink bottles by color for the third time today, and pretend my hands aren't trembling.
Frankie walks past on her way to clean up. She squeezes my shoulder once without saying a word.
By seven, her last client is gone. I clean my station. Frankie cleans hers.
"I'll finish up," I tell her. "Go home."
"You sure?"
"Go. Enjoy your evening. Light a candle. Talk to your plants. Do whatever witchy things you do when I'm not here."
