Page 59 of Nash
Now she rolls her neck and doesn't even check if I'm watching.
I am watching. Every second. Every movement. The way she leans over the client's arm. How her fingers adjust the needle. The way her lower lip catches between her teeth when she's concentrating. She knows I'm watching. She's choosing not to care. The choice is a blade between my ribs.
I want to cross the room. Put my hand on the back of her neck the way I did in the hallway. Tilt her face up. Make her look at me. Say her name in the voice that used to make her breath catch. Ruby. One word. The word that used to stop her mid-joke, mid-bit, mid-performance. The word that made her go still.
I want to make her go still.
But I pulled back first. I kissed her, then I spent three days treating her like a detail instead of the woman who said yes sir with nothing behind it but truth. She's doing what I taught her to do. She's matching my distance. I don't get to close the gap I opened.
My hand flexes against my thigh. I stay at the wall.
At five, her session ends. Ruby cleans her station. Only her station. She hangs her apron, grabs her jacket, and walks past me through the door. Close enough that I catch vanilla. Far enough that nothing touches.
I start the engine. She climbs on behind me, her arms loose around my waist, her hands held away from my stomach. Last week her palms pressed flat against my abs and her thumb traced circles that dropped straight through my ribs. Tonight her fingers barely grip the fabric of my shirt. The cold where her warmth used to be follows me the whole ride home.
I walk her up the stairs. She unlocks the door. We go inside. I check the windows. The back door. The camera feed. She kicks off her shoes and heads for her room to change.
The silence lasts about four seconds.
"What the FUCK?"
I lean against the kitchen counter and wait.
She comes out holding a pair of jeans in one hand and a T-shirt in the other. Both two sizes too large.
"Nash." Her voice is dangerously calm. "Why is everything in my closet two sizes too big?"
"East."
"East was in my apartment?"
"Rider used his key."
"Rider used his—" She drops the jeans on the counter, turns, and walks back to her room. I hear hangers sliding. Drawers opening. A strangled sound that might be a scream filtered through clenched teeth.
She comes back with an armful. Dumps it on the kitchen table. Jeans, T-shirts, a flannel shirt, a tank top, a pair of shorts. All the right brands. The right colors. All two sizes too large.
"He matched the tags, Nash." She holds up a tank top between two fingers. It could double as a tent. "He went shopping. He found every brand I own, in every color I own, and he bought them all two sizes bigger. That takes research. Takes commitment. That takes a man with a vendetta, a credit card, and way too much time on his hands."
She pulls the flannel on over her T-shirt. The sleeves hang past her fingertips. She holds her arms out.
"I look like a child wearing her father's clothes. This is a war crime. The Geneva Convention has opinions about this."
She opens the jeans. Steps into them. They pool around her feet. She holds the waistband with one hand and shuffles to the middle of the kitchen. The denim drags on the floor behind her.
"Security detail keys are for security, Nash. Not fashion terrorism." She grabs the waistband with both hands to keep them up. "Tell East his retaliation is noted and will be answered.At scale. I'm talking biblical scale. Plagues. Locusts. I will dismantle that man's wardrobe thread by thread. Every pair of boots he owns filled with something he won't expect and can't identify. Every T-shirt replaced with a crop top. I will bedazzle his motorcycle helmet. I will monogram his underwear. I will not rest until that man understands what it feels like to open his closet and find NOTHING THAT FITS."
She takes a step toward me for emphasis. The jeans slide off her hips. She grabs them, yanks them up, and the waistband goes past her bellybutton. She looks down at herself. Looks up at me. The oversized flannel hanging to her knees, the jeans bunched in both fists, her hair wild from pulling shirts over her head.
"I look like a scarecrow, Nash. A fashionable scarecrow whose entire identity has been stolen by a man who thinks revenge is a clothing size."
I laugh.
The sound surprises both of us. A real laugh, low, from my chest, the kind I haven't made in months. My shoulders shake once before I lock them down. My jaw clamps but it's too late.
Ruby freezes. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth drops open.
"Oh my god." She points at me with the hand that isn't holding up her jeans. "Oh my GOD. You laughed. That was a laugh. A real, actual, full laugh. With sound. From your body. Frankie would lose her mind. Candace would frame it. I need to call someone. Need documentation. I need a witness."
