Page 6 of Nash
My sternum tightens. I step back from the table.
His phone buzzes on the table. He flips it face-down before I can see the screen, glances at the clock on the wall, and something in his jaw resets.
"Club business," he says. Low. Flat. He still hasn't looked at me.
"Must be exciting club business. Monday morning, government seals. Light reading."
His jaw tightens. The muscle near his ear jumps.
"Drop it, Ruby."
Three words, and his voice drops a register, low enough to press against the base of my skull. A reasonable person would drop it. The word reasonable has never once appeared on any performance review of my entire existence, but there's a first time for everything.
"Fine." I hold up both hands. "Classified. Got it. Forget I was here." I pick up my bag from the counter and head for the door. My hand hits the frame and I turn back. "For what it's worth, you might want to pack up faster next time."
His grip shifts on the folder. His thumb finds the headband on his wrist. Presses.
"Ruby." I stop. "Where are you headed?"
"Back to the shop. Why, you need me to run errands for you too?"
"Straight there." His eyes hold mine. "Not the bakery, not the grocery. The shop."
His answer doesn't match the question I asked. He's mapping my route. My stomach tightens.
"Okay, Sergeant-at-Arms. Straight to the shop."
His jaw eases, barely. Tiredness cracks through for a second. It's the version of him I catch maybe once a month, the one that looks like it costs him something to carry around. The one that makes my chest ache, my skin warm, and my stupid, reckless brain start building rooms in a house I don't have a lease on.
This. This is the problem. These moments. These tiny fractures in the wall where I can see the man on the other side, and every single time it happens, it makes it harder to stop looking.
My teeth find the inside of my cheek.
"Drive safe, Trouble."
My hands go still on the bag strap. He said it at the cookout yesterday for the first time, low and quiet, and I thought I'd imagined it. Hearing it twice means I didn't. Hearing it twice means he chose it, and my ribs do something I'm going to need a minute to recover from.
"Always do."
My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to.
I leave.
For a full minute, I sit in my car with my hands on the wheel and the engine off. Then I start the car. Three blocks back to Amaranth. My hands stay tight on the wheel the whole way.
Amaranth is warm when I get back. Frankie has the record player going, something low and bluesy, the sage burning in its dish on the altar shelf. She glances up when I walk in, reads my face, and goes back to her station without a word.
I'm at mine, staring at the compass rose that Frankie told me to leave alone, when I hear the engine.
Nash's Harley. I'd know the sound anywhere. The specific rumble of that particular engine goes straight into the vault; do not pass go, do not collect self-awareness. He pulls up in front of the shop and kills the engine. The bell jingles and he's through the front door, eyes sweeping left to right, corners, windows, back hall, then me. His eyes hold on me a beat longer than they held on the corners.
He's carrying a photograph in one hand.
"I need the back door," he says to Frankie.
Frankie nods toward the hall without looking up.
Nash moves through the shop, past my chair close enough that I catch sandalwood and leather, then pushes through the back door into the alley.
