Page 61 of Nash
Nash's phone buzzes first. Then mine. Knox forwarded the image into the encrypted group chat Malachi uses for security alerts. My red convertible in the parking lot at Amaranth. Taken from across the street. The angle is low, deliberate, the kind of shot that says I was right here and you didn't see me.
Written on my windshield in white grease marker:PRETTY CAR FOR A PRETTY GIRL.
Nash is off the wall and across the shop before I finish reading the text. His hand closes around my arm, firm, and he steers me toward the back hall.
"We're leaving."
"Nash—"
"Now."
Frankie is already locking the front door. She catches my eye. Nods once.
Nash pulls me toward the back hall. His hand hasn't left my arm. His grip is firm, fingers wrapped around my bicep, and the contact after days of nothing sends a shock through me that I'm not prepared for. My skin burns where he's holding me. Every nerve I shut down when I saw him with Naya fires back online, and I hate my body for it. I hate how fast it responds to him, how one touch dismantles a week of discipline.
He walks me to the back door. His jaw is locked. His breathing is controlled, but his pulse hammers against the inside of his wrist. It's visible beneath the headband, the vein jumping against the faded red fabric. He's not running threat assessments. He's scared. Nash is scared, and Nash doesn't get scared. The fact that he's gripping my arm like I'll disappear if he lets go tells me everything his face won't say.
"Nash." My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "I'm okay."
He doesn't answer. His thumb shifts against my arm, pressing in, and the pressure is different from the security grip. It's the way he touched my knee on the bike. The way his hand found my hip in the hallway. Like he needs to feel me under his hand to believe I'm still here.
We ride to the clubhouse. His hand stays on my thigh the entire way, his warm and heavy palm flat against my jeans. My arms are around his waist, and for the first time in days my body doesn't hold back. I press my forehead against his shoulder blade. His back expands with a breath that shudders once before he controls it.
Twenty minutes later, I'm at the clubhouse. Nash already texted Rider to grab a bag from my apartment.
When we walk through the clubhouse door, his hand is still on my arm. Malachi is at the table with Knox, both of them looking at the photo on Knox's laptop.
"Same camera angle as the first set," Knox says. "Different position. He's moved closer."
My stomach drops.
Nash's grip tightens. His thumb presses into my arm once, hard, then he lets go. The loss of contact is immediate. There's cold air where his hand was. He walks to the table, and the distance that opens between us fills with everything we haven't said in a week.
Candace is at my side in seconds. Her hand finds mine.
"You're staying here tonight," she says.
"Apparently."
She squeezes my hand. "Good. Because I already texted everyone. Girls' night. My rules. No arguments."
"Candace, I don't need—"
"You need this. I need this. Darla is eight months pregnant and needs an excuse to eat her weight in snacks. Sloane just came off a stretch of twelve-hour shifts and is starting to show enough that her scrubs don't fit right. Maggie already said yes. Amelia is coming." She raises an eyebrow. "Amelia has never done a girls' night. Ever. You're not allowed to cancel."
I look at her. Her eyes hold mine, steady, warm, and my throat tightens.
"Fine," I say. "But I'm picking the music."
"Obviously."
By seven, the main room has been claimed. Candace draped blankets over the couches on the right side of the half wall. She brought wine for the non-pregnant members. Sloane brought sparkling cider and lemonade for herself and Darla. Darla brought three different kinds of chips and a jar of pickled okra that she holds against her belly protectively. Maggie broughta cake she made this morning because Maggie somehow knew before anyone told her. Frankie brought candles that she lines up on the half wall and lights with a look.
The guys have been banished to the bar side, and Malachi enforced the boundary with a single nod that sent Knox, East, Kyle, and Rider to the other side of the room without argument. Nash took the wall on our side. Malachi looked at him. Nash looked back. Malachi didn't push it.
Amelia arrives last. She stands in the doorway with a bottle of wine in one hand and an expression caught between excitement and the specific terror of a woman who has never done this before.
"Get in here," I say, pulling her by the arm. "Rule one of girls' night: nobody stands in doorways. Doorways are for men who don't know how to sit down."
