Page 4 of Nash
What's tucked is a small, square photograph.
I peel it free.
The image is grainy. Long lens, taken from a distance. Ruby, unmistakable with her red hair under the glow of Amaranth's neon sign, pushing open the back door of Frankie's shop. The angle is from across the street. Same leather jacket she waswearing when she pulled into the lot yesterday, the one she tossed across the back of her chair before Candace even waved her over.
I turn the photo over.
Two words. Black marker. Harsh, blocky print.
SHE'S NEXT.
My vision narrows to the two words and the black ink.
I fold the photo with a single precise crease and slide it into the inner pocket of my cut against my ribs. Then scan the lot. Parked cars, a dumpster's shadow, the street in both directions. The lot holds still.
I throw a leg over the Harley and kick the engine to life.
Chapter 2
Ruby
I'msittingatmystation with a mug of gas-station coffee, a pencil that's been in my mouth more than on the paper, and the design that kept me up half the night is finally starting to behave.
Amaranth belongs to Frankie, every square inch. From the vintage record player in the corner, the flash designs papering the walls, to the faint permanent smell of sage and green soap that lives in the air even when no one's burning anything. But Frankie's still asleep in her loft, and the shop doesn't open until noon. In the hours before the bell starts jingling and the walk-ins start pointing at butterflies on the flash wall, this place is mine.
The design has been living in my head for three days. A half-sleeve that wraps a shattered compass rose into a tangle ofwisteria vines, the petals falling apart at the edges in a way that looks accidental but took me twenty minutes to get right, and the negative space between the broken pieces forms a shape I didn't plan.
I tilt the sketchpad. Turn it forty-five degrees. The shape holds from every angle.
That's the good shit.
Frankie told me two weeks ago, leaning over my shoulder with a coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, that a piece I'd done for practice was real work. "You could be really good at this." I said, "Hell yeah I could." Then she bumped my shoulder with hers. "I'm serious, Ruby. I'm telling you what I see."
Which, coming from Frankie, who would rather set herself on fire than hand out a compliment she didn't mean, is basically a standing ovation. So I took it, bought us both coffee, and didn't think about it for the rest of the day.
Except I've been thinking about it every day since, and now I'm sitting in the dark at six a.m. because my brain wouldn't shut up about wisteria vines.
I pick up the pencil. My thumb smudges the edge of a wisteria petal, and the shadow deepens. Better. I drag the pencil tip along the curve where the vine meets the compass edge, tightening the wrap, letting the line thin out to almost nothing before it reconnects. The negative space opens wider. I shade the gap with the side of the lead, light, barely there, just enough to make the shape underneath breathe.
The center candle on Frankie's altar shelf lights itself.
I glance up. The other two follow, one after the other, three flames burning tall for a second before they settle.
My current working theory is that Frankie's shop is haunted by a very dedicated interior decorator who died before finishing their shift and is refusing to clock out until the vibe is right. Either that or the building itself has opinions and is trying toset a mood, in which case the building and I are going to have to have a conversation because I work better with overhead fluorescents and a morally corrupt amount of caffeine. Both are equally plausible. Both are equally none of my business.
I take a long drink of terrible coffee and go back to the compass rose.
The stairs creak as Frankie descends from her loft, barefoot, dark hair loose, her work apron already tied over a tank top. An unlit cigarette sits between her fingers. She pauses on the bottom step, her head tilted the way it does when she's listening to something I can't hear.
"Hm," she says.
"Good morning to you too. Your candles did a thing."
She crosses to the altar shelf. Touches the base of the center candle with her fingertip and holds it there. The flame steadies. She drops her hand and turns to me.
"You're here early," she says.
"Couldn't sleep. Figured I'd make it productive." I wave the pencil at the sketchpad. "Flash concepts for the wall."
