Page 40 of Nash
Lawrence reacted to Naya's name. A federal judge with thirty years of composure, and the name of a woman from an underground fight circuit made his hand stop on his burger.
Maybe it connects to Webb. To the sealed records. To the headband on my wrist. Maybe it doesn't.
But a federal judge doesn't react to a name for no reason.
Chapter 11
Ruby
Iwakeuptothe smell of coffee.
Nash is in my kitchen. His back is to me, his shoulders filling the doorway, pouring coffee from the pot he set up before I went to bed last night. He's in a black T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, his hair still damp from the shower he took while I was sleeping. The cut is draped over my kitchen chair.
I stand in the hallway in my sleep shorts and a tank top as I watch him pour two mugs. Two sugars in mine. Splash of cream. He knows.
"Morning," I say from the doorway.
He turns. His eyes drop to my bare legs, my tank top, the mess of copper hair I haven't touched yet. His jaw flexes once before his gaze returns to my face.
"Morning." He holds out my mug.
I take it. Our fingers brush on the handle. Neither of us pulls away.
"Sleep well?" I ask.
"Fine."
"You didn't sleep."
"I slept."
"You know there's a spring that sticks up on the left side of that couch." I take a sip. "My bed's big enough for two. You could actually sleep."
He doesn't answer. His jaw shifts. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. I can see him thinking about it, running through every reason he should say no while his gaze drops to my mouth and back up.
"The couch is fine."
"It's not fine. You haven't slept."
"The couch is fine, Ruby."
My name in that voice. Low. Final. The voice that shuts down arguments and makes my pulse do things I'm not going to examine before coffee.
I take a sip of coffee and grin at him over the rim. "We need to leave early today."
"Why?"
"It's a surprise."
"I don't like surprises."
"You don't like anything. Yet here you are, making me coffee at six a.m. with the exact right amount of sugar." I pat his arm on my way to the bathroom. "Get dressed, Sergeant-at-Arms. We've got a mission."
The mission is Knox's motorcycle.
Sloane's been planning this for a week. The group chat has been a war room of logistics, supply lists, and timed execution strategies that would make Malachi proud. Today's target is Knox's Harley that's currently parked in the clubhouse lot. The window is forty-five minutes between when Knox leaves for his morning run and when he gets back.
Nash parks at the curb. I pull the duffel bag out of his saddlebag where I stashed it last night while he was checking the windows.
