East
Thecrackofashin guard against a jawbone echoes from the TV, but no one flinches. Violent, flickering light from a UFC fight on a big screen is the only illumination in the main room of the clubhouse. The place feels hollow, the air thick with stale beer and a heavy, listening silence of four men sitting in the dark, waiting for a war to start.
I take a long pull from my beer, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the restless energy in my gut. Onscreen, two guys are beating the hell out of each other in a cage. Offscreen, we’re about to do the same, just with less pageantry.
Knox is on the couch opposite me, his laptop open, his eyes scanning lines of code, not the fight. Malachi sits in the armchair at the head of the room, still as stone, his gaze fixed on the screen but seeing something else entirely. Across from me, Nash is supposed to be watching the fight, but his jaw is tight, and his thumb keeps swiping restlessly across the dark screen of his phone. We’re all coiled springs. Waiting.
“He’s telegraphing his right hook,” Knox mutters without looking up from his screen.
“Amateur,” Nash grunts, his eyes still on his phone.
The words hang in the air. We’re not talking about the fighter.
Then it happens. A soft buzz comes from the coffee table. Nash’s phone lights up. In the dim light, I see a single text message. All our heads turn.
Nash picks up the phone, his expression unreadable. He reads the text, and a muscle in his jaw clenches. He looks at Malachi and gives a single, sharp nod. “She’s on her way. Five minutes out.”
The tension in the room shifts. I look at Knox and Malachi, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across my face. Knox nods, settling in. I lean back, lacing my hands behind my head. Nash, for his part, becomes a statue of pure, unadulterated stoicism, his gaze fixed on the TV screen across the room. Showtime.
Right on cue, the clubhouse door swings open. Ruby saunters in, a triumphant, wicked grin on her face. “Special delivery for the Sergeant-at-Arms,” she says, her voice a cheerful buzz that is completely at odds with the grim tension from moments before.
“Ruby!” I say, standing up with a wide, welcoming grin. “You made it! We were just talking about you.”
Knox nods enthusiastically, which is already so out of character for him that Ruby actually falters a step. “Great work on the Artie lead,” Knox says, his voice full of fake sincerity. “Truly inspired.”
Ruby’s grin falters for a fraction of a second. She looks from my way-too-friendly face to Knox’s. Her eyes narrow. She’s smelling a trap. Her gaze flicks to Nash, who is staring straight ahead, pointedly ignoring her existence. Whiplash.
“Okay,” she says, her voice suspicious, planting her hands on her hips. “What’s going on? You’re all being weird.” Her gazezeroes in on me. “Last night at Frankie’s, you couldn’t even be bothered to look at me, and now you’re all smiles? What gives?”
I put a hand over my heart, my expression one of pure, wounded innocence. “Just happy to see you, Ruby. This place is better when you’re here.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps. Her eyes dart from me to Knox, then to Malachi, all of whom are nodding in agreement, and finally back to Nash, who is still a silent statue. The whiplash is clearly getting to her.
She looks around, a new, dangerous idea clearly forming. “Fine. You all want to be agreeable?” She tests her theory, throwing out the most ridiculous thing she can think of. “You know... this place would be so much better if we had a goat. A mascot. I’m gonna get a goat.”
“A goat is a brilliant idea,” Malachi says from his chair, his voice completely deadpan. “I’ll have Kyle start building a pen out back.”
“I’ll pick up some feed,” I add, nodding seriously. “Great initiative, Ruby.”
Ruby’s face twists. This isn’t the reaction she wanted. She wanted a fight. Getting us to agree is no fun. She huffs, her shoulders slumping in annoyance. “Fine. Whatever. You’re all useless.”
Her gaze snaps to the one man who is denying her a reaction. She stalks past us, her focus zeroing in on Nash.
She stops right in front of him. “Fine. Be that way.” She dangles the heavy keyring in his face. On it, nestled between a car key and a ridiculously fluffy keychain, is a small, silver key marked with the bank’s logo. The guard key.
Nash doesn’t even look at it. He just stares straight ahead.
“Okay, you asked for it,” she mutters. She goes to drop the key in his lap, but “trips” on an imaginary crack in the floor,stumbling with a dramatic gasp and landing directly, perfectly, in his lap.
Nash’s entire body goes rigid. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, fly to her waist on pure instinct, steadying her. I see his jaw clench, a single, telltale sign of the war he’s fighting with himself. He is a man thoroughly, completely affected.
Ruby leans back, draping an arm over his shoulders, her smile now slow and victorious. She’s so close her lips are almost brushing his ear. “Still ignoring me?” she whispers, her voice a low, sultry purr. She reaches up and playfully ruffles his perfectly styled hair, a cardinal sin. “I knew you couldn’t.”
Before he can react, she hops off his lap, drops the keyring on the table with a triumphant clatter, and saunters out of the room without another word, leaving a stunned silence and a very flustered Sergeant-at-Arms in her wake.
Knox is the first to break, a choked laugh escaping him. I can’t help but grin as I lean back. “Damn, brother. She’s got your number,” I say
Nash just glares, adjusting himself in his chair, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, snatches the key from the coffee table, and stands. “We have what we need. Let’s move.”
