Page 57 of The Final Cut

Nash looks at the refrigerator, then at me. “Should I pull Ever off security and let the two of you work off some tension?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s what she said.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m annoyed as fuck.”

He tips his chin once. “Ah.”

The sound crawls straight up my spine, and I turn from the counter. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means. It means ‘ahhh.’”

“No, it doesn’t. You used a tone. And you used a different fucking tone the second time.”

“I rarely use anything by accident.”

That’s true enough to irritate me even more.

I grab the cutting board I do not need and set it beside the sink, too hard. The wood cracks against granite. Somewhere down the hall, Homer complains from Reva’s room like my noise has disrupted his busy schedule of shedding and judgment.

Nash watches me with that calm, surgical patience that makes people confess things or commit violence.

I choose neither. Barely.

“Do you have a point, Emperor?”

His mouth does not move. “If she’s that deep under your skin, dig her out.”

I stare at him. “A little clarity, oh wise one.”

Nash leans back against the island, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled, jaw dark with the start of a beard he won’t allow to stay past noon. He looks tired. Worse, he looks thoughtful, which is always where trouble starts with him.

“You can’t let her lead you around by the nose every time you hurt her feelings a little.”

The words hit with ugly precision.

Shit. I hate that he sees the wound before I can cover it. Reva looked at me this morning like I had slapped her when all I did was say what every man in this house was thinking. I hate feeling like she was hurt, and I piled on to that.

And I still believe I was right.

The refrigerator hums into the quiet.

I cross my arms. “And how do you propose I prevent her from doing that?”

Nash says nothing.

“You’re the boss.” I point at him. “Deacon’s the killer-man. Ever is the fortress with a pulse. Nobody gets through Ever. He practically growls at doors until they lock themselves.”

Nash’s eyebrow rises again. I keep going because my mouth is running faster than my pride can stop it.

“And I’m Shiloh. I make jokes. I flirt. I fetch coffee and clothes and rubber bands and ugly china for emotional destruction. I’m the fucking clown.”

“You are not a fucking clown,” Nash says, voice sharp enough to cut through mine. “Knock that shit off.”

The silence after that sits between us like a gunshot. Nash rarely wastes volume. If he snaps, he means it.

I look away first.