Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15) (2 page)

“
I’m so sorry
,” Friday says.

“
The fire spread to the curtains over the kitchen window, and then to the rest of the house. I ran upstairs to wake my parents, but by the time I got there, the fire was too far out of control. My clothes had caught on fire, and my dad put the flames out. Then he lowered me from a second-story window and went back for my mother. I never saw them again
.”

Now it’s Friday who is blinking back tears.

Lark doesn’t look like she wants sympathy. She wants a tattoo. I motion for Friday to leave us, and she does. I didn’t think she’d go away that easily.

“The ones on your arms, I can cover those easily. Your stomach would be harder. It would take more applications and heavier ink.
”

She nods. I think she likes that I didn’t make a big deal over her parents
dying or her burns. She seems relieved.

She points to the two largest burns on her left arm. “
I was thinking we could cover these two big ones with some seagulls, and maybe a beach scene
.” She quirks her brow at me.

I nod. “
We could. I could do those today, and then go back and draw the rest of it for you for next time. What do you think
?”

She smiles at me, and damn if my heart doesn’t skip
a beat. I point to her folded glove, which is now resting just over her wrist. “
Can you take that off
?”

She shakes her head. “
No
.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “
Why not
?” I already saw her burns. How much worse can it get?

“No
,” she says again, slapping her first two fingers together against the pad of her thumb in the sign for “no.”

“Okay. Let me doodle up some birds for you
.” I get her a bottle
of water and go to the light table on the other side of the curtain.

Friday bumps my hip with hers so I’ll look at her.

“Is she okay
?” she asks me.

I nod. “
She
’
s fine
.”

“Can you help her?
”

“Yes.
”

I bend over so I can draw, but Friday walks around the table so she can get in my face. “
Be nice to her, Ryan
,” she says.

I throw up my hands. “
I
’
m always nice
.”

She snorts. I can tell because
her nose flexes and her throat twitches. She stares at me for a minute. “
She
’
s not your type, is she
?”

“She
’
s not deaf, if that’s what you mean
.”

Friday nods. “
She’s not your type, her hearing status notwithstanding
.”

“What
’
s that supposed to mean?
”

“You have a tendency to pick crazy chicks.
”

“God, Friday, do you have a filter at all
?” And I don’t pick crazy chicks.

She grins. “
Nope
.
Never
needed a filter
.”

I bend down to get back to work and she lays a hand on my arm. “
Give her a kick-ass tattoo, okay?
” she says.

I nod. I already have ideas for it. But I need to get to know a little more abut her before I know exactly what to put on her.

She’s not my type because she can hear. So Friday doesn’t have to worry about me trying to get in her pants. Although her pants are pretty
fucking awesome.

I finish my drawing and go back into the curtained area where she’s waiting.

“Ready
?” I ask.

She nods and smiles at me, and I swear it steals my breath for a second, because there’s a lot hiding behind that smile and I want to find out all about it.

Lark

Ryan shows me the drawing. He watches my face closely as he lays it on my lap and turns it toward me. He has drawn two perfect seagulls. But they’re not seagulls at all. One is decidedly masculine and one is very feminine. On their legs, they wear wedding rings. One has a glistening diamond and the other is a plain gold band.

“My parents,” I whisper, and I reach out to run my finger over
his creation. I look up and he’s staring at my mouth, concentrating hard. “Do you read lips?” I ask him.

He shakes his head and signs “no.”

“Sorry
,” I reply, rubbing my A-shaped fist over my heart. “
You made the seagulls my parents
.” My eyes sting with unshed tears and I blink them back. He reaches over, plucks a tissue from a nearby tissue box, and presses it into my hand.

“
Didn
’
t mean to
make you cry
,” he signs, wincing slightly.

“It
’
s okay
,” I tell him. I smile through my tears. “
Can you do them today? Do you have time
?”

He nods and starts to set up his equipment. I take a minute to stare at his backside as he bends to take bottles of ink out of the cupboard. He’s very handsome. He’s not massively huge like the Reeds. He’s as tall as they are, about six-three, I’d guess. But
he’s thin and wiry. The sleeve of his t-shirt stretches over his upper arm and I can see thick muscles flexing beneath his tattoos. He has broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His jeans are tucked into a pair of boots. He has very short, feathery dark hair and a series of earrings, a brow piercing, and a ring through his lip.

He sucks it into his mouth and then he winces again. “
I can
’
t talk and
tattoo at the same time
,” he warns me.

I nod. I’m guessing his hands will be busy. “
Where do you want me
?” I ask.

His cheeks color ever so slightly.

Oh crap. I said that wrong. “
I mean…where should I sit
?”

He grins and directs me to a chair, and he sits down next to me. “
First tattoo, right
?” he asks.

I nod. “
I
’
m a virgin
.” I fingerspell “virgin” because I have no idea what the sign is for
that.

His eyebrows shoot up.

“
I mean—
” I rush to take that back, but I can’t find the right words in my head to sign. But then I just drop my face in my hands and whimper out a helpless little noise. I so messed that up.

He pulls my hands down and I find him grinning at me. A bark that is probably a laugh bursts from his throat. “
First tattoo
?” he asks again.

“Yes, first tattoo
,” I reply.
I suck in a deep breath.

He shows me the sign for “virgin,” making a V at his temple and dragging it down the side of his face to his chin.

“
First tattoo
,” I say again. And I bite back an embarrassed smile.

He’s still grinning as he lays the design transfer on my arm and applies it. He sits back, lifts my arm in different angles, and lays it back down. “
Ready
?” he asks.

I nod at him and smile.
He smiles back, and there’s still a bit of devilry in his eyes that has been there ever since my I’m-a-virgin comment. A grin tugs at the corners of his lips. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I’ve heard varying stories about tattoos and am not sure what to expect. But when he applies the machine to my skin, it doesn’t hurt at all. It stings a little, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. He
runs the machine, stopping to swipe over my skin every few strokes. Suddenly the motions stop, and I open my eyes to find him watching me.

His eyes are hazel, like all the colors of fall wrapped up in two perfect globes, with flecks of brown, green, rust, and orange. I get caught in his gaze, and I can’t look away.

He jostles my arm, and I jerk my gaze from the depths of his eyes and look at
his mouth. “You okay?” he mouths at me with no sound.

I hold my fingers out in a five and place my thumb against my chest in the sign for “fine.”

He nods, bends his head again, and goes back to work.

I close my eyes and I don’t open them again until he’s done. The quiet peace is somehow nostalgic, and I let my thoughts ramble to my family’s trip to the beach on the days before the fire.

My
father had held my hand as we watched a street vendor drop dough into a vat of hot oil. It bubbled and boiled, and finally the vendor scooped out a perfectly fried doughy treat, which he sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and topped with syrup.

“I bet we could make that at home,” Dad had said. It looked easy enough.

Only it wasn’t easy. It was really difficult. The oil had popped and sizzled,
and I didn’t expect that to happen, so I’d used a little water to cool it down, but that caused it to explode and burn my skin. Then the fire started, and I couldn’t put it out…

Something jostles me out of my memory and I open my eyes. I’m startled to find that my cheeks are wet and my nose is running. I swipe under it with the back of my hand, sniffling.

“Are you okay?”
Ryan mouths at me.

I nod and motion for him to continue, but he sets his machine to the side, takes off his gloves, and then wheels his chair close to me. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

He takes a deep breath and arches his brow at me, like he wants me to do the same, so I do.

He exhales, and I do too.

We go through this pattern no less than ten times, his autumn eyes staring into mine the
whole time.

“Better
?” he asks.

I nod. “
Much
.”

“Memories, or pain
?”

“Painful memories
,” I admit.

He nods like he understands. But there’s no way he could. I carry so much guilt that sometimes it feels like it’s going to sweep me away in a big, dark tide. Like the waves on the beach knock you over when one swoops in really hard. Only they threaten to never let me go.

He picks up his machine,
puts on fresh gloves, and keeps working, looking up at me every now and then to be sure I’m okay. I watch the top of his dark head, and my gaze falls on a tattoo on the side of his neck. It’s a cloud in the shape of a dog, and it makes me smile.

He sets the machine down and looks up, catching me grinning. “
What
’
s funny
?” he asks.

“That tattoo makes me happy
,” I say. I point to his neck. He covers
it briefly with his hand.

“My dog died, and the day it happened, I saw this in the clouds. So I drew it and had someone tattoo it so I could keep it forever
.”

“It
’
s beautiful
,” I tell him.

“So are you
,” he replies. Then his face goes pink again, and he looks away.

Heat creeps up my cheeks and I suddenly find it hard to breathe.

He grins when he turns back to face me. He points to my arm. “
What do you think
?”

“Are you done
?” I ask.

“For today, yes
.” He looks closely at my face. “
Do you like them
?”

I get up and walk to the mirror, staring at the seagulls that represent my parents so well. I look closely and I see that he has made the wedding bands a little different from the drawing. “
How did you
…”

He lifts the chain from my neck and dangles the two wedding rings that I always
wear in front of my face. They’re my parents’ rings, and I keep them with me always.

I lay a hand on his arm. “
Thank you
,” I say.

“Come back in a week and we can do some more
.” He gives me a question face.

I nod. “
Definitely
.”

I can’t even begin to tell him how much I appreciate what he gave me, because I’m drowning in my own emotions right now. I feel like that tide is going to sweep right
over me.

He silently cleans my arm and applies some lotion, and then he wraps it in clear plastic and pulls my glove back up over it all.

“Same time next week
?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I
’
ll come up with a good drawing by then. I think you
’
ll like it.”

“I already do.”

He grins and opens the curtain, and I follow him back out to the front of the shop.