Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15)
Tammy Falkner
Ryan
Some days are just shit, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
I look down at my phone. My recent ex-girlfriend Samantha—as recently as two weeks ago, in fact—has texted me yet again with a list of vile places she’d love for me to shove certain parts of my anatomy. I see a new one come in and raise my brows. That one actually sounds interesting. But it would be more fun for me than for her.
My phone vibrates again. Fuck you, the newest text says.
Yeah, she already did that. Then she f*cked my best friend and I had to break things off with her.
She’s still angry.
Our on-again/off-again relationship has to be over. It just does.
I shove my phone into my pocket, despite the fact that it’s still vibrating like crazy. The lights at the back of the tattoo shop flash, letting me know the front door opened. There’s a bell over the door for people who can hear, but the Reeds, the people who own the shop where I work as a tattoo artist, installed flashing lights for me.
My phone vibrates again and I pull it out with a sigh.
Jeff’s dick doesn’t hook to the left like yours does.
Well, she would know.
Jeff used to be my best friend. Now he’s that guy who slept with my girlfriend.
His hooks to the right, I text back. Know how I know? Because the other girl he screwed last night told me.
I shake my head and toss my phone onto the counter.
What’s bad about this whole situation is that she’s going to get hurt, and it makes me angry that she’s being used the way she is.
I pull the curtain and walk out into the shop area. My mind is on Samantha, though, so I’m not paying attention. A whiff of subtle, mouthwatering lilac perfume hits me—right before a woman does. She looks up, startled when I catch her by the shoulders to steady her.
Damn, she’s pretty. She has long dark hair that tumbles in a curly, wild mess over her shoulders. And she has brown eyes that look like they might hold a world of hurt. Or fear. I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
I lift my brows to ask her without words if she’s okay. She nods, and takes in a deep breath. She’s standing so close to me that I can feel her boobs lift ever so slightly with each breath. I look down at her. Hell, she has an awesome rack. I can’t help but notice. Her face flushes when she catches me ogling, and her cheeks grow rosy. I bite my lips together to keep from grinning. Busted.
Paul and Friday, the owners of the tattoo shop, walk out of the back room and Friday is still hooking her garter belt to the top of her stockings. Then she looks up and grins. Somebody just got lucky in the back room. Paul palms her ass and she points a finger at him in warning.
“Look who’s here!” Friday signs dramatically while she talks. I love that all the Reeds can sign, and that they do it whenever I’m in the room. Being a deaf guy in a hearing world is a challenge, but they make it so much better here. They sign English, which means they sign in the same word order a hearing person would speak, rather than American Sign Language, my first language. But it’s better than trying to read lips, which—despite the way it’s depicted on TV—is nearly impossible. “What can we do for you?” Friday asks them.
That’s when I notice that two customers had come into the shop. The one who bumped into me looks down at her feet and says something I can’t make out. Then she whispers into Friday’s ear, and Friday scowls a little.
Friday motions for me to look at her. I guess I was still watching the girl. Whoops.
“Lark wants to consult with you about a tattoo,” she says, both in my language and hers.
“Why me?” I ask in sign language.
“Why you?” she repeats. “Because you’re f*cking awesome at what she wants, Ryan.”
Sweat sheens on the forehead of the girl they called Lark, and she says something to Friday. Has she changed her mind about a tattoo? She looks like she’s thinking of leaving.
For some reason, I want to keep her here. “What does she want?” I ask Friday.
“How the f*ck am I supposed to know?” she asks me. She points at Lark. “Ask her!” Friday shoots me a death glare. I’d be quivering in my boots if I had never been the victim of her temper before. I have been here for two weeks already, and she let me know who’s in charge on Day One. I had made a mental note to myself right then and there: Never piss off Friday Reed.
I throw up my hands, though. How the f*ck am I supposed to talk to Lark? I don’t speak. And she probably doesn’t sign.
Friday grabs my hands and holds them at a ready position in front of me. Then she points to Lark. “Talk to her. She might even talk back.”
“You can sign?” I ask her in sign language.
“Yes, she can sign, dumbass,” Friday tosses in. I have a sudden urge to give her a noogie, but she’d go for my balls if I did.
“You can sign?” I ask Lark again.
She holds her finger and thumb an inch apart and nods hesitantly.
Great. She can probably fingerspell. Finding out what she wants will be like pulling water from a rock. But I motion for her to follow me toward the back of the shop and I pull the dark curtain around us. I motion for her to sit down in a chair. She perches her bottom on the edge of the seat and folds her fingers in her lap. That’s when I realize that she’s wearing elbow-length gloves with the fingers cut out. What does she have to hide?