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

“You’re here for a tattoo?” I ask her. I make sure to move my mouth with my words, so she has a chance of understanding me.

She nods. “I have some scars I’d like to cover up.”

“What kind of scars?”

She runs her hands up and down her gloved arms, like she’s soothing herself. “On my arms. I have scars from grease burns.”

I reach for the top edge of her glove, but she pulls back. Her pulse starts to beat solidly in her neck. I can see it jumping. “May I see?” I ask. I wait for her to give me permission to look. I look at bodies all day, and I touch every single one, but I’ve never touched anyone who first didn’t want me to touch her.

She shakes her head. “Just tell me if you can cover scars, first, okay?” she signs. Her signs are a little slow, but accurate, and I can tell she’s translating in her head.

“I won’t know until I see them.” Some scars can be covered. It depends on the extent of the damage. “Scars that are puckered and bumpy are more difficult, and require more sittings for the tattoos so the ink can be applied heavily.”

“The ones on my arms aren’t too bad. Just spatters from the grease, really.”

I reach for her glove again and she closes her eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. I roll the glove down ever so slightly, taking care to go slow.

She sits stiff as a board and she takes in a breath as I roll the glove past her elbow. When I get halfway down her forearm, her eyes fly open and she stops me, grabbing frantically for my hand, and I know immediately that I have gone too far. I sit back and raise my hands like I’m surrendering to the cops. She forces her body to relax.

The scars she has on her arms aren’t too bad. “What happened?” I ask her.

She looks down at her arms and traces a finger around one of the circular patches of skin. “It was my parents’ anniversary and I wanted to make them a funnel cake, so I heated up some oil in a big pot on the stove. They were still asleep, and I had it all set up. But suddenly the grease started popping. It burned my arms and made these marks.”

I nod.

Her burns are more like discolored spots. They’re not puckered or terribly scarred, and they should be easy to cover over. “I can do it.”

The curtain starts to shimmy, and I recognize Friday’s way of knocking. She jerks on the curtain until she gets my attention. I pull the curtain back to let her in, and she closes it behind her.

“Just wanted to be sure you’re okay,” she says. She looks at Lark and then at me. And I see that Lark’s face is wet because a tear has rolled down her cheek. “What the f*ck did you do to her?” Friday asks, gesturing wildly.

I hold up my hands in surrender mode.

“Stop,” Lark says. “He didn’t do anything. He was very nice. It’s just not easy to talk about.” She sniffles. “The burns on my legs and stomach are much worse, but I can cover those easily with clothes.”

“You have more?” I ask her. I point to her stomach.

She stands up and lifts the edge of her shirt. Friday covers her mouth and I suppose she’s hiding a gasp. But Lark must hear it because she drops her shirt really quickly.

“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.”