Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15)(27)

“Like a sporting dog who spots a bird…”

I shrug. “Probably a bad analogy.”

“No, I like it.” Now she’s laughing, if the way her shoulders are shaking is any indication. “So I’m the bird and you’re the dog.”

“No. Your vagina is the bird. And the dog, my dick, really wants the bird. Like, a lot.”

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, then lets it spring back. “So, what would the dog do if it caught the bird?”

I bite back a laugh. “The dog would eat it, I’m sure.” I look directly into her eyes.

“Are we still referring to my vagina?” She points down toward her lap. “You mean like, eat it eat it?”

“Among other things.”

She sits back against the chair. Her chest heaves with…want? Curiosity? I’m not sure. “I’d be okay with that.”

“Today?” I ask. I’m smiling like a fool. “You want to go to my place when we get done here?”

“Yes.”

The curtain shakes again and her dad pokes his head in. “You getting more ink, huh?” he asks.

“I’d love for my arms to be all the way done,” she says.

“Do you mind if I stay?” Emilio asks, scratching his head.

“I’d be sad if you left,” she says. She holds out a hand to him and he sits down next to her. “Tell me the story of how Marta slapped you in the face the first time you talked to her,” she says.

“Your wife slapped you in the face?” I ask him.

“Oh, I totally deserved it. She should have kneed me in the balls,” he says. Then he starts to tell the story. And I get busy with the second tattoo. But in the back of my mind, all I can think about is the dog and the bird, and I can’t wait to take her home with me so I can spend more time with her. The dog doesn’t always get what he wants. But what I want is her, and I’ll take her however I can get her. I want the small things. And I want the big things. I want her.

I need to know one thing to get started with this tattoo. “What’s your mom and dad’s last name?” I ask Lark.

She looks at Emilio. “Well, now my last name is Vasquez. It used to be Perry.”

“Got it.” I pick up my pen and start to draw freehand on her arm. Her past will collide with her present, but it needs to happen.





Lark

I’m a little more than apprehensive about this tattoo, but only because I have no idea how he could ever top the first one. He did such a beautiful job on it, and although I know he’s a talented artist, there are limits to how creative a person could be. I love the first tattoo so much.

Ryan wrinkles his nose, and then rubs it into his shirt.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

His hands are full, so he doesn’t answer, but he swipes his nose against his shirt again, lifting his shoulder and pressing his face against it.

“Your nose is itching?”

He nods and wiggles his nose.

“Want me to scratch it?”

He waggles his brows at me. It’s a good thing Emilio’s not in here.

I look into his eyes. “I’ll scratch that itch later.” I hold out my fingers and he rubs his nose against them. “Better?”

He nods and grins at me.

“Almost done?” I ask him.

He nods again.

I’ve been trying really hard not to look, but where he’s sitting, it’s hard not to look down. I’m dying for him to finish it so I can see.

Finally, he lays down his machine, stands up, and stretches his arms and shoulders. Then he cleans the ink from my skin and applies ointment.

“What do you think?” he asks.



I look down and my heart stops. He took everything I ever told him about my parents and put it on my forearms. The new tattoo is another beach scene, kind of like the one on the other arm, since he had to do a lot of tiny shells to cover up the spatter scars. But it has a totally different feel. While the first one had the concentration on the birds, this one has kites.

The kite strings are my suicide scars. You can clearly tell what they are, that I once tried to kill myself. Each kite looks like a Scrabble tile, canted so that it’s shaped like a diamond. The five kite tiles spell out the word Perry. He even went so far as to include the point value for each tile on the kite. At the base of each string is a different chess piece, holding the string. They’re the anchors, which is what my father was. He was the anchor. My mother was the one who kept us all dreaming. My father was the one who kept us on task.

It’s a perfect representation of my family. But the piece that gets me, that totally guts me, is the fact that he’s tied it all together with the name Vasquez written in the clouds. You could only find it if you knew what you were looking for. But I know. They’re perfectly entwined.

“Explain this to me,” I say aloud and sign too. My voice cracks, and I’m glad he can’t hear it.

He points to the Scrabble tiles. “Your mom.”

I nod.

He points to the chess pieces. “Your dad.”

I nod again, and swallow past the lump in my throat.

He lets his finger trail down one of the suicide scars. “Your grief when you lost them.” He looks at my face. “Maybe guilt.” Then he points to the clouds. “Hope.” He draws a circle with his finger around the whole thing. “Your future is not defined by the past or the present, but it does lead you at times.”