Holding Her Hand (Reed Brothers Book 15)(3)

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 f*cking 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.