Free Hand (Irons and Works Book 1)

by E M Lindsey

  He and his brother dressed in collared shirts and pressed slacks and never had a hair out of place. For all appearances, he’d been a well-dressed, straight-laced boy with high aspirations of a lucrative career, end up as Dr. Osbourne in some field or another. His obedience and clothes hid all manner of his father’s sins, and he didn’t dare step out of line.

  Except when he had. Except when he was fifteen and exhausted and ready to break. So, he’d stolen his father’s car and ended up pulled over and detained by the local sheriff who laughed it off as, ‘boys will be boys.’ The sheriff didn’t miss the terrified look on Derek’s face when his father laughed too, with a cruel sort of mirth. It wasn’t until he’d spent thirty-six hours in the shed, no water, no food, that a panicked Sage had disobeyed the rules and broken him out.

  The two of them ran that night. They took Sage’s cash savings and they ran, and they didn’t look back. Derek knew his father had called the police, begging to have his boys brought home, but Derek was sure that police chief hadn’t looked for them very hard.

  They landed in Oklahoma City and worked as day-laborers to get by. They squatted with a group of run-aways in a surprisingly nice warehouse, and Derek got his first stick-and-poke next to an old camping stove where a boy named Pepper had sanitized his needle over the open flame. It was the only tattoo Derek would never cover up. It was a shitty, off-center hand holding up a middle finger on his right hand’s middle knuckle.

  Every bit of ink after that had been a fuck-you to his dad. The day he got the call that his dad was in the hospital—liver failure putting an expiration date on his life and in need of care—he’d gone to visit him in the hospital, then returned to the shop and lay on Antonio’s table and begged him to just make it hurt. He had a crow on the inside of his elbow, filled completely with black, only an eye shaded red staring out with its stark splash of color.

  His tattoos were proof he had survived it and moved on. That he’d gone from an abused kid to a tattoo artist and full-time student determined to get his work into galleries and studios and into the hands of people who really and truly understood him.

  Derek realized he’d taken way too long to answer, and with shaking fingers he quickly typed up a response. I had a rough childhood and I got tattoos to remind myself that I survived. I work at a tattoo shop called Irons and Works. You know it?

  Basil read over his shoulder, but instead of taking the phone back, he just smiled and shook his head.

  If you ever want work done, come see me. I’m also an artist though. Is it okay if I show you my gallery? At Basil’s confirming nod, Derek typed in his site address and pulled up his online gallery. He was mostly into nature work—he loved realism, but he wanted to draw and paint things that held life. Even though most of his animal work was in oils, his favorite was of an octopus curled around a rock surrounded by a bed of coral done in charcoal. There was no color, but for whatever reason, the drawing always looked the most alive to him. He had it hanging in his station, but more than anything, he wanted someone to appreciate it.

  Maybe it shouldn’t have shocked him when Basil’s long finger tapped the screen, bringing the octopus to full image, but Derek still felt his heart stutter in his chest. With Basil leaning this close, Derek got a whiff of something heady and overwhelming, like the first wave of scent when you walk into a florist’s fridge to see the cold bouquets.

  He dared a glance over, and he felt his heart beat even harder at the look on Basil’s face. His eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, a curl of black hair falling over his forehead as his eyes took in the image. When he pulled back, Derek switched back to the notepad. That one’s my favorite, but it’s never sold.

  You want selling this, Basil typed back.

  Derek shrugged. I want someone to love and appreciate my work. I’ll miss it when it goes, but I can wait. The right person will come along.

  Basil smiled at him, leaning into his shoulder gently as he reached for the phone. Beautiful. I make flower bouquet, sell in shop with sister. Older. Bossy.

  Derek chuckled and shook his head in sympathy. I have a twin brother, five minutes older, just as bossy.

  Look like you, Basil asked.

  Derek wished he had his phone with him, because yes, Sage was the mirror of him. Apart from a few tattoos and Sage’s shorter undercut, they could fool almost anyone. In fact, the third time Derek’s hook-up accidentally kissed his brother, Derek insisted Sage get something visible to declare who was whom. Sage settled on a shark riding up his neck toward his left ear, letting Derek do the ink, and if he was a little bit heavy-handed, well, Sage didn’t complain about it.

  We’re identical, Derek typed out. Before he could write anything else, there was another flash of lightning, and thunder so close and so loud, it made his ears start ringing. When Basil jumped along with him, Derek turned to look at the guy. Are you able to hear that?

  Basil shook his head, then pressed his palm to the floor before typing, Feel it. Noise make vibrate.

  Another crack of thunder and that time, he noticed the rumble beneath him. It was enough to keep him distracted so he didn’t start to panic again, though there was the pressing threat of it at the base of his spine he didn’t entirely want to acknowledge. The truth was, having Basil pressed up against him in that empty bank was enough to keep him grounded, and it wasn’t something he would have ever expected. With the panic at bay, he started to feel the fatigue of the day creeping up on him, his limbs heavy, eyes stinging. He wanted some hot food and his comfy bed, and he wanted to forget about this day completely.

  Or well, most if it. Because this part was maybe one of the best things that had happened to him in a while and that was a little horrifying to think about.

  Before he could reach for the phone again, the overhead lights started to flicker. They went on, off, then on again with a steady hum which sent both men jumping to their feet. They faced each other, and it was strange to be looking at Basil full in the face, in the dim light of the faded halogen bulb above them.

  He was startlingly good looking, his wet hair in ringlet curls which had ceased dripping at some point during their conversation. He was thin under his thick coat, his skinny jeans hugging his legs, his converse making his feet look long and narrow. Derek stood at least four inches taller than him, but for whatever reason, he didn’t feel monstrously huge the way he normally did. Derek had the inexplicable urge to put his arms around Basil, kneel low, and bury his face in the guy’s neck, and he had to force himself to take a step back to keep from doing it.

  Basil’s eyes flickered to the ATM which had rebooted, then to Derek before lifting his hands and signing, ‘You OK?’

  It took Derek a minute for his brain to register the sign alphabet which he was just starting to memorize, but when it did, he offered a little smile. ‘OK,’ he repeated. ‘Thank you,’ he went on, then stopped because he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to next. ‘FOR HELP,’ he spelled.

  Basil’s grin was wide and gorgeous, making Derek’s stomach flip. ‘Help,’ he said, mouthing the word as he showed him the sign, and when Derek copied it properly, he offered him a thumb’s up.

  “I should let you uh…” He gestured to the ATM machine, unsure if Basil could read his lips, but when the other man nodded, he figured he’d gotten the gist of it. ‘Thank you,’ he signed again.

  It was painfully awkward and unsure, but eventually Derek turned on his heel and marched out of the building. Where the rain had been annoying and unwanted, now it was a sweet relief, proof of freedom, that he hadn’t been trapped against his will. He glanced through the window again, to see Basil at the ATM punching in his code, and he forced himself to finish walking to the car.

  It started right away, and the blast of hot air told him he’d only been trapped for a handful of minutes—nothing like the eternal hours it had felt like in the moment. He hesitated one more time before putting the car in reverse, letting himself wonder if he’d ever see the guy again. But it was to
o late to do anything about it now. Turning onto the street, he decided he’d just let fate have at it. If it was meant to be, then it would be.

  ***

  Basil got back to the condo, shaking the water off his coat and swiping his feet on the mat a few times before heading into the foyer. He could smell something cooking, which made his stomach growl, and he pressed his hand to it as he made his way down the short hallway and into the kitchen.

  Amaranth was already at the stove, her back to him as she stirred something in a huge pot. He could feel vibrations through the soles of his shoes which meant she had her music on loud, and he reached for the light switch, giving it a flicker to let her know he’d finally made it back.

  She turned, smiling at him as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and dropped the spoon against the counter. ‘You’re late. Did you get a huge rush after I left?’

  Basil rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he walked to the fridge to get himself a beer. He cracked the top and took in a few long drinks before he could bring himself to answer. Mostly because he didn’t know what he was going to say.

  It was simple enough. He got a last-minute order for a wedding which had taken a hundred years since the woman—the mother of the bride—hadn’t wanted to communicate through his notepad and pencil. She spent twenty minutes insisting he try and read her lips, no matter how many times he jotted down that he was very bad at it, and after a long day it was almost impossible.

  He had been seconds away from throwing her out and having her patronize some other business when she finally relented, and they got the preliminary order, date, and arrangements settled. He took her deposit and was damn glad to see the back of her. The drive had gotten complicated when the rain started coming down in a massive downpour. Being that he relied entirely on his vision to navigate the streets safely, having that compromised through every window but the front had been only slightly terrifying.

  His plan had been to hunker down a little inside the ATM vestibule until it let up a bit, but he hadn’t anticipated what had come right after slipping inside. Not just the absurdly attractive man and his intense panic attack, but the feelings it had invoked in Basil who had long-since stopped having immediate feels for random hearies he met in public. No matter how huge and attractive they were.

  And the guy was both of those things. He hovered nearly half a foot above Basil, his arms covered in ink so intense he could make them out in the near pitch black when the power went out. He was also sweet, and he could sign a little for his friend’s deaf daughter which stirred something in him he didn’t want to feel. At all.

  Then the guy—Derek—had gone and shown him his art page. A page Basil had not-so-subtly saved on his browser, and he knew then he was in trouble.

  The worst part about it was that if he told Amaranth about it all, she’d be fine with it, she’d encourage it, even. Because in spite of knowing what Basil had gone through with Chad, in spite of having gone through her own bullshit with men who could hear, she always looked for the best in people. She didn’t necessarily want Basil to end up with a hearing guy, but she didn’t want him to give up in the idea of finding love wherever it might find him.

  She was an absurd romantic and always had been. He wanted to hate it, but it was one of the things he loved most about her.

  ‘You look like you’re trying to solve some complex equation,’ she said after waving her hand to get his attention. ‘What happened?’

  He gave her the bare bones version, but when her eyes lit up like a menorah, he knew he was screwed. She latched on to his vague description of Derek and demanded more detail. ‘He was fine. Freaked out,’ Basil told her. ‘He was okay by the end.’

  ‘Did you get his number?’ she demanded.

  Basil pushed himself up from the table and snapped, ‘No,’ in her face before walking to the stove to peer into the pot. Chicken soup. Their mom’s recipe, probably, and it made him want to cry. After the long day, the obnoxious mother of the bride, and his strange draw to the tattooed guy, he needed something to comfort him.

  Ama punched him on the shoulder to get his attention, and he turned, glaring at her. ‘Why didn’t you get his number? That’s like straight out of a rom-com.’

  ‘I hate rom-coms,’ he retorted before turning his back, a pointed gesture he knew would set her off. He felt her stomping behind him, but he ignored her in favor of getting a bowl from the top cabinet and filling it. He ate a few spoonfuls before finally turning around, and he tried not to laugh at the sight of her furious expression.

  ‘Asshole.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You have to stop shutting people out just because they slightly, and barely, resemble Chad. At this rate you’ve cut out hearing guys, blondes, guys with beards, and guys who wear shirts with collars.’

  He shrugged again, eating a few more bites before putting his bowl down so he could address it properly. ‘If I was sure the guy was nothing like Chad, I’d give him a chance. But I’m not ready to trust anyone. Every time I think about him, I think about that night and I just don’t have it in me to take that risk.’

  Ama’s face fell and she took a step forward, reaching for his shoulder to squeeze. ‘I’m sorry,’ she signed with her free hand, then pulled away. ‘I do understand, Basil, and I never want you to go through something like that again. I’m not asking you to put yourself at risk, I’m just asking you to remember that not everyone is like him.’

  He appreciated that she didn’t mention what shit luck he’d had dating in the Deaf Community, either. He was starting to think the whole thing wasn’t other people—it was him. Someone far back in their family’s history had cursed the second-born sons named Basil or something, and he was doomed to suffer the consequences. Still, being single wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He hadn’t dated for three months and the loneliness was starting to ease. He was a happy guy, generally, and he enjoyed being on his own.

  So naturally, he didn’t want to acknowledge the pressing absence he felt after Derek had left the vestibule, or how he had practiced shaping the letters of Derek’s name on his lips on the drive home. Or how the moment he slid into bed, his thumb tapped his phone screen to pull up the gallery.

  And if—just if—he let himself click on the ‘buy now’ button sitting under the gorgeous octopus sketch, well, no one would be the wiser.

  2.

  “Oh no, no no no,” Derek groaned at the shrill ringing of his phone. His one open, bleary eye peered at his phone and saw it was just past six in the morning. Which meant he’d managed a solid three hours of sleep before this nonsense. If the name on the caller ID had been anyone but Sam, he would have thrown the phone across the room and let it shatter. “What the actual, ever-loving fuck do you want right now at six in the morning?”

  “Beth just called.”

  If there was a way to take him from dazed sleep to wide awake like he’d just downed a gallon of espresso, it was saying the phrase, Beth called. Because Beth was the social worker handling Maisy’s case. And Maisy happened to be Sam’s burn-out cousin’s daughter who had been taken by CPS, from the hospital, and bounced around the system for nine goddamn months before they managed to locate someone in her family to take her.

  Sam immediately stepped forward to take care of the infant, but he’d been initially rejected on appearance alone. Sam was a lot like the twins—incredibly large and intimidating with bulging muscles from the sheer amount the guy worked out, most of his skin covered in ink, but the real kick in the balls was that he’d been officially turned away due to his disability. The original case-worker had rejected Sam’s petition to take the little girl in because she wasn’t convinced he would be capable of giving a baby the care she needed while also using a wheelchair.

  For Sam, he’d been paralyzed for longer than he’d been walking. At fifteen, he and his friends had gone for a joy-ride in a truck, the driver having a little too much to drink. It ended with the truck rolling down an embankment and Sam wa
king up days later being told he’d never walk again.

  He was thirty-six now, and ran a successful company providing classes for rehabilitation centers, private fitness lessons, and his absolute favorite, Wheelchair Zumba which he taught every Saturday before starting his late afternoon shift at Irons and Works. Sam was only a part time artist, but he was a full-time family member to each of them, and when they’d heard about his rejection, the entire studio banded together to ensure Sam would get this little girl.

  Maisy had been living with him for three years now, and he was finally allowed to petition for her adoption since Sam’s cousin hadn’t come forward to claim her. Derek had not only been one of Sam’s closest confidants in the whole mess, but he’d been labeled unofficial babysitter since Maisy seemed to like him best of everyone. A badge he wore proudly—even if it did get his ass up out of bed at six in the goddamn morning.

  “What do you need?” Derek asked, swinging his legs over the bed and scrubbing a hand down his face.

  “Can May come stay at your place for a bit? They want to do another invasive inspection and I don’t want her here while they riffle through my shit and force me to take however many steps on my walker.”

  Derek felt his teeth grin together, and he forced himself to take a few calming breaths. “Of course, man. I’ll come pick her up so you don’t have to worry about transport.” Standing up, he groaned at the unexpected tension in his limbs. He always felt like this after a panic attack, but he hadn’t realized how bad it would be that morning. “Shit.”

  “Der?” Sam asked softly. “What happened?”

  “God, it’s the longest story in the world,” he confessed, shuffling to his bathroom to dig around for his scope and tooth brush. “I’ll happily spill everything once this stupid song and dance is over.”