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From within the residence, a woman is barking out the name Della over and over again, each time growing more agitated. Rather than heading toward the sound of the woman’s voice, I turn left and follow after what must be Della, if I had to guess. I find her at one corner of the lobby area, crouched beside a plant, reaching her arm behind it.
The black flash I’d seen sounds much like a cat based on the furious hissing it’s making. Despite the angry cries of warning, the little girl keeps up her attempt to grab the cat.
“Hey, kid.”
No response.
A heavy sigh escapes me.
I tap the girl on the top of her head, since she won’t be able to hear me. She whirls around, fire gleaming in her green eyes. Her hand swipes across my forearm, scoring the flesh hard enough to sting but not draw blood. Glowering at her, I shake my head. From the intel Bryant gave me, I learned she’s deaf. No means no in every language, though.
She flips up her middle finger which would be comical if not for the fact she’s like six or something. What the actual fuck. And, yeah, it too means the same damn thing in all languages.
“Back at ya,” I growl, offering my middle finger back.
Her eyes widen and her mouth parts as though she’s shocked. She’ll learn real quick, I’m not about to let some ankle biter push me around.
“Your momma is calling for you,” I say, gesturing toward the sound of a voice around the corner.
Della snarls, baring her teeth. Feral little shit. Her hands move rapidly, no doubt signing something I’m meant to interpret. But, unlike my glowing fake resumé, I don’t know American Sign Language. Something, despite my desire not to, I’ll have to get more proficient at if I intend on keeping this ruse up.
Slowly, I sign to her one of the only things I’ve learned past the alphabet. Hi, I’m Ford.
Her eyes narrow, sharply watching my movements. Then, slowly, she spells out Della, punctuating each sign with irritated gestures.
“Della,” I say, enunciating her name which earns me a nod.
She points toward the plant and then does more of the signing—which I’m pretty sure she’s mocking me based on the sneer on her face—the letters C-A-T.
“If I get your cat, will you go back inside?”
She nods again, flashing me a devilish grin that I don’t believe for a second. No one warned me I’d be babysitting Satan’s little princess.
I grip her delicate shoulders and manhandle her out of the way. Then, I kneel down to grab the poor cat that doesn’t want anything to do with the evil brat. The cat meows in that creepy, leave me the fuck alone way, but I’ve already come this far. I curse when claws pop at my hand.
“Son of a bitch,” I growl under my breath. “We both know this kid isn’t giving up until she has you in her grip. May as well come willingly, heathen.”
The cat continues its low, warning rumbling sounds, but it does inch my way. When it’s close enough, I stroke a palm over its matted fur. Kind of strange for a cat to be in such a sad state when he appears to be the pet of one of the richest kids in the city. After some coaxing, the cat finally allows me to pull him into my arms.
“There you go. That’s a good boy,” I croon as I rise up on my feet.
The devil kid kicks me hard in the shin. Then she does that slow signing and spells out G-I-R-L. I roll my eyes and cuddle the cat closer. “You’re a mean little shit. You know that?”
Della cocks her head to the side, blinking furiously. I’d been mumbling when I said the words, so she probably missed what I’d said. Probably for the best.
“Inside,” I say sternly and pointing to her door, making sure she has no problem understanding that word.
She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin. The defiance rippling from her is powerful. Della may have come into this world at a disadvantage because of her hearing impairment, but she makes up for it by being a baby tyrant.
But, I know all about being a brat. Me and my brothers were the world’s worst at her age. Definitely takes one to know one. Takes one to be able to deal with one. With my free hand, I gently clutch the back of her neck and guide her alongside me. At first she resists, but then she gives in, walking willingly. We nearly run into a woman as she bursts out of the door.
“Della,” the woman exclaims, making sure to also sign the words. “You are in big trouble, missy.”
I take note that the devil spawn doesn’t shoot her mommy the bird. Though, as I take in this woman’s appearance, I don’t think she’s her mother at all. The woman is probably in her fifties, with dark hair streaked with some gray pulled into a no-nonsense bun. Her makeup is flawless. If it weren’t for the wrinkles between her brows from apparently a lifetime of excessive frowning and old lady hair, she could pass for younger.
