Page 13 of Not Mine to Rescue

Holy… “Could you read them?”

She shrugged. “Mom homeschooled us. Sonnet could read at college level by age ten, I think. Wombat didn’t learn to read until he was… eleven? I don’t know. I had to keep up with both of them, so when I started to beat Wombat, he buckled down and learned.”

The thought occurred to me that Rand—Wombat wouldn’t want me knowing this about his past. I finished the last paragraph and signed the papers. “Here you go. I would like to drop Molly off Monday morning. Is that okay?”

“Fine by me. We’re up at five.” She stopped herself. “Well, I’m up at five. Wombat sleeps until ten most of the time, unless I kick his ass out of bed. He’s a night owl. But that’s okay because at least someone’s awake when we get a night call. If he’s home.”

I nodded along with her, knowing at least one night in the last few days that he was riding through the streets of Hagerstown at two in the morning, frightening elderly piano teachers. “Good. Thank you.” I extended my hand to shake hers.

She eyeballed it. “You’re one of those.”

My hand dipped. “One of those, what?”

She straightened her posture, but her skin turned red. “A hand-shaker.” She sighed. “My parents were quite weird about that.” With that declaration, she stuck out her hand. “Sorry.”

I took her offer and noted the limp grip. I softened my own so it wouldn’t overwhelm her. “There’s a whole art to handshakes. Lawyers are taught how.”

“Really? Teach me. Please?”

It was my turn to flush. “Okay, first lesson, men will try to out-grip you. Don’t encourage them. That loose hand you have, it’s perfect, the more boneless the better, you’ll slip right out if they hold on too long. Let’s try that.”

Lemon stuck out her hand. I came in with a different grip, one used on me often. “They’ll trap your hand like a sandwich.”

Her eyes went wide. “I take it that’s not a good thing?”

“Absolutely not. It screams dominance. And the only people doing that want you to do something for them. Keep it limp, but slip your hand out as soon as I loosen the grip.”

She did.

“Now tuck it away or pick up something so they can’t recapture it. This is a battlefield and handshakes are the opening salvo.”

That made her mouth fall open. “No shit?”

“Yes. No shit.”

She realized that she’d used foul language in front of me and snapped her jaw shut. Then her face lightened by small increments. “You swear?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “What? Lawyers can’t swear?”

She weighed my words. “It’s just that… You’re like Sonnet. She’s scraped off everything Mom and Dad were. She won’t swear, she doesn’t visit the farm, and she’s… boring.”

“I’m probably boring. But I try not to judge anyone. That’s not my job.” The joke would be funnier among my circle of friends.

Lemon laughed, not because she understood, but because it was the thing people did.

“Now, if instead, they turn it into a caress, what do you think you should do?”

“Kick ’em in the balls.”

While a great idea in theory, it was also very difficult to prove it to be anything other than assault. “That’s a last resort option. First, voice your disapproval. Tell them, ‘Your actions weren’t invited and I want you to release my hand right now.’ Then, as soon as you can, document it. It’s harassment.”

“What if they don’t let go?”

“Scream in their face,” I replied. While there was a pressure point in the hand which would loosen the attacker’s grip, it rarely worked immediately.

“Really?”

“Most men back down when you call attention to their bad behavior.”