Page 1 of Kiss-Fist
CHAPTER ONE
ROBBIE
There’snothing like a single email threatening to destroy your entire life. And that was how my Wednesday started.
Granted, I might be a little dramatic, considering the email was about the shithole apartment I was renting and how they were going condo. It was an offer to me to put in a bid to buy my place, as though I wanted to invest in a third-floor dump with seventeen-year-old carpet, a bathroom faucet that only works every other weekend, and stained linoleum decorating the kitchen floor.
Buying the apartment wouldn’t grant me access to a renovation like they were doing to the rest of the complex. I’d have to buy as is, andmaybethe price would be cheaper, but it would be worth it.
Or so they’re trying to tell me.
Honestly, where I live is in a shit part of town with a long commute to work and no freeway access for miles. That means dealing with the slow-as-fuck traffic lightsand the ancient town residents who think going fifteen under the speed limit is too fast.
The way my blood pressure rises each morning, I think I may need medication to counteract it. I don’t think what the complex offered me covered the cost of my rising health insurance.
Honestly, the decision would be easy if I were an easier man. But I’m not. I’m an uptight, set-in-his-ways college professor heading toward middle age.
And I’m also Deaf.
That wouldn’t matter in this situation, but there are little pockets of our city that have a higher Deaf population. Andfuckwould it be nice to have neighbors who might know my language instead of watching them shout at me as though that’s suddenly going to cure me of my profound, from birth, lack of hearing.
Most of my Deaf friends and family all live on the east side—which, consequently, is where I work. So maybe this is a blessing?
Maybe this is a great reason to move?
But god damn it, I hate change. And more than hating change, I hate moving. The boxes, the culling of long-accumulated stuff, organizing and deciding what stays and what goes?
I’d rather paper cut myself with cardboard than deal with that.
Which is why I suffered with rot and mold and incompetent maintenance staff for the better part of a decade. Because I can be content when I’m forced to.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bathroom lightflicker off just as the door opens, and he steps out.
Rome.
I’ve known him just about forever. Or, at least, most of my professional adult life. We met one night at the only bar in town that caters to the Deaf community. It was my second week on the job at the community college, and I was on the verge of quitting.
Then he slid up next to me at the bar, gave me his sign name, and asked me if I wanted him to suck my dick. Rome was hot—thick black hair, lips that looked like he could deliver on his promises, dark, narrow eyes, a jawline that could cut glass.
It was an easy yes. He slipped me his number after, and somewhere between meeting up to defile a night club bathroom stall and now, we became friends with the occasional benefit.
We’re not exactly a match though. He rarely sleeps over—only when he’s too drunk or too exhausted to drive home. Our personalities clash, and the only thing we really see eye to eye on is the fact that we’d rather touch an exposed electrical wire with our bare hands than date a hearing person.
And I know that sounds awful, but I’ve tried it in the past, and it always ends in disaster. It’s a nice, comforting topic to bitch about over several glasses of wine, like a warm-up before I pin him to the bed and rearrange his insides with my dick.
Or he does to me. I’m not picky.
Rome is not the person I feel like seeing right now though. I’m late for a meeting at work, and now I have todeal with this fuck-ass apartment complex making my life even more difficult.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, his big-knuckled hand tapping his chin.
‘Nothing.’
He stares at me and rolls his eyes. ‘Liar.’
I’m not going to tell him. I just point at his pants, and as he grabs them, I realize I’m getting kind of tired of this. The sex is still good, but it’s not fulfilling the way it used to be back when I was a fresh graduate, finally out from under the weight of my dissertation.
I want something…more. Something steady. Something permanent. Something that doesn’t feel temporary the way this apartment now does.
