Page 6 of Kiss-Fist
I could maybe do that.
The guy in the blue shirt approaches, smiles, and immediately starts speaking, but I’m profoundly Deaf and don’t wear hearing aids. Not that they would help. My residual hearing is next to nothing, so all they offer is vague noises, sore ear canals, and, on really bad days, migraines. But not wearing them means there’s no outward sign I’m Deaf, which leaves me needing to pantomime for the signing-impaired.
‘Deaf,’ I explain. It’s a fairly universal sign. Finger to the ear, drag to the mouth, and I always exaggerate pursing my lips because hearing people should be able to understand what I’m trying to convey, but they never do.
I mouth the word again just to be safe. ‘Deaf.’
His brows rise, and he looks uncomfortable. I’m used to this reaction, but it annoys me all the same. They have a Deaf trainer, but so far, one employee doesn’t sign, and I’m betting the other two don’t either because they’re staring at me like I’ve appeared from a different planet. One is even blinking slowly like they’ve never seen someone like me before.
Wonderful. How does Mellie deal with this shit?
Luckily, I’m trained for this. I whip out my phone and pull up my notepad. I didn’t grow up with ready access to technology like this, and it still takes me a minute to type out everything I need to say. Kids these days can type a hundred words per minute with two thumbs and their eyes closed.
I am not that skilled.
Me: ‘Hi, I’m Robbie. I’m Deaf. I have appointment today w Zev.’
Blue shirt’s brows lift even higher, making the top of his forehead wrinkly. I glance behind him at dimples guy, who’s still watching me with interest, his head cocked, his cheeks still flushed, and it rubs me in all the wrong ways. Even if his gorgeous face rubs me in all the right ones.
It’s the dimples and those crooked incisors when he grins after catching me staring. If there is a god, he’s having fun with me right now. And with my dick.
I look back to the trainer standing in front of me, and he does the thing hearing people always do: he makes his mouth all funny, and he’s saying something probably very loudly while his lips purse in strange shapes.
I can figure out the wordsZevandnot here.
Nothing else.
I debate telling him to speak normally because that might help, but again, my superpower is not understanding spoken English. On my lazy days, I can barely type it. I bite the bullet and hand him my phone.
He’s young enough that he gets his words out a hell of a lot faster than me. ‘Zev isn’t here. Family emergency. He was supposed to call his clients.’
I’m not about to tell this guy that Mellie made the appointment for me, and all I did was confirm it. I’d been lost in prepping for midterms and trying to psych myself up for grading the research papers, which would normally be my TA’s job, but the division screwed me this year by not offering me one.
I tap my fingers on my phone, then type, ‘Anyone here know ASL?’ and flash the screen at him.
Blue shirt glances at the phone, but instead of taking it to answer back, he turns his head toward Dimples. I can see his jaw move as he says something over his shoulder.
And oh.Fuck. Dimples, with his cute face and wet crotch, starts making his way over.
I should go. This was a terrible idea. This was a mistake, and I knew it the moment I walked in and saw all those abs and biceps. This body is never going to have anything like that.
Hell, I don’t even want them. I just wanted to work out my frustrations, build a little muscle to lift moving boxes, and maybe avoid getting prescribed statins the next time my doctor sees me.
But I don’t leave fast enough. Dimples smiles at me and listens to whatever blue shirt is saying. He takes the phone and looks down at it, then up at me with his brows furrowed. It makes me angry how adorable his expression is. Christ. I can’t do this.
No hearing person should be this hot.
And those tattoos. I can see them better now, intricate lines of shading in the form of ocean waves on his arm, and through the side of his tank top, I’m pretty sure, is a roaring tiger face over his pec. Good fuck, get me out of here.
‘Sorry,’ I sign. I hold my hand out for my phone, but Dimples is busy typing. I make a noise—one that normally irritates the hearing—but it goes ignored.
His long, thick fingers are tapping painfully slowly on the screen, like it’s taking him actual, honest effort to makewords. But he does finish eventually and holds my phone out with a huge grin on his face.
Blue Shirt: ‘Sory bout mix-up. Zev shuda emailed u. He had a faimly emergnecy.’
His spelling ishorrendous. My eyes move from the phone to his nipples, which I swear are winking up at me.
Fuck, he needs to put on more clothes. This is atrocious.
