Page 15 of Kiss-Fist (Deaf Hearts #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

ROBBIE

I begin to take a slow bite of my sandwich when a hand waves in my periphery.

I turn slowly and offer a half smile at Fayid, who usually joins me on Wednesdays for lunch.

He was one of the first Deaf teachers brought on to teach a class unrelated to ASL or Deaf studies.

They’d poached him from a residential school after seeing his PhD in art history.

Well, that and the fact that he was one of the leading experts in the area who studied the life and works of Leonardo da Vinci. The school wanted to expand their art program to allow students an easier transition into art-focused studies at four-year universities.

That, of course, had been Fayid’s dream.

For me, teaching at the college level is an inevitability. My parents were teachers at the Deaf residential school, and my siblings all got jobs there after our mom and dad retired.

My sister teaches kindergarten, the eldest of my two brothers is a gym teacher for middle and high school, and the other one is a school counselor. They consider this line of work the family business.

I was the odd one out, going for a degree in ancient history and classics.

But being that we didn’t live on the East Coast and nowhere near the only Deaf university in the country, it was the assumption I’d just do what my dad did: spend a shitload of money on a graduate degree that I’d never be able to use beyond high school education and pull it out for bragging at family reunions.

And then Fayid sent me an email with a job listing and the proposition to participate in this little experiment. Teaching at a hearing college. Which is turning out fine.

Really.

It’s absolutely fine most days.

‘How long are you going to make him wait out there?’

I glance at the silhouette in the window.

Rhett is in a chair in the hallway, and I can picture him sitting there, glaring at the end of the corridor, arms folded, plotting revenge.

He’s really only pissed off because Mellie’s food truck is at the museum today instead of campus.

He would have borne his punishment better if he could get a nice dicking during break.

But he can’t.

He gets to feel the same complete and utter frustration tormenting me at the moment. Maybe it’s not as bad as the half-ruined orgasm he gave me, but still. It’ll do.

I turn and shrug at Fayid. I haven’t told him why Rhett’s being relegated to the hallway, but he knows me well enough not to ask questions. I stuff a huge bite into my mouth, then lift my right hand. ‘When he’s really sorry. ’

I see his nostrils flare with a snort-laugh, and he spoons the rest of his yogurt into his mouth before leaning over and throwing the container into the bin. ‘Okay, but I do want to talk to him about the meeting on Friday.’

I groan loudly, knowing he can’t hear it since he’s not wearing his CIs but hoping he can see the frustration on my face. I fucking hate department meetings. But more than that, I hate all-hands meetings, and they always seem to call one when I’m going through it.

And goddamn if I’m not going through it.

I’m in the middle of an actual sexual crisis here. This is worse than realizing I was gay and needing to come out to my parents and friends. This is a hearing guy, and realizing that I don’t want to do it just one time…

I want to do it a lot of times.

Many times.

All the times.

I maybe even, kind of sort of, suggested that in the last text I sent him.

But god, how could I help it? With those lips? That tongue? His powerful hands and arms that could probably deadlift a car?

I had speed walked—no, I didn’t run because I’m done running—to the car after our little tryst was interrupted, ignored Mellie and Rhett’s bullshit on the drive to my place.

Then I spent an hour and a half in bed jerking off until my wrist was sore.

I pictured Thom in every situation I could think of, and the one that got me off the most was the thought of him literally lifting me into the air and railing my ass until I couldn’t breathe .

For a while, I’d regretted the texts I’d sent him. Not as much as getting caught, but still. Growing up a gay nerd, it’s not easy to hurt my feelings, but my pride is sensitive and easily breakable. Thom put me in the position where I had to lay it right on the table in front of my closest friends.

But the things he did—the things he could do? The things he might do?

I shudder and swallow thickly, trying not to let any of that show on my face because I do not want Fayid asking questions. Not that he’d judge me for wanting Thom. He comes from a hearing family, and he hasn’t had the same disaster experiences in dating.

But I’ve eaten crow before, and it tastes like shit. I’d rather not do it again.

‘Can I let him in now?’

Shit. I forgot he was waiting for an answer. I wave at him, and he stands up, flicking the lock. I see Rhett’s head perk up, and he turns so I can see his profile. His hands move, but through the half-closed blinds, I can’t make out what he’s saying.

Fayid turns and sits back down, and Rhett shuffles into the doorway, giving me a sheepish look. I’m not actually upset with him about the cock-block. Or…half cock-block. Whatever that was. It was the smarmy-as-fuck smile he’d given me when he strolled into my office.

And the emojis and GIFs he and Mellie sent to my phone the night after he caught us.

Even if some of them did make me grin. Fuckers.

But while I can hold a grudge like no one else, Rhett is my other half at work, and I can’t afford to keep icing him out.

We have late-afternoon classes, and whatever’s going on in this meeting is probably enough to give me a migraine before I have to stand in front of a room of barely legal adults and teach them about the Fertile Crescent.

‘Forgiven?’ he asks after a moment.

I don’t answer directly, stuffing more of my sandwich into my mouth, but I do jerk my chin at the chair to the side of my desk, which will give him a view of both Fayid and me. He takes it as the olive branch it is and sits.

A moment passes, then another. Fayid primly sips the Korean coffee in a can he’s been addicted to ever since the school started stocking the vending machines with them, and then his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh.

‘The meeting we have is about the college’s overall budget and where they can cut corners. And one of the things on the chopping block might be the interpreting department. So I want you both prepared for what could be coming.’

And so it starts. For the first time since Thom put his mouth on mine, I’m able to stop thinking about him entirely.

After the meeting were my two classes back-to-back starting at 4:00 p.m. I don’t hate them because most of the students in those classes are older and more serious. The community college crowd is…diverse, to say the least.

Like I’ve said, there are few to no groups of snobby frat boys with their sockless boat shoes and Ralph Lauren backpacks. And no sororities trying to masquerade wet T-shirt contests as some sort of philanthropy.

There are single moms trying to squeeze in classes between work shifts.

There are retired people looking for something to do to keep their brains from turning to mush.

There are former convicts trying to find a way to better their lives.

Veterans trying to decide what to do after a life in service.

People so far below the poverty level that college, for them, had once been a pipe dream.

I don’t see all of them, of course. My classes are specialized for people transferring into history programs at universities.

Half the time, when people see Western Civilization or History of Western Philosophy, they think it’s going to be an easy-A class full of Wikipedia study sheets and multiple-choice tests.

At least, until they realize how much writing and research is involved.

Then they quickly drop me like a bad habit before the add/drop period is over.

But despite that, I have about a seventy-percent pass rate, which isn’t bad…

but it could be better. I’m working on it.

The quadrennial report I have to do every four years is coming up, and I want to make sure the program and, more specifically, my classes are good enough for transfer.

Which is yet one more thing on my plate that makes me want to fling myself into the sun.

But I’m still feeling better today because while I’d rather be in bed jerking myself raw thinking about the next time I’m going to see Thom, I’m also getting some much-needed space from him.

Rhett and I spent our free time going over what we wanted to say in the meeting, and now we’re prepared with our defense of his salary. The all-hands budget meeting didn’t directly say the interpreting jobs were at risk, but like Fayid, I’m not willing to drop my guard.

Especially since I’ve gotten snide comments about whether or not our “little program” is necessary. But dealing with the stupidity of the board is just one more thing in the pile of shit that I have going on in my life.

Sometimes it’s exhausting having to justify my existence and that of those who support me.

On top of that, I’m also still trying to deal with the fact that I’m losing my apartment to their condo transfer, and I’m dragging my feet on trying to get a Realtor.

I have six months left to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do, and my gut is telling me it’s time to settle down somewhere I can call my own.

I’d been holding off on some wild idea that before finding a forever home, I was going to…

I don’t know, travel? Be invited to teach at the Boston Theological Institute or Duke—like any of those places would hire a Deaf teacher to lecture about ancient history.

It’s an absurd hope, but deciding to settle in the place where I grew up has been a horse-sized pill to swallow.

Only…now it feels less painful. Now, I can close my eyes and think about Thom, and something in me is weirdly settled. It also kind of annoyed me because fuck this damn hearing guy for making me feel my feelings.

I want to ignore the problem until I’m backed into a corner, but a text comes through right before the last class ended, and now I’m staring at an email from a Realtor who’s inviting me to lunch to talk about what I’m looking for and possibly sign a contract.

Christ, it’s getting very real.

Can I just go back to the gym and get my brains sucked out through my dick instead?

That would be much easier and a lot more fun.

I feel a rumble under my fingers and look up to see Rhett staring at me. He’s still not entirely off the hook, but his small talk has allowed me to avoid Thom for most of the day, so I drop my guard a little.

‘That Thom?’

I narrow my eyes.

‘I know it’s not my business, but you look like you want to put your fist through the wall.’

Fuck, I need to manage myself better. Taking a breath, I pass a hand down my face. ‘I’m fine. It’s not Thom. A Realtor wants to meet up to talk about the houses I want to see.’

His brows lift. ‘You need me?’

I do, yes. It’s not the guy Rhett originally suggested, but there’s still a next to zero percent chance the Realtor is going to be Deaf or know any ASL.

At the time, I looked for one who could easily communicate with me because there are plenty of Deafies in the area, but sadly, there was not one real estate agent to be found.

Still Rhett’s been working his ass off all week, and I’m sure he’d rather be at home with Mellie doing…whatever it is they do. I don’t really want to know the details.

His head cocks to the side for a second, and he rolls his eyes. ‘Tell me what real estate agency he’s with, and I’ll bill them. ’

‘I don’t know if they’ll pay.’

‘I’ll do it anyway.’

I sigh. ‘I don’t want to take up all your time or take advantage?—’

He stops me. ‘We’re thinking about putting in a hot tub. I need the money. I’ll make sure they pay.’

That makes me laugh, but also, that makes me happy because he’ll be my first hot tub friend, and I’m not mad about it. I could use it after a long day of work. ‘I’ll email you.’

He looks thrilled, which eases some of my guilt.

‘So, about Thom?—’

‘You’re fired,’ I tell him.

As usual, he doesn’t take me seriously.

Damn it.