Page 2 of Kiss-Fist (Deaf Hearts #1)

CHAPTER TWO

ROBBIE

Why the hell are there so many muscles everywhere? I stare down at my arms hidden beneath my long-sleeve shirt and let out a sigh. Mellie was right. They really do look like limp noodles hanging from my torso.

Spaghetti noodles.

Not even penne. Just a sad state of affairs in its entirety. They’re nothing like the mounds bulging from the men and women around me.

God, are necks supposed to look like that?

And those ankles. Since when do ankles have definition ?

Thank god I wore pants.

Really, I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. But I guess change doesn’t happen unless you actively participate in it, right? Sitting in my windowless office all day and occasionally standing in lecture halls doesn’t do much for building a nice, mountainesque physique.

Even if I try and will it into existence on a weekly basis .

Not that I’ll ever get as big as these guys in here. They have to be on steroids or something. This cannot possibly happen naturally.

My eyes fall on one man in particular with slightly tanned skin like he spends a lot of time outdoors, wide shoulders, light brown hair tucked under a backward cap.

The tank top he’s wearing is one of those that shows off most of his chest, including his dusky pink nipples and all of his arms, which are decorated in tattoos I can’t make out the details of this far away.

And god help me, the shorts he’s wearing? They’re tight, and I can see the globes of his ass distinctly .

I stare down at my baggy athletic pants.

Hm, I didn’t get the dress code, apparently. I should go home and change. Or maybe try again tomorrow. Or maybe never. I don’t think my ego can take it.

I turn to leave when the guy with the exposed nipples and the backward hat turns and smiles at me.

All of my vision narrows down to him. He’s all I can see. Everything else fades to black.

I blink slowly, taking in the entirety of him.

Holy hell, he’s hot, even with the slightly crooked teeth and crooked smile. His light brown eyes twinkle as he meets my gaze.

I see his mouth form a word, and I attempt to work out what he’s saying, but lipreading has never been my strong suit.

My two brothers are passable. Quinn, the oldest, is better than Theo, who’s exactly thirteen months older than me.

And my sister, Alice, is probably the closest to an expert.

But I’m pretty sure that’s because she married a hearing man and has two hearing CODAs at home.

I, however, am a disaster.

Which is a whole can of worms I don’t feel like opening here in the gym. I don’t need to stress about my communication skills when I’m in the middle of a body crisis while surrounded by a bunch of men who could probably bench-press me.

Especially the hot guy with the smile.

Does he really need to show off his biceps like that? Christ .

Not that I’d complain if he wanted to lift me up and down, necessarily. It’s just that my pride and ego are on the line. And I don’t have those in spades.

Our gazes lock, and his fingers fumble with the metal water bottle he was in the middle of trying to close.

He drops it, and it splashes all over his crotch.

I imagine it makes some kind of loud noise because several people around him whip their heads around, and a blush starts from his ears to the apples of his cheeks.

Even from where I’m standing, I can see he has freckles. Oh, and dimples, one in each cheek, perfectly centered.

Send help.

The way I want to use the one muscle I have in my forearm to cover those cheeks in cum is obscene .

The only saving grace in this situation is that this isn’t the Deaf trainer I was sent to work with.

Because the last thing I need is to pop an inappropriate boner in front of a guy who looks like that.

And trying to communicate why my dick is hard to a guy who probably doesn’t sign is not something I want to do.

The idea of writing out the explanation on a piece of paper or on my fucking phone? Trying to act it out?

Hell no.

I’d rather move house tomorrow . Or get a million paper cuts.

Or both at the same time.

The way my dick twitches in my pants all the same makes me want to turn around and run away. Only, I don’t really run, so maybe more of a brisk walk would suffice.

Or maybe a slow stroll…

In the end, I don’t move because dimples guy is now covering his crotch with his hands, and it honestly looks like he pissed himself.

I don’t laugh, of course. I don’t even crack a smile.

I may have a slight wobble to my lips, but it’s not noticeable.

It’s not difficult to keep a straight face after working in a college for the last ten years.

Nearly all of my students are hearing, but my interpreter has a knack for conveying the shit that spews out of their mouths with an art-like accuracy.

With the amount of skill I’ve honed holding back eye rolls, I should have an Olympic medal for it.

Water bottle guy says something and points.

Oh. At me.

Great .

The two men he’s with say something back, and then the taller one with very dark hair, pale, freckly skin, and what looks to be very well-maintained manscaping turns and walks my way. He’s just as muscular as the other two, and I fight the urge to turn and escape.

Or maybe try to chameleon myself into the tiled floors.

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 words Zev and not 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 make words. 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.’