by Kristy Marie
I look over Hayes’s shoulder, eyeing the man that makes my entire body warm at the mere sight of him. When we were all heading to the bar, Tim hung back, walking with another guy from his family, both of them taking in all the sights of Magic Michelle’s—which can be narrowed down to basically chiffon and makeup. This also brings up the fact that Tim, his family, and I are the only ones not in drag. I thought about it earlier, like right before he arrived, and started freaking out. But it was too late. He was already on his way. Dread sat knotted in my stomach as I thought about Tim feeling uncomfortable on a daily basis, and here I am inviting him to a bar where he is sure to stand out even more. But not for his hearing loss, so maybe that’s not as bad as school. So far, his family doesn’t seem to mind the dress attire either.
“Shut up,” Tim says, shoving his friend. “Don’t think since Theo hasn’t come back that you need to fill his spot with crappy jokes.”
Those brown eyes lock on mine as he slides onto the barstool. His body is massive and only serves to make the stools seem miniature.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask him softly, containing my twitching hands on the counter to prevent them from signing.
He notices and sighs a long, ragged breath before he places his hands on the counter and signs, “A beer would be great.”
He didn’t speak his words. For the first time since knowing him, he just signed. It felt intimate and secretive—even knowing his family is well versed in ASL, and they could have easily seen what he signed. It felt like he was just talking to me.
I flash him a smile and try not to make a big deal about it. “You want something in the bottle or on tap?” I point to the brands we have on tap, and his eyes never veer from mine.
“Whatever you recommend.”
I hope Felipe turns the air down when he finishes showing Theo all the nooks that are good for fucking backstage. It’s seriously getting hot in here, and I’m scared my deodorant may not last.
“Okay.” I nod like one of those awkward tweens at school. “Coming right up.”
I hear chairs scrape against the floor before, “We’ll be over there. Text when you’re ready to go.”
I force myself not to look back. It’s not Tim’s voice. I haven’t been around his family long enough to know whose it is, but by the time I turn around with Tim’s beer, they’ve all disappeared.
“Did they go get a table?” I ask, placing Tim’s mug of beer on the pink napkins we keep at the counter.
“They did.” Short and sweet. Tim isn’t an awkward space filler. He just allows the awkward to hang in the air, leaving it for people like me to deal with it. “Oh, okay.” I turn to look at the clock on the wall. “Well, the show starts in fifteen minutes.” Ah hell, this is awkward. “I wasn’t planning on us sitting at a table for it, but we can hang out here before it gets started.”
I’m not about to tell him that I planned for us to occupy one of those cubbies Felipe is showing Theo. No, I wasn’t planning on banging him, but it’s more private. It’s somewhere where he can see the show and I can interpret the music without any eyes on us.
“To bond?” His grin is not cute, do not let it fool you.
Fine, it is.
My eyes cross. “Stop saying it like that. You know what I meant.”
He takes a sip of his beer, his eyes peeking over the rim. “You mean to bond with me.”
For all that is holy.
“Yes,” I admit sarcastically, but with an eye roll since he isn’t able to hear the inflection in my voice. “I wanted to bond with you. However you may interpret that word.” On a nonsarcastic thought, I really wouldn’t mind bonding with him on a sexual level, which is clearly what he’s making the word out to mean.
An almost snort comes out of his mouth—an organic sound. Well, how about that? Mr. Broody couldn’t hold in his laughter. It came out all real, not forced or crafted. He sounded hot, not soft spoken. This laugh was a real one.
“So, tell me, Ms. Iglesias.” His tone is serious, and I know I’m not going to like this set of questions. “How did you end up in the US?”
I take a sip of the wine I poured—no José this time—and give him a tiny shrug. I liked it better when I was the one asking questions. “As you know, I’m from Costa Rica.” He doesn’t comment, and that’s because he knows my ass is stalling. Ugh. “My mami was obsessed with the United States.” Another sip of wine. Why isn’t it kicking in? “She, uh… she always had big dreams to move here, and so when I finished college, I applied for a work visa and here I am.”
That wasn’t so bad.
“Was coming to America your dream too?” His question stops me midsip. Was this my dream? Or was it hers?
“I….” Wow, it’s never occurred to me. “To be honest, I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve always worked for.”
“You didn’t want to be a teacher?”
Where is Pe? We need to get this show started. “No, not at first.” I take a large gulp of wine, which is apparently trashy looking by Pe’s standards, but I don’t care. I need alcohol, and I need it fast.
“I didn’t go to school to be a teacher, if that’s what you mean. I have a foreign language degree with a minor in communications.”
His stare is intense as he continues with his deep and super personal questions for a first date. Wait, this is not a date. “So, what was your dream job? I assume you took a teaching position because that’s what got you here the fastest.”
He would assume correctly. I shrug, feeling tiny beads of sweat form on the back of my neck. “My abuelita was in the hospital one time, and when I visited, there was this American who had a stroke or clot—I’m not sure which—while on a cruise ship. They brought him to the hospital, and he ended up needing a tracheostomy for a while after surgery.” Why do I feel so naked right now? “He spoke no Spanish, but even if he could, he had the tracheostomy, which is like a tube put in your throat so you can breathe.”
Tim grins. “I know.”
“Well, most people don’t. I was just explaining.” Smart-ass. “Anyway, there was this translator in the hospital who came and worked with him. She was able to translate for the Spanish-speaking doctors and she sat with him, every day, teaching him a little Spanish while he was there.”
I do this ridiculous little shrug. “That man was scared being in a foreign country and in a hospital where he didn’t speak much of the language. That translator became his friend, his ally in a scary place. I wanted to be that for someone. I wanted to make a difference. Maybe not in a hospital or whatever, but I wanted to be that resource, that connection for someone.” And because I can’t stop the loose lips with a now empty wine glass, I add, “When my mom had to stop working to care for my abuelita, I stopped being so picky. Not that I don’t love the kids or love teaching, I do. It’s just not the same feeling I was looking for, you know?”
He nods, intently watching my lips as if he doesn’t want to miss a word.
“My family has been so good to me. They funded my education and even bought my plane ticket to the US. I couldn’t let them down. Opportunity was opportunity, and eventually, I think I will find the perfect job.”
But I probably won’t because I’m leaving in a few months and going back home.
“Have you tried—”
The lights dim, and I don’t miss the window to shut down this conversation about me. “Come on, it’s about to start.”
I scramble out from behind the bar and snag his hand, pulling him to the far end of the bar and up the three steps and behind the black velvet curtains. I’m breathing heavy by the time I have Tim positioned where I want him with the perfect side view of the stage.
“No one can see us,” I tell him, pointing over his shoulder so he knows I mean the crowd. He swallows, the muscles in his neck making the motion look crazy sexy.
“Okay.” He sounds unsure.
“We don’t have to do this,” I tell him. The last thing I want to do is make him feel un
comfortable. “I just wanted you to have a good time tonight.” And I wanted to spend time with him outside of work where he might be a little more… open.
A corner of his mouth twitches. Is he about to smile? “I am having a good time,” he says, his voice steady and confident.
I should have brought a water or something with me. My mouth is uber dry, and I’m not sure if it’s his body heat drying me out or the fact that being this close to him—his broad shoulders take up way more room than I thought—has me overheated. Homegirl is truly sweating up in here.
“Thank you for inviting us to the show tonight,” he says, low and thoughtful. “Felipe and Marcus—what time I got to see of them before Theo made friends—seem like great guys.”
Yep, I think I might love this man.
No, not love, Milah. You can’t love him. You’re leaving him. Let’s go with really, really liking him. Maybe he’ll be a good long-distance friend?
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you guys could come.” Awkward is tonight’s theme.
Apparently, I wasn’t paying attention to the opening remarks—a fantastic interpreter I am—because the bar is suddenly plunged in darkness. They’re starting.
Dammit. I wasn’t ready. I hurry and grab the flashlight off the speaker where I stashed it earlier and push the on button. Tim’s face comes into focus. His eyes aren’t sad or wary like I thought they might be. Instead, he looks excited. I cringe. “I’m sorry,” I try signing, but it looks like shit and probably seizure-like since the flashlight is still in my hand. I hold up a finger and place the light between us and sign, “I forgot my phone behind the bar. Can I use yours?” We need more light. Not enough to be obvious backstage but enough that Tim can really see me.
Without a word, he slips his hand into his back pocket and hands over his phone, never breaking our gaze.
“Thank you,” I mouth, taking his phone and swiping up to access the flashlight feature. It doesn’t work the first time, and I go to swipe again and gasp. His home screen… it’s a picture of me and Oliver on the swings at recess. Oliver recently learned how to pump his feet, and he wanted to see how high he could go. Tim was exceptionally moody that day and refused to do it with us. Instead, he stood against the wall playing with his phone. Or I thought he was playing with his phone. I guess he was being a secret paparazzi and snapping pictures of us.
I don’t comment on his picture. One, I don’t want to make a big deal out of something and send him for the door. And two, I like knowing he has me on his home screen. Oliver and I are wearing him down. Finally, I manage to activate the flashlight and set his phone down between us, his home screen lit with my and Oliver’s smiling faces and wind-swept hair.
“I’ve never interpreted a song before,” I admit with a whisper, signing as I say each word. “But I did watch a few videos.” I shrug. “I’m sorry in advance if it sucks.”
The piano starts out slow, and I hurry to slip off my shoes. Tim, not nearly as eager to slip his off, does the same shortly after me. The videos I saw didn’t show anyone taking their shoes off, but Ms. Peak seemed to have good results with it, so I figured it couldn’t hurt. I moved three additional speakers behind the curtains so the bass and the vibrations would be really strong against the wooden stage.
Pe’s voice begins to filter through the sound system, and I take a deep breath. You can do this, Milah.
And then I grab the man who brings me dessert around the waist and pull him closer. My hands move in the small space between our bodies, but with the height difference, I feel like he can’t see my face and my hands easily. I try to just relax and channel the music that I’ve heard a thousand times while Pe practiced.
“You were my strength when I was weak.” Pe’s voice saturates the crowd as he sings the words to his favorite song from Céline. Feeling the weight of Tim’s attention on my hands and my mouth, I close my eyes. My body is humming with the feeling Pe is pumping through this audience with his love for Marcus. He confesses that even though they fight and argue, they have always been there for each other when they needed it.
Before long, as my hands ache and my body feels feverish, I feel a warm hand at the base of my throat. “Sing it for me.” His voice is strained and raspy, and I don’t dare open my eyes. Instead, I swallow, feeling his body closer, the palm of his hand spanning the entirety of my throat. And then I sing. Soft and quiet, I repeat the words of the iconic 90s song and sing along with my best friend.
“You were my voice when I couldn’t speak,” I sing, channeling every bit of Céline that I possibly can, while the man in front of me feels the vibrations of my throat. I don’t stop singing even when the song finishes and Pe and Marcus move onto another. Instead, I keep going, allowing him to feel the whole song this way until he places his free hand on mine that are still signing between us, which in all honesty has not been very effective given how close we are.
“Thank you,” he tells me, his voice different than usual. My eyes fly open, halting the next words. Did I upset him?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
His mouth swallows the rest of my words. His tongue doesn’t ask permission for entrance. With one swipe and his grip tilting my head up, my mouth opens willingly. I’m eager and panting as I try to take over and dominate this kiss, wanting to see just how great his smart-ass tongue and sexy lips feel, but I never get that far. Tim has no problem being confident with his body. He jerks me to his chest, leading me further offstage with a hand around my back. We never come up for air.
Sorry, Gretchen. When I leave, I might beg him to come with me. I don’t know that I’m going to be able to give this man up. His mouth is firm, hot, and unyielding. He dominates my mouth with little to no effort.
“Does my voice repulse you?” he mumbles into my mouth, breaking our kiss for the first time.
Say what?
Like he didn’t mean to let his question slip, he rips his face away and steps back, frowning at the baseboards like he’s on spider watch or something.
And what do I do?
I stand there, watching his jaw clench, and blink like there’s an eyelash in my eye.
Is his voice repulsive?
Is he drunk? He didn’t even finish his one beer….
Maybe he’s joking? I don’t get all the American terminology sometimes.
But his body is tense under my hands, and his eyes still haven’t come up from his “spider watching.”
Not a joke, obviously.
Gently, I slip two fingers under his chin and lift his face to mine.
Ahh, that’s better. Those deep mahogany eyes always suck me in.
“You’re loco if you think any part of you is repulsive.”
His lip twitches like it pained him to read the words off my lips, but I don’t let him turn away. He brought it up, and he’s going to know how I feel about his voice.
Repulsive? Ha! If he only knew that his voice speaks straight to my vagina. It’s like he’s the panty whisperer. The rasp… the broken cadence… yeah, let’s set this man straight right now.
I squeeze his scruffy jaw between my fingers and hold his eyes, daring him to look away.
He grunts, which has me almost smiling. Now I’m the one manhandling Mr. Lambros, and he doesn’t care for it.
Hello, wet panties. Nice of you to join me.
With a twitch of my lip, I turn serious, chest to chest with the man I’m about to do naughty things with because really, it’s time. “Give me your hand,” I demand, enunciating clearly so he can read my lips in the dim lighting. That crazy strong jaw of his clenches under my fingers, but after a moment, he sighs and places his hand in mine again. Pushing his palm against my throat, I speak, “Do you need evidence on how not repulsed I am by your voice?”
He swallows thickly.
He knows I’m baiting him.
I squeeze his jaw just little.
“Answer me, Mr. Lambros.”
“Yes.”
One word. It’s chop
py and breathy, but it’s exactly what I need to hear as I push his palm flatter against my throat and move it down my chest. Past my breasts—I know, not this time, ladies—and over my navel. I angle his hand to the side so when it slips past the slip of my dress and between my legs where he has the proper angle for my next move.
“Don’t ever doubt me again,” I say, watching as his eyes flash with something deeper, something hungry, and then I push his hand between my legs and hold it to my center where there is enough heat to burn us both.
I swallow the sudden nerves of having this sexy-ass man at ground zero and attempt to stay confident. “Go ahead, Mr. Lambros, get your evidence. See what your voice does to me.”
Okay, so that last line snapped the last little bit of control he had. As soon as I said the last word, my hands were off him in a flash and bracing me from the impact of hitting the wall behind us.
“Your mouth drives me crazy, and I can’t even hear you,” he growls, holding my neck at an angle so he can get to my throat.
I scoff.
He can’t hear me, but he understands me just fine. Just because he can’t hear the tone or inflection, he still can read the smart-ass radiating off my body.
“Tell me you’re sorry,” he demands, shoving my panties to the side and plunging his finger in, stealing my breath.
“Tell me, mi pequeña traviesa, my naughty little girl.” He adds another finger. “Tell me you’re sorry for making me hear you.”
Is he still talking? I can’t tell, the tingling in my vajayjay is super distracting.
His chest is heaving against mine, and I push off the wall to get closer to him.
“No,” he grumbles, pinning me with his body flush against the wall. “Not until you say it.”
I grin into his chest.
“I’m sorry—” I start, and his mouth moves to my throat, listening, feeling the vibration of my words with his tongue. “I’m sorry you find me so irresistible.”
