by Rowan Shaw
"Nice." Héloïse rubbed her hands together before her eyes filled with compassion. "Please, try and have a nice day. Maybe you should go out for lunch or something. You're growing so pale sitting in your office all day. I'll let you know tonight what Amal said about rooming you."
"Sure." I gave a forced smile, feeling anything but optimistic. "Thank you. You're basically saving my life."
"You're staying with Marlène for now?"
I nodded reluctantly. "Yeah. Fun times!"
"I bet she'll come back crawling as soon as she walks in on that guy banging some other gal. That shouldn't take long."
"I don't want her back. I just want her to stop destroying my life like a damn bulldozer."
Héloïse clicked her tongue. "There's this thing called defamation, you know? You could threaten her with that."
"It's not defamation if I actually am queer. I just wish people would stop using LGBT terms as slurs like being queer was a fucking insult."
Chapter 4
ENZO
"Come on!" Patrick slapped me on the butt. "Let's go out. It's Friday night. You're really no fun to be around, mon lapin."
I rolled my eyes. "Gee, thanks!"
"Just telling it like it is." He scanned the pictures of Cyrille and me hanging from the walls and pursed his lips. "Don't you think it's time to take those down? That jerk doesn't belong here anymore."
My three-room apartment had felt awfully big since Cyrille moved out. I wouldn't deny that. I hated all the memories still seeping through the fabric and furniture. I hated that his strong, masculine smell still saturated the air, even six months later, incredible as that might seem. I hated that I wanted to leave this place but was too lazy to bother doing so.
I'd tried to talk myself into taking down those pictures of us too, but even that was beyond my ability. I looked at the photo of Cyrille and me fooling around on a tourist-free beach near Mont Saint-Michel. I was beaming, riding on him piggyback when he took the selfie. Of course, we'd taken that vacation before I realized he was nailing other people. Back when I still thought he was mine and mine only.
"Where do you want to go, anyway?" I asked Patrick, who sat in my dark green linen armchair and crossed his legs at the knees while I settled on the matching couch.
"They opened a new club downtown. Rue des Maréchaux."
I nibbled at my thumbnail. "What if he's there? You know he likes new things."
New cars. New furniture. New clubs. New boy-toys.
I didn't need to run into Cyrille humping the leg of some hot guy. At age twenty-six, seeing my ex with younger men never failed to punch me in the guts.
"Mon chou, you can't spend the rest of your life planning your days based on his actions. If he's there, ignore him. You find yourself some hunk for the night and parade around with him. That's all."
"Easier said than done. How am I supposed to find someone who understands French Sign Language in a dance club, genius?"
"Just turn on your processor so you can communicate. Isn't that why you got a cochlear implant?"
"No, I got the implant because the doctors made me do it. Even with it on, I can't hear people talk when it's that loud. You know that already."
Besides, I wouldn't bother dating anyone who didn't have the patience to understand where I came from. The easiest way to test people was to not carry my processor. I was tired of pretending I fit into the hearing world. I wasn't dating someone who treated me like a chore. Living through that with Cyrille had been enough of a bad experience, thanks.
"I'm only going because you're making me, just so you know," I signed silently.
Patrick puffed. "Says the guy who can out-dance anyone at the club," he signed back.
I didn't respond. I wasn't in the mood to go out. Period.
"Okay, enough with the moping face already." He flicked his hand my way, then shot off the armchair, beholding me. "What are you going to wear?" He pointed up and down at me, his mouth twirling. "Not that, I hope."
"You're really good for my ego. You know that?"
"I'm just trying to help you get laid, mon chou."
When he insisted once more that we leave for the club, I stood from the couch to head straight to my bedroom. He followed me in and stood by the door, staring me down, unimpressed.
"What?" I signed.
"Nothing."
When he sat on my bed, my stomach clenched. I had no idea why I had kept that black comforter. Cyrille had chosen the color and I hated it. Two guys having repetitive sex on top of black fabric meant I had to wash the stains off that thing at least twice a week. I should have exchanged it for a white comforter by now, but like everything else that Cyrille had bought and left behind, I couldn't find the will inside me to dispose of it.
Patrick's lips thinned into a frustrated line. "Will you stop?"
"What?"
"Will you stop thinking about him?"
I ignored him and opened my wardrobe to flip through my shirts. I wasn't one of Patrick's patients; I wished he would stop psycho-analyzing me. I tried to disregard the empty space where Cyrille's clothes used to be and grabbed some black slacks that I threw on the bed before rifling through the pile for a shirt.
Patrick stood and pushed me out of the way. "Nope, nuh uh. No professional black pants tonight. You're not in teacher mode, ma chatte. You're in 'I want to get my ass railed hard' mode."
Actually, I was in "leave me alone so I can binge on TV while shoving chips in my face all night" mode. Sadly, I knew Patrick wouldn't cave, so there was no point in arguing with him.
He grabbed the light blue shirt I was holding, his face contorting in disgust. "What the hell is this? A button-down shirt? We're not going to some meeting with your coworkers. Find something else."
I sighed and pulled out another shirt.
Patrick's mouth curled further down. "An ugly tank top? Really? And completely discolored at that. I don't think so."
He went through my clothes without asking, making a huge mess of my shelf while wrinkling his nose at everything he touched.
"Someone needs to take you shopping, mon lapin. Your sense of fashion is simply appalling. There are no words for..." He held out a gray tee-shirt that read "Totalement gay" in rainbow colors and scrunched up his face. "Really?"
"Hey, I got that at Pride." That was a lie. Cyrille had bought the shirt for me, but no way was I telling Patrick that. Not that I'd ever wear it anyway. I lived my life hiding my orientation from strangers. I wasn't about to go out with that shirt on my back, branding myself a target for all the homophobes out there.
I yanked the item out of Patrick's hands and threw it on the bed. He shook his head while wrinkling more fabric each time he pushed an item over the pile he'd made. Then he pulled out a flamboyant purple shirt.
My heart sank. That wasn't mine.
"Not that one," I said out loud, shaking my head as I lunged for the shirt he held out of my reach.
Patrick arched an eyebrow. "Yes, that one."
"No. It belongs to Cyrille. If he sees me in it, he'll think I'm a freak who's still pining over him."
Patrick burst out laughing. "Well, you are a freak still pining over him."
"I'm not wearing that," I signed quickly and managed to grab the shirt, which I put back in the wardrobe.
"Fine," Patrick signed back. "Show me Cyrille's favorite top, then."
"Why?"
"Because if he's there and you're wearing something he likes, he'll get the message you're over him, and you'll give him a hard-on that you won't relieve. That's why."
I clicked my tongue and pulled out a black tee-shirt that was so tight it molded to my chest. Whenever I wore that to go out, Cyrille couldn't keep his hands off me.
"He'll think I'm wearing it to get him back."
Patrick stared at me pointedly. "No, he won't because you'll be ignoring him the entire time, and you'll come home with someone else tonight."
Right! Wishful thinking.
He licked hi
s lips and tossed the shirt on the bed before snooping through my pants. He took out some black jeans torn at the knees—the kind that were so tight, they squeezed my balls until they hurt. I made a face. Great! Because feeling emasculated all night was exactly what I needed. Patrick seemed more than happy to torture me. He beamed at me and winked.
"I'm not wearing those jeans," I signed in protest.
"And why not?"
"Because." No way was I telling him about my case of blue balls and how I didn't want my sack squished in those pants, thank you very much.
"Because why?" he insisted.
"Because I said so."
Patrick's smile curled up on one side. "You're wearing those. End of discussion."
I let out a groan. There was no arguing with him when he was that stubborn.
"You do know I'm not over him, right?" I signed. "I just want him to think I am."
Patrick pursed his lips into a pout. "You will be. When you find someone tonight who fucks that douche right out of your head. Cyrille be gone!"
"I'm not doing it with anyone tonight. You know I don't do hook-ups."
"Oh I know! That's why you're so damn grumpy all the time. You gotta learn to live a little, mon lapin."
I grabbed the shirt and pants. Without waiting for his response, I headed out of the bedroom, crossed the hall, and entered the bathroom to change. Patrick stepped in just as I was pulling my pants down. I turned around, ready to slam the door in his face, but he was blocking the way.
"Do you mind?" I signed.
"Ma chatte, it's nothing I've never seen before."
I clicked my tongue and moved to make space for him, though his tall frame barely fit between my sink and shower.
"I need to wash up."
"You go do that. I'll wait," he signed.
"Well, get out!" I said out loud.
Patrick cracked up. "Mon chou, I've been around all kinds of dicks before, yours included. No need to be coy."
I crossed my arms over my chest and waited. "Yes, you have. Only because you don't know the meaning of boundaries, and you keep walking in on me changing."
He broke out in a fit of laughter and raised his hands. "Fine."
When he was finally out, I took off my external processor and enjoyed the profound silence. Though my cochlear implant let me hear sounds with my hearing aid on, I was completely deaf once I turned it off. I loved the silence since the noise overload of everyday life often exhausted me.
If Patrick was talking to me through the door, I couldn't tell. Nor could I hear the sound of my belt hitting the ground when I dropped my pants or the shower curtain being drawn, or the running water as I finally massaged shampoo into my dark brown hair. I tried not to stay in the shower too long, though washing up was my favorite part of the day. I couldn't hear the outside world interfering with my thoughts, and all my other senses opened up to a variety of sensations.
The rosewood scent of my soap filled the air of my steamy bathroom. I inhaled deeply and turned the water off, then grabbed a towel. After stepping out and wiping the foggy mirror, I dried myself and brushed my teeth before putting on what Patrick had chosen for me. As expected, the pants compressed my package too tightly. I winced and hoped I wouldn't get a hard-on at the club because that promised to be painful. I ran a comb through my hair and decided to let it dry naturally.
When I opened the door, Patrick pushed himself off the wall and whistled through his fingers.
"I can't hear you," I commented. "What about you? What are you wearing?"
"What do you think?" He gestured at his outfit: a black tank top over some stylish discolored jeans.
"I don't think that's gonna cut it." Though of course he looked gorgeous in his outfit. Patrick could wear a potato sack and still look incredible.
"I'm not the one who needs to get laid. Besides, all I have to do is bat my lashes, and they all fall into my lap. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."
I groaned at his over-confidence, but with jet-black hair cut on the sides and long on top, coupled with deep pea green eyes, Patrick was every gay man's wet dream—or almost. Tall and lean, he hovered over me by at least one head. His skin was naturally tanned, his face riveting with straight features, a long nose, and plump lips.
Most people thought we were a couple, or they assumed we'd at least had sex once. They couldn't be any more wrong. But then again, most people also pegged Patrick as a bottom, and I knew for a fact he was a top only because he enjoyed bragging about shagging almost as much as he liked doing it.
"You ready?" he asked.
I acquiesced and noticed his eyes gearing toward my processor still resting in its protective case on top of the sink.
"You're not taking it?"
"There's no point," I signed. I could dance to the vibrations and beats coursing through my body. I didn't want to wear the processor tonight.
"Okay. Whatever you say. You're driving?"
"I thought it was my night."
"You and I both know you never drink."
"Fine."
I took one last glimpse in the mirror and pushed past Patrick to go grab my phone and wallet from the living room table. "Let's go."
The ride wasn't so bad, and neither was finding a parking spot on Carnot Square. At the entrance of the dance club, the bouncer barely glanced at our IDs before he flashed me a flirty smirk, his eyebrow raised at me suggestively. He said something, but he was talking too fast. I couldn't read his lips. His expression fell when I couldn't understand what he wanted. Patrick grabbed my hand and led me inside.
"What was he asking?" I signed. I'd only managed to catch one word of the guy's mumbles. "Did he want my number?"
"Yes, totally unprofessional."
"He was hot, though." He had beautiful dark brown skin, sharp features, and I could outline the shapes of his muscles underneath his form-fitting white tank top.
Patrick froze and gave me a long once-over. "You wanted to give him your number?"
"No."
He pursed his lips. "Didn't think so. You're a lost cause, really."
The truth was I didn't want to date anyone whose lips I couldn't read. There was no point in wasting my time. Because of my implant, many people considered me part of their hearing world. I wasn't. I was deaf. Profoundly deaf.
Sure, I could take that bouncer home, let him do me, and then what? Most guys only wanted to bang. Unless they were willing to learn French Sign Language—and most of them didn't—they'd never belong in my world or fully understand my culture.
When I followed Patrick inside, the vibrations of the bass coursed right through my body, telling me the tune was really loud. I enjoyed the sensations and let my core take them all in. There was something special about feeling the music without hearing it, a totally different experience that hearing people missed out on completely.
Patrick wrapped his arm around my shoulders and kissed my cheek before giving me a wink, the strobe lights flashing over his face. I forced a smile and followed him through the throngs of people on the dance floor. The place was so packed, I had to elbow my way to the bar in the other room, where I stopped in my tracks. Right there on a stool, nursing a tequila, sat someone I hadn't seen in years. I blinked without moving when he turned his blond head toward me and gawked.
Chapter 5
FLORIAN
I stared at Enzo, unsure what to do or how to react. I hadn't seen him in such a long time. When I smiled at him, the deep scar on his left cheek carved into his skin as he replied with a grin of his own, along with a shy wave. I gaped like a moron. He was even more breathtaking than he used to be, taller and stronger too.
My eyes caught on the gorgeous male with his arm around Enzo's shoulders. Something inside me sank. I could either be a coward and ignore Enzo, or I could be the bigger person and ask him to join me for a drink—even if that meant watching him flirt with that hot guy all evening.
Enzo was staring back at me without moving, so I took that as my cue to bec
kon him forward. The man next to him raised a questioning eyebrow, but Enzo signed at him, explaining I was someone he used to know in high school. The guy crinkled his forehead and glared at me with eyes so green, I couldn't help but stare. Even their hypnotizing tint wouldn't soften the warning in his glower.
Enzo chuckled at the guy's reaction and grabbed his hand, leading him toward me.
I had forgotten how beautiful he was when he laughed. Even in my fondest memories, he had never looked as good as he did now. The scar on his face only heightened his splendor, especially since I knew what it represented. I tried hard not to gawk, but it felt so good to see him again and get confirmation he was well.
Enzo kept smiling at me shyly, but before he could reach my level, the other guy stood in the way.
"Florian, is that it?" he asked with a hint of hostility.
"Yeah."
I held out my hand to shake his, but he snubbed me, leaning forward instead, blocking Enzo's view. "I don't remember Enzo telling me about any friends in high school. If anything, I only remember him talking about his bullies."
I clenched my teeth at the threat under his tone. "I'm not going to hurt him if that's what you're implying."
Before I could add anything, Enzo pushed the guy out of the way to let him know it was rude to talk without him knowing what was being said.
"Everyone does that," he signed, his cheeks beet-red. "They think I don't know they're talking about me. It's foul, Patrick."
Patrick raised his chin and signed back, "I was just telling your friend he'd better not hurt you. That's all. I never hide anything from you, mon poussin, so don't even pretend."
I made a face at the pet name. They seemed so intimate, they were either fucking a lot or their friendship was even stronger than an affair. I couldn't tell which, but it was clear Patrick was protective of Enzo. This had to piss Enzo off, though; he wasn't the type who liked to be cocooned.
Patrick's gaze flicked to me when I winced. "You know what we're saying?" he asked out loud.
I smirked and signed, "Yes, I know what you're saying."
