Interpreter

by Kristy Marie

  I rush to her as fast as I can without falling too. “Stop flailing,” I tell her.

  “My ankle. I think I twisted it.” Her face is pulled tight as she tries sitting up to examine her foot. “My shoes!”

  And we’re back to the shoes. Fuck her ankle. Let’s focus on her shoes. That sounds logical.

  “Can you take them off of me?” she begs. “Hurry, so they don’t ruin!”

  I reach underneath her knees, ignoring the nonsense coming from her lips.

  “What are you doing? Why aren’t you saving my shoes?”

  Because it’s ridiculous. With one hand around her back and the other under her knees, I give her an expression that simply implies to hush. “Hold on to me.” I don’t need to tell her twice.

  Those caramel-colored eyes go wide and blink one, two, three times. “Okay.”

  Okay. Good. Because I did not just mean to go all Alpha Marine on her. I’m positive my voice doesn’t sound nearly as intimidating as it used to. The irrational fear that I sound weird speaking to her that way consumes me to the point I regret speaking at all. Fucking Dr. Parker started all this shit.

  Milah loops her arms around my neck and buries her head against me. Skin to skin. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that with a woman. And right now, I feel everything. Her lips against my neck, her minty breath fanning out against the scruff of my cheek. Her breasts against my chest…. Please, God, don’t let me get a boner right here and now. An elementary school bathroom is not an appropriate place to be hard.

  Cautiously, I step through the puddles of toilet water and make it to the sink. I ease her down and make sure she’s steady before I pull back.

  “Thank you,” she says. Her hands shake the tiniest bit with her signs. I don’t answer her nor give her any of those rare smiles she talks about.

  I breathe.

  And then I drag my fingertips down her bare thigh past her knee to her ankle where the strap of the shoe is buckled against her warm flesh. My hands seem so big against the small and delicate buckle, but I’m able to unbuckle it quickly, slipping it past her champagne-painted toes.

  Her lips mumble something, but all I catch is wet so I don’t ask her to repeat it.

  “Your ankle isn’t swollen. That’s a good sign,” I tell her almost clinically. The struggle to not let my fingers explore the rest of her tanned legs is painful.

  “They are used to it. This isn’t the first time I’ve fallen in heels.” She shrugs, her gaze ping-ponging between my lips and fingers.

  “You don’t like flats or just a little bit of a heel?” I mean, if you fall occasionally or sprain an ankle, it seems a little senseless, but then again, I’m a dude.

  “Never!” Her face is insulted. “My heels are my signature.”

  Well, that’s a new one. “Your signature?”

  She nods. “Gretchen has the perfect eyebrows. Felipe has the perfect ass. I have stilettos. Everyone needs a signature.”

  I hum. Is my signature my deafness? My jaw clenches. It is. I know it is. I bet if you asked anyone in our small town, they would tell you, “Oh, yeah, Tim. The deaf guy.” Not a Marine. Not an interpreter. Not even Tim the homeless guy. Deafness has taken over my life. I was wrong earlier when I told Dr. Parker I used to be somebody. I am somebody, just a deaf somebody. A somebody that I hate.

  “You know, like your signature is that terribly annoying personality of yours as well as being a piano genius.” My hands twitch around her ankle. I flash her a stern look.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds, her lip poking out in the cutest way. She bats my hand away. “You know you play the piano beautifully.”

  She’s purposely avoiding the elephant in the room here. “You know that’s not my signature.” Why am I pushing her on this? Maybe it’s because she’s never blown smoke up my ass or treated me differently, and here she is doing it now.

  She swats at me with her shoe. “I just love how you tell me what I was going to say. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me you can read my thoughts too. You can’t have everything, Tim. Leave some signatures for the rest of us untalented souls.” She pushes me with her foot, I’m guessing for me to move so she can get down.

  “What are you doing?”

  She wiggles, her bare thigh having a hard time moving to the edge of the sink. “I’m trying to get down so we can get this cleaned up. Doc had a heart attack a few months ago, and I don’t want to stress him out with this mess.”

  “Doc?” I move closer so she can’t get down.

  “The janitor. Move so I can help.”

  I shoot her a look that says she’s being funny. “Stay. I’ll do it. I don’t need you breaking a leg.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do” is her comeback.

  I sigh, moving between her thighs, preventing her escape. “I’m not asking.”

  “I’m not either.” She’s serious, and the pitiful little shove she gives me makes me smile.

  “The sooner you agree, the faster I get this cleaned up for Doc. Otherwise, I’ll stand here until Doc gets here.”

  Or I throw her over my shoulder and lock her in the classroom.

  She eyes the lack of space between her legs and swallows. “Okay, I’ll stay.”

  Thank fuck. My dick can’t handle any more of being between her thighs, her heat surrounding us. It’s fucking up my head. I eye her one more time, making sure she isn’t going to jump down and decide to help me anyway. When she just raises her brows, mockingly, I take a step back and find the plunger she tossed when she fell.

  It takes me a few minutes to unclog the toilets. The little shits had shoved plastic wrap and paper towels in them. I guess it could have been worse and it could have been a true clog with—I don’t even want to think about it.

  “I think I have it stopped for now. What do you want me to clean it up with?”

  Milah, like a good girl, is still perched on the sink, rubbing her ankle. I knew it hurt. “The drain in the floor will take care of most of it. Doc will need to mop, but maybe we could wipe up the water with paper towels?”

  I agree, and she pulls a few towels out of the dispenser and hands them over.

  “I’m guessing I still can’t get down,” she adds, rolling her eyes dramatically.

  “You guessed right.”

  For some reason, Milah is pushing me hard today. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t know me that well and doesn’t understand my personality or upbringing. But regardless, her stubborn ass jumps off the sink and immediately her face pulls tight in pain.

  “Are you always this stubborn, or is it just with me?”

  Her head is slow to pull up and face me, but when I finally see her eyes, they are heated. I’ve lit the fuse again. “Are you always so stubborn?”

  “Yes.” My answer is simple and truthful. “But you’re hurt. I’d like for you to keep those injuries at a minimum.” That came out wrong. I don’t want her to injure herself more. I can handle this. She doesn’t need to help just so she can prove to me that she can.

  “I’m fine,” she says, limping a few steps back to the sink where she can lean for support. “It’s not sprained, just sore. It’ll be fine tomorrow.” Her eyes are earnest when she flashes me a tender smile. “Thanks for helping get it all cleaned up.”

  It’s not all cleaned up, I want to say. She keeps being a pain in my ass, and I can’t get it cleaned up while worrying about her. “I’ll finish up here” is all I say. Less is more sometimes. Especially when she looks at me like she wants to touch me or ask me something.

  “I, uh—” Her eyes dart to the door and I follow.

  A man in his late fifties and coveralls stands in the doorway shaking his head. “Just when I think I’ve seen it all.”

  Milah smiles at the man, and her chest rises in quick succession. She’s laughing. “I’m sorry, Doc. We got it stopped but haven’t gotten very far with the cleanup.” She gives me a look like it’s my fault.

  “Are you hurt,” Doc a
sks, pointing to her shoeless foot. I feel something smug-like stretch across my face.

  “She sprained her ankle,” I jump in for no good reason other than to piss Milah off. With my answer, she can’t make up shit to tell Doc. Now she knows she’s being ridiculous since both of us have given her a look that says she needs to get her sexy, and injured, ass out of this bathroom.

  “It’s not sprained,” she says for the thousandth time, and neither Doc nor I believe it.

  He looks over her head and greets me with a tip of his chin. “You get her to the nurse, and I’ll finish up.”

  Milah’s mouth opens, but I don’t give her a chance to say shit. I scoop her up and toss her over my shoulder, her ass right at my jawline. I shouldn’t have gone with the fireman hold. I should have scooped her up wedding style, but then her face would have been in my chest. So really, either way, I was going to be uncomfortable.

  I nod at Doc, both of us ignoring Milah kicking and probably saying all kids of hateful shit over my shoulder. “Here’s her shoe,” he says, handing it to me.

  “Thanks. I’ll come back to help you as soon as I get her to the nurse.”

  Doc is already getting out his mop and supplies with his back to me, so if he says something, I miss it.

  But then I feel it. Milah draws the words on my back. “No worries.”

  She’s translating. Even when she’s mad at me.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell him and then take the girl, who is probably cursing me in another language, back out into the hall.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, setting her down right outside the nurse’s door. I don’t have to say what for. She knows, and she confirms it by waving me off. “You couldn’t see him. Now”—she points to her shoe in my hand, slipping off the other and handing it to me—“set these in my window before you help Doc. I want them dry before I go home.”

  This woman. “You’re not driving with a bad ankle.”

  She just stares at me, both of us locked in a silent war. “How else am I going to get home?”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “I thought someone picked you up every day?”

  Ahh! Fucking Dr. Parker! I look to the ceiling. Is this what you wanted, Dr. Parker? Is this what you wanted me to do? To feel helpless? To force me to fight?

  Something in my gut says yes. Dr. Parker wants me to see what I’m missing. I don’t have a car, and because I haven’t given a fuck about moving on, I can’t help a friend out.

  “I’ll drive your car, and my brother can pick me up from your place.” It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I got in this situation.

  “And if I say no?” She has the audacity to ask.

  “Then it will be a long, hot walk. My back will probably hurt from all your kicking and screaming, but we should be there by sundown.”

  Her stare never wavers. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

  I give her a few blinks just so she knows her comment doesn’t distress me. “Ditto.” And then I turn and walk down the hall, a pair of sparkly shoes in my hand.

  As promised, Tim took me home. Driving my piece-of-shit car across town and pulling up into Magic Michelle’s parking lot. He doesn’t ask why he’s dropping me off here. He probably thinks I’m working my next shift.

  “Are you sure I can’t take you back home?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head, glancing down at his phone. “No, Mason is on his way.”

  I’m nosy, sue me. “Is Mason the one who always picks you up after school?”

  Again he shakes his head, eyeing me warily. “No. Generally, it’s whoever is available.”

  “Oh.” I sit there, in my own passenger side seat, and worry my lip. Gah, I want to ask him a million questions, but I feel like, after the day we’ve had, it will scare him off.

  “Why don’t you drive yourself?” There goes the scaring him off concern… I couldn’t help myself.

  I wait as he hums, biting his bottom lip as if he’s trying to prevent himself from telling me, but then he sighs, and I know he’s going to give me just a little something. “I don’t have a car.”

  What? Is that it? I guess I look shocked because he laughs a rumbling sound that has way too much sexy floating around in this small space.

  “What? You thought it was something secretive?”

  Well, kind of. I thought it was juicer than he just didn’t own a car.

  “Do your brothers all have cars?”

  This nosy-ass question seems to give him more pause than my general, why don’t you drive one, but he answers me, even if it is curt.

  “Yes.”

  “And what? You don’t want to increase your carbon footprint so you don’t have one out of principle?” Let it go, Milah. Clearly, you are pissing him off. It will be your fault when he cracks a tooth with all the jaw clenching he’s doing.

  “I’ve never needed a car.”

  Oh, well, I can see that. I still think he needs a car though. It’s not like Madison is a big city with public transport and sidewalks. Miles separate the small city from the rural homes.

  “What if you have an emergency?”

  Clearly, I’m having a hard time letting all this go. Well, that’s not even it. I guess I just want to know more about him. Anything that I can pull out of him will be fine.

  Tim rolls his eyes, checks his phone one more time, and opens the door. At first, I think he’s not going to answer me when he slams the door and walks around the front of the car. Holy Fanoli! He’s opening my car door. Have you ever? Well, I have never had that happen, so let me have my moment here.

  The breeze zips through the opening and the man that could probably bench press this car (it’s possible, you haven’t seen his arms), squats. How I want to run my hands through his hair and kiss the stupid scowl off his lips. Whoa. Slow down, girl. Remember, Tim isn’t looking for a one-nighter. From what you can tell, he has trust issues, and probably a few self-esteem issues. But regardless of both of those things, I’d still like to see him naked—maybe with his head between my legs.

  “How is your ankle?” he says all gravelly, and it only fuels the lusty tingles betraying my body. Down tingles, now is inappropriate.

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, rolling it with a little pain that I mask quickly. “I’ll be back in my signature heels tomorrow. Don’t you worry.”

  This doesn’t earn me a smile. Instead, I hear tires pull up behind us, and somehow I know his ride is here.

  “Can I help you inside?”

  I almost laugh. Can he help me inside? He just thinks I’m like a dog with a bone. If Felipe gets one look at this man, it will be over. Tim will be shoved down into a booth and drilled with questions and, more than likely, comments about his looks before he inevitably runs screaming from Magic Michelle’s.

  “You’ve done enough already,” I tell him with a smile while he looks at the sky as if he’s praying, but there’s no way he’s praying because I’m being nice, not aggravating. “I will be fine walking in.” I touch his shoulder and smother a moan. You have not felt masculinity until you’ve felt this man’s shoulders. Muscles on top of muscles. It’s like a frenzy of rubber bands all shoved under his skin, stretching and pulling tight under my fingers.

  Let him go, girl, before you do something crazy. Like ask him to carry you to bed.

  “Are you sure?” he worries, his eyes glancing back over to the car where I assume his ride is waiting.

  “I’m sure,” I lie sweetly. If he comes in right now, he won’t come back out until the sun comes up. Girlfriend is getting needy, and after feeling his cock between my thighs and that bossy attitude… yeah, I’m a little pent-up.

  “Okay.” His voice is quiet. “If you’re sure.”

  I’m not, but I can tell he’s on the fence too. We do not need to cross this line together. Not yet anyway.

  “See you tomorrow.” I say, hoping to shoo him off before I change my mind.

  “Tomorrow,” he agrees with a curt nod and one lazy drag of his
fingers from my knee to my ankle. Oh God, please go before I come in the parking lot.

  With one last look at each other, Tim rises and leaves. Just like that. No asking if I’m working the pole tonight barefoot. No begging to help me come or grabbing me and whisking me off to the bedroom for a good romp. Nothing. Just empty space in front of me where his big body used to be.

  “I have got to get laid,” I tell the probably ruined shoes in the floorboard. They will be no help in that situation thanks to the little hellions who decided to amuse themselves with school property.

  Ugh.

  Slowly, I drag myself out of the car and limp into Magic Michelle’s, the smell of alcohol and perfume slapping me back to reality.

  “Hola, mami! How was Mr. Hot-broody-and-oh-so-swoony?”

  Some days I think, how is this my life? How is it that I traveled thousands of miles to a foreign country, found a great job, and get to come home to two shirtless dudes? You should be jealous. I’m living the American dream. The only thing I’m missing is the hot co-teacher in my bed tonight.

  “You’re doing it all wrong, Pe,” I say, totally ignoring his question about Tim, rather choosing to focus on his severely lacking technique at the Rumba.

  Marcus pulls up from Felipe’s dip and gives me a secretive wink. See? He knows it sucked too.

  “Since you’re avoiding the question, I assume your day was filled with angsty sexual tension that nearly made you come on the copier.”

  It wasn’t the copier I almost came on but the passenger seat of my car.

  I narrow my eyes at Felipe who has now moved to the side of the stage where the baby grand piano holds his towel. “Why are you so sweaty? I thought you were only singing?”

  Every year, Marcus and Felipe celebrate their anniversary with a party. The entertainment? The two of them sharing their love of Céline Dion. Felipe says her music brought them together, and so they honor her by singing a couple of her songs every year to celebrate. It’s an epic performance, if I must say. Felipe is one of the most talented singers I’ve ever seen. And when he dresses in drag, looking just like a Mexican Céline, it’s a performance not to be forgotten. My Pe is a showstopper.