Read My Lips (A College Obsession Romance)

by Daryl Banner

  Figuring it to be safe, I give a mild shrug and follow him into the noise. The bowling alley is packed tonight with people of all ages, from families with children to college students. Even a pair of elderly couples occupy lane fifteen.

  It’s lane twenty near the wall where the guys are set up. Dmitri rises from his seat, a short, chalky-skinned guy with black spiky hair and thick glasses that remind me so much of Sam’s, I’d think I was staring at her if it weren’t for the blue and red tattoo running up his arm. He wears a black tank top and dark grey shorts that cut-off just below the knee.

  “This is the one,” Brant says in half a whisper to Dmitri, though I hear it perfectly.

  They lean into each other. “What one?”

  “The girl.”

  “Clayton’s?”

  “Yup.”

  Dmitri pulls away from his friend and shoves his hands in his pockets, facing me. He even smiles the same as Sam, his lips flat-lining. “Hi. I’m Dmitri.”

  “Dessie,” I return.

  Brant sighs. “Oh, hell. The fuckers are here.”

  Dmitri squints through his glasses. “The who?”

  “My dipshit opponents from Sigma Phi Dildo,” he answers, “whose asses I’m gonna whip into Saturday.”

  “It is Saturday.”

  “Sunday, then. I’ll get your water, Dessie,” he tells me suddenly, then hops away through the crowd.

  The benches opposite us are quickly filled by the loud frat boys I saw in the arcade. Two of them give me a more-than-obvious once-over. I turn away, not appreciating the attention and growing more and more annoyed by the second at Clayton’s absence.

  “You okay?”

  I look up at Dmitri. “I’m just wondering where Clayton is, to be honest.”

  “I could text him,” he offers, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Not like him to be late to anything.”

  “Thanks.” In stark contrast to Brant, he has no southern drawl at all. “You’re a poetry major?”

  “That damn Brant! I’m a creative writing major.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “And I’ve probably told him twenty or thirty times and he just blanks out. Poor guy can’t process a damn thing past his wiener, I swear.”

  I laugh, then cross my arms and glance at the frat boys who’ve occupied the other half of our lane. There is at least ten of them, but only four seem to be changing their shoes. I wonder for a moment who else is on Brant’s team, as the only other one who seems to be here is Dmitri. Isn’t this supposed to be some kind of tournament or something?

  “It all goes down at nine,” Dmitri explains to me.

  I nod. “And Brant’s team is … where?”

  “Who knows. I’m only here to support him. Oh, I forgot about Clayton. All that about Brant calling me a poetry major got me distracted.” He starts typing into his phone. “Clay … ton … exclamation point … Where … the … hell … are … you … question mark,” he narrates as he types. “And send. There we go. I bet he’ll walk right through the door any second.”

  It all starts at the corner store.

  I go to pick up some drinks and a couple other things we’re out of. I don’t want to be presumptuous or assume I’m bringing Dessie back to our place, but just in case we do hit it off, I want our apartment to be in a good state and adequately … equipped.

  When I get up to the counter, the clerk asks me a question. I don’t catch it, leaning forward to read his lips better. He asks it again, then points at my pile of stuff. Is he asking for my ID? I pull out my wallet and show it to him. The clerk rolls his eyes, then asks me the same damn question. I don’t know what the fuck he’s asking. I point to my ears and shake my head; usually that gives them the message.

  And that’s when the asshole behind me taps my shoulder with more aggression than you give a person you don’t know.

  I turn, annoyed. It’s some chunky dude in a polo, the russet skin of his face wrinkling as he glares at me under a mess of sandy-brown hair. He’s got two buddies with him, each carrying a six-pack. This kid spits a question of his own at me.

  And I read his lips perfectly: “You deaf??”

  No, he’s not actually asking me. He’s just being a little prick. I turn back to the clerk, ignoring the kid, then pull out my phone to type to the clerk, figuring it the best way to communicate.

  The fucker behind me disagrees, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. His face crushed into a scowl, he waves his hands at my phone and spits more words and curses at me. I’m guessing he thinks that I am actually texting some buddy of mine and holding up the line deliberately.

  I show my screen to the clerk while glaring at this dude, a second away from pushing a fist through his fucking face. Then, I return my attention to the clerk, whose attitude seems to have changed now that he knows I’m actually deaf. Whatever he was concerned with, he seems to not care anymore, ringing up and bagging the items. I pay for the goods, then swipe the bag off the counter.

  And on my way out of the store, I push open the door with my back, facing the fucker that was behind me, and give him the finger.

  People can be such pricks. Some don’t want to see the truth that’s right before their eyes; they’d rather see their own truths and live in a world full of things that agree with their own beliefs. No one wants a challenge. No one wants to learn anymore. Once they graduate school, they act like all their learning’s over with and, for the rest of their lives, the world has to bend to their limited understanding of it.

  The worst part is, I wonder if I would be just as much of a prick as that dude behind me in line was … had I not lost my hearing. I wasn’t a good person as a snotty, fuck-head twelve-year-old. I was selfish. I was greedy. I was dishonest. I had no honor, no sense of justice, and little compassion for others.

  And maybe, just maybe if I hadn’t lost my hearing and spent my high school years enjoying a lesson in humility, maybe I’d be the prick behind someone in line who says, “Hey, dipshit, you deaf?”

  Hey, dipshit, you deaf?

  Can you hear me?

  Listen up, dumbass.

  The fuck is wrong with you?

  I don’t make it halfway home before something blunt and impolite clubs me over the head.

  I stumble, the ground turning uneven suddenly and my feet becoming unsure of where to be placed. I turn too slow and watch the bony knuckles of some mystery attacker as they rush forth to marry and divorce my left cheekbone in one clumsy swing.

  The pavement is next to meet my face. No matter how many times I blink, I keep seeing stars. It’s no joke; when you get hit in the face that hard, all you see is a fucking solar system, and somewhere through that mess of twisted galaxies and unnamed planets, you get flashes of the street you’re kissing, barely lit by a setting sun and an unhelpful streetlamp nearby.

  I turn onto my back and lift my hands, expecting something else to hit me. When nothing does, I blink twenty more times until I realize there’s no one there.

  I sit up and turn, catching sight of three figures as they disappear down the street.

  Three to one? Hitting me from behind? What a dick move.

  Furious suddenly, I scramble to my feet and shout after them, tearing down the road and determined to put my fist through each of their skulls.

  But my left leg gives, a wicked cramp working its way into my hip joint, and I tumble over, collapsing and allowing the road itself to punch me yet again. When I try to rise, a whole new family of pain makes a home in my leg.

  I shout out, cussing at the dumb fucks. I shout so loud I feel spit on my chin.

  All of this shouting. All of this silence.

  After some time, my skull reminds itself that I was bashed in the head a few times. Pain lances through my brain, somehow stinging my eyes. I bring a few fingers to my cheek, then pull them back. Blood. The fuckers split my cheek open with one lucky hit. He must’ve been wearing a ring or something.

  I take a deep breath and get back to my feet. Wi
th a slight limp, I make my way back to the bags I’d abandoned at the spot I was attacked. One of them is toppled, the one with the drinks. Something clearly broke, a stream of dark liquid drawing itself across the pavement like long creepy fingers.

  Fucking great.

  I’m so pissed. And the more pissed I get, the more my cheek throbs, as if punishing me for my anger. I suck in air, then blow it all out, ignoring the ache that washes over my face.

  I take home whatever I can salvage from the bags, the fuckers dripping the whole way. I’m fuming about the incident, refusing to feel sorry for myself or see myself as some victim. Fuck that. I keep picturing that prick from the store. “Are you deaf??” Even though I didn’t get a clear look at any of them, I know it was him and his buddies who attacked me.

  They better hope they don’t go to Klangburg. If I ever see them on campus, the end of my fist will be the last glorious sight they enjoy before I blind them.

  I check myself in the mirror before I leave the apartment, then let out a healthy “Fuck!” as I survey the damage. I wet a washcloth and run it over my face, caring for the wound on my cheek, which is just an inch below my eye. If the fucker hit me just a touch higher, I’d have been blinded. I wonder suddenly if I have a concussion. To be honest, I can’t say whether it was fist or weapon that hit me first.

  I use the washcloth over the back of my head, unsure if I’m bleeding there too. Soon, my whole face is a mess of wetness, and I have a bandage slapped over my cheek, which stings when I apply it. I run a hand through my hair and stare at my reflection, the bitterness and the fury sizzling beneath my eyes.

  After I lock up the apartment behind me and make my way down the road, I curse the fact that I forgot to check the condition of my own room. It’s probably a fucking mess. I was too occupied cleaning up my face, lost in my boiling anger and picturing a hundred and twenty alternative ways that encounter could’ve gone—all one hundred and twenty ending with me standing over their bloodied bodies. Still, even wearing my anger as armor, I find myself looking over my shoulder twenty times on the way to the bowling alley. Better safe.

  Just before I reach the glass doors, my phone gives a shake in my pocket, startling me. I wince as I reach to grab it, some totally new and annoying ache in my shoulder making itself known. I free the phone and lift the screen to my strained eyes:

  DMITRI

  Clayton! Where are you?

  I sigh, ignoring it since I’m already here. I push my way in, the stench of the place dancing unwelcomed up my nostrils. The guy at the counter waves, then flashes me a number of fingers, his hands opening and closing two times to indicate lane twenty. I give him a nod of thanks, then make my way.

  Brant whips around the corner out of nowhere and grabs me for a hug. I snort and wince in pain, caught off-guard by him as he thanks me profusely for coming.

  Then his face changes when he gets a good look. “The fuck happen to you?” I think he asks. I shrug and wave him off. He grabs my arm, stopping me as I try to move past him. Reeling me around to face him again, he asks, “You fall down the stairs?”

  I could laugh if I didn’t know it’d hurt like fuck. I lick my lips and say, “I’m fine,” with my voice sending tremors up my jaw and to my cheek. Even speech hurts.

  He frowns, then beckons me over with a shake of his head. I follow him to lane twenty where I see the opposing team has set up shop. Through the crowd of them, I catch Dmitri with the rest of what I take to be Brant’s team: two Hispanic chicks—who, if I recall, are an on-and-off couple, but no one talks about it—and a computer nerd black dude named Josiah who’s a head taller than me and always seems to be smiling.

  Dmitri rises from the bench the second he spots me, rushing up to my side. What happened? he signs.

  I use as few signs as possible: Nothing. Fell.

  He shakes his head: You should clean up. Bathroom. You’re bleeding through your bandage.

  I huff irritably: It’s not that bad.

  Dmitri lifts his eyebrows, which carry his glasses up a bit with them: Yes, it is. Dessie is in the bathroom. Fix yourself up before she returns.

  The spelling out of her name sobers me at once. Of course she’s here already. I’m late. I move my hands: How long has she been here? How long has she been waiting? Do I really look that bad?

  When Dmitri’s eyes avert, I realize I’m too late.

  I turn to find Dessie standing there. My god. She gets more beautiful every time I see her. She’s wearing some cute white peasant top thing over a pair of jeans that hug her sexy, curvy shape. They hang low on the hips, leading my disobedient eyes straight to them—and my imagination straight to what smooth sexiness resides underneath.

  And her pretty face … it’s evident from the subtle makeup and the pink of her lips that she fixed herself up a little for our hanging out tonight. Even with the smog of our regrettable environment, I swear I can smell her through it—lilac and fruit and something else I can’t name, something fresh and inviting.

  I can’t trust myself in a room alone with her. I would rip off that innocent-looking white top and strip down those hot as fuck jeans.

  Fuck … what I’d do to her … I’d own those lips for longer than just one fleeting moment in a cherry-picker, that’s for sure.

  So mesmerized by her, I belatedly realize her lips are moving. “What happened?” she’s asking.

  I shake my head, then murmur a word to her.

  “What?” she says, leaning in closer.

  I guess the place is louder than I realized. I tell her, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But the words rattle my jaw and I wince against the pain.

  Dmitri steps in, puts an apologetic hand on Dessie’s shoulder, then signs: Maybe you two should go back to the apartment and hang out. I’ll stay and support Brant. You’ll have the place to yourself for at least a couple hours, maybe more.

  I feel my face flushing. I don’t know if it’s because of the attention Dmitri’s signing is earning us, or if it’s because of the pain, or if it’s because he’s basically giving me permission to take Dessie back to our place and have ample time … alone together.

  He seems to be relaying the message to Dessie, as he leans into her and says something. I feel my heart jerk awake, hopping around inside my ribcage as I wonder frustratedly what he’s saying to her.

  She gives a shrug in response, then says something back to him. I look at her eyes questioningly. She spreads her hands, then says something to me. I don’t quite understand until Dmitri signs: She said yes. You two can hang at the apartment. It’s too loud here.

  Too loud. What a concept.

  I lift a brow at her. “You sure?”

  Dessie nods, the waves of her long, brown hair dancing when she does, and her cheeks seem to flush the same shade as her beautiful, kissable lips. Fuck.

  Behave, Clayton.

  Oh my god. We’re going back to his place.

  This breaks about ten of the rules I set for myself before agreeing to this whole “innocent hanging out” thing with Clayton Watts.

  My hands are sweating.

  My mouth has gone so dry, I’m sucking on my tongue.

  I can barely put one foot in front of the other without threatening to trip myself on the way down the street to his place, which is apparently a couple blocks over from the Throng.

  “So …” I say out of habit as we walk, then shake my head, feeling dumb. It’s not like we can talk on the way. This was such a stupid idea. When I turn to look at him, however, he seems to have noticed my mouth move. “Sorry.” I laugh, feeling dumber. “I, um … So … You fell?”

  Clayton nods slowly.

  “Dmitri told me,” I explain, speaking slow. I don’t know if he can see my lips in the semidarkness that well. I deliberately time my remarks for when we pass each streetlamp along the road. “And Dmitri said he doesn’t believe you.”

  Clayton chuckles dryly, though he doesn’t smile. He looks in pain. My heart crushes in.

  Even
as we walk, he keeps his eyes on me. I get the feeling he’s trying not to miss a word of what I’m saying. Instead of feeling self-conscious, I feel oddly touched by the gesture.

  “I didn’t realize everything was so close,” I tell him. “Bowling alley, just down the street from the Throng, which is just a block or two from your place, which is right across the road from campus …”

  He smiles. I’m not sure he got what I said, but I smile back anyway and continue walking alongside him in the quiet. I try to ignore how nervous I am.

  We reach his apartment complex. His place on the first floor faces the main road, visible through a tall, wrought iron fence. He pushes a key into the door, then holds it open for me. I walk past him and catch a hint of his cologne. God, he smells like sex.

  “Thirsty?”

  The sound of that one soft, sexy word tickles me, sending chills up my neck. “I could maybe use a little something,” I admit after turning around to face him with a muted smile. “Yes,” I answer with a nod, just to be more clear. “Whatever you have.”

  He walks past me, the door shutting loudly at his back, then pulls open the fridge. He turns, lifting a questioning, expectant eyebrow.

  A spike of confidence hits me, inspiring me to straighten my back and take one step toward him. “I’ll help myself. How about you take a seat on the couch?”

  His brows pull together. “Huh?”

  I grip his arm—oh my god, he’s so fucking meaty—and guide him around the kitchen counter to the living room. He stares at me the whole time with questions in his defiant eyes. “As far as bandaging your own wounds,” I tell him with a smirk, “you suck at it.”

  He frowns, his eyes narrowed as I lead him to the couch, letting him sit. I’d almost call those eyes cute if he didn’t look so damn dangerous all the time.