Epilogue
LUCA
I’ve always loved Las Vegas, mostly because I’m Deaf and I love all the colorful lights. I could stand there on a busy street corner and just be awash in the visual noise. It makes my heart race and my skin tingle. This must be what hearing is like.
Overwhelming, sensory overload.
Whenever there’s a Deaf expo here, I always sign up. My brother has no interest in attending, even if it would be good for business. It’s a lot to do with Dante’s pain issues, but he’s also not a big fan of crowds. It’s one of the many ways we’ve always been complete opposites.
And frankly, seeing him and his new Vyastil roommate creeping toward something I’ve wanted for a while now and haven’t been able to find, it’s nice to get away. I’m happy for Dante, of course, and my heart is breaking for everything that Cielo has gone through.
But seeing them together—circling each other in a way I don’t think Dante fully understands yet—is a harsh reminder that I’m lonely.
It’s hard living in a small place where hardly anyone speaks my language. Where everyone expects me to meet them on their level. Where I am expected to adapt to a world I wasn’t really born for.
At the Deaf expo, at least for a little while, I’m surrounded by people who get it.
Who get me. I’m not as culturally Deaf as a lot of them.
I haven’t had the opportunity because I haven’t wanted to leave home to live in a place that has a strong Deaf community.
But it’s nice, for once, not to feel like such an outsider.
Everyone here is signing. I don’t need to struggle to read lips or switch my brain to English. I don’t need to worry that I won’t be understood, or that the noises I inadvertently make will make someone uncomfortable.
I stare down at my table, one half is full of the dick cookies I spent all week baking, and the other half is displaying some of the prototypes for the sex toys Dante has come up with over the last year. I’m not sure I’m going to get any contracts this year, but I’m going to try.
Vegas is an easier place to peddle these wares. The entire vibe is a lot less pearl-clutching and a lot more piqued curiosity as people stop by to snag a cookie and a business card. It makes me feel useful in a way I don’t often feel at home.
And I know part of that is my fault. I haven’t exactly thrown myself into passions or hobbies. When we got our inheritance from Nonna Giulia, all it did was enable me to continue not working.
I don’t regret renting my commercial space out to the Vyastil couple for their coffee shop, but it wasn’t like I went to bed as a kid dreaming of becoming a landlord.
And while baking the dick cookies for Dante has allowed me to feel somewhat creative, there’s still a piece of me that feels unfulfilled.
I just don’t know what to do about it. I feel like there’s something missing—something I’m searching for. But I have no idea what it is.
For now, I am lost.
A moment later, a tall man with dark hair and bright metallic-purple cochlear implants approaches. He has a very model-esque look with a chiseled jaw, five o’clock shadow, and very straight teeth when he smiles. He nods in greeting, and I fire one back.
His badge around his neck reads Asher, and I flash him mine, then offer my name sign before he does the same.
I don’t like to assume that everyone’s fluent in ASL, but I still ask with my hands, ‘Looking for anything specific?’
Asher grins and shakes his head. ‘Your booth seemed more interesting than the one with all the pickled fruit.’
I burst into laughter. ‘Why does that guy insist on pickling everything?’
He grins wider. It’s not uncommon that Deaf across the country know each other. Especially the ones who have haunted the expos. But I’m with him. Pickled corn, I can probably deal with. But strawberries? Absolutely fucking not.
‘Are you here alone?’ I ask. I haven’t seen him before, and I definitely would have recognized him.
He nods. ‘My brothers usually come with me, but they were all busy this year. We have a couple retail shops in Detroit.’
‘So, probably not able to stock vibrators or dick cookies?’ I ask.
His whole body moves with his laughter. ‘Probably not, but it might be worth considering expanding. Did you make all of this?’
‘The cookies,’ I tell him. ‘My brother does the other stuff. He’s got the only sex shop in our town.’
Asher blushes a little harder. It’s kind of cute. He’s not necessarily my type, but I try not to be super picky when I’m at these things. It’s definitely expected that people who aren’t tied down hook up.
And it’s kind of expected that people who are tied down sometimes do, too.
What happens in Vegas, and all that.
‘Is this making you uncomfortable?’ I ask. It feels nice to be straight-forward and not have to dance around hearing people’s polite social requirements and tender feelings.
He shrugs. ‘No, not really. Is your brother Deaf too?’
‘No. I’m the only one in the family,’ I tell him.
He grimaces, and it’s not the best feeling in the world. As much as I hate when hearing people feel sorry for me when they find out I’m Deaf, it gives me the same twitch when Deaf people act like my upbringing isn’t as good as theirs because I stand alone.
I have a good family. One that tries. My dad was the first one to become fluent after Dante, and while sometimes they forget to sign, they’re better than most.
They’re the reason that, as much as I’d love to live closer to a bigger Deaf population, I also never want to be too far from them.
‘My brothers all are, but my parents are hearing,’ he says. ‘Recessive gene or something. My mom got kind of obsessed with figuring it out.’
I’m tempted to ask if they all got CIs too, but as much as he’s probably used to invasive questions, I just can’t be fucked. Mostly because I’d rather be fucked.
I think I need to shoot my shot. I watch him pick up one of the butt plugs—Dante designed it for people with limited arm and hand mobility. When Asher looks back up at me, he sets the toy down and plucks one of the free condoms we have on the table.
‘You gay?’ I ask, and he shakes his head, his cheeks turning redder.
‘You?’
I shrug and then fingerspell pansexual. Listen, why discriminate when there are so many options out there?
Hell, I’d even go for a Vyastil if one was interested in me. I’ve seen the way Cielo looks at my brother. I wouldn’t mind a big dick to ride and for those long Vyastil tongues to wrap around my cock and suck.
The guy’s lips smack. ‘Are you looking to hook up? I could be your wingman.’
I grin at him. ‘If I fail tonight, maybe I’ll text you. Got a number?’
He pulls a card out of his wallet and pushes it toward me, and I grab one off the table to do the same. ‘My older brother’s bisexual, so I’ve done this before.’
It feels a little patronizing, but considering I’m on a months-long dry spell, I might actually need the help. ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’
The moment gets still and awkward, but only for a second. Asher pulls the bowl of condoms toward him. ‘Have?’
‘As many as you want,’ I tell him, so he shoves a handful of them into his pockets. Someone to the left, a tall woman with very dark hair, starts waving at him, and he bites his lip.
I tap him on the shoulder. ‘Go.’
He leans in for a hug, and I give one right back, a tight, one-armed squeeze. ‘Wish me luck,’ he whisper-signs between us.
‘Good luck,’ I offer back.
As I watch him go, I feel only the slightest tinge of jealousy because damn it, that’s what I want. Maybe not her. I’m not about to step on his toes, but damn it, I wouldn’t mind a little something.
A little someone.
But I’m starting to think this trip to Vegas is going to be as dry as I spent my entire summer.
I take a sip of water from my bottle, the one that says I Like It Wet. It’s warmer out here than it is in Michigan. It’s still cold, but it’s hella dry, which I’m not used to at all.
My throat has been so fucking parched, and I’ve gone through a full tube of lip balm and am working through my second.
Swallowing all the water, I scan the busy scene, people meandering around, hands flying, captions on screens flashing.
I wonder if it’s loud here. I think it has to be.
My interpreter friend, Seth, came last year and said it was a cacophony of hearing-aid whistles, Deaf mouth smacks, loud coin noises from all the slot machines in the main casino, music blaring from speakers, and the overwhelming chatter from the Vegas tourists.
I don’t envy that he has to deal with all of that.
I inhale deeply as I peer over at the table listing all the food options that are in the back parking bay. There’s a Deaf taco truck I’ve had my eye on for a while.
My stomach rumbles as I debate closing down my stall for a minute to go over there and grab something to eat. It’s not like I’ve had a flood of customers, so why not?
I reach for the sign I have under the table, but as I’m unfolding it, my eyes snag on someone across the room walking toward me. A very tall someone who is very much not a human.
A Vyastil steps out from behind a massive rolling cart, and two other Vyastil trail behind him, their eyes alert, their tails wrapped tightly around their waists.
My eyes go back to the Vyastil in the front with sea-green hair braided in an intricate pattern down his back. He’s not naked like most of them are. He’s wearing a linen shirt hanging low to his knees like a tunic and a belt cinched around the middle.
His feet are bare, of course. I’ve never seen a Vyastil wear shoes, and I would be surprised if they make anything to cover those massive claws.
There’s a single pause, and then he looks up at me. He has those rainbow eyes they all seem to possess. They’re so fucking intriguing. Hypnotic, almost. Like a kaleidoscope of color.