FascinatingRhythm (2 page)

Hunter played drums, sat at the back, his hair obscuring his
face for much of the performance. When he removed his shirt, he did it so the
audience could look at his chest and hopefully not at his face, but the tricks
weren’t working anymore. People recognized him in the street sometimes,
although not with the regularity that Riku, Jace and Zazz, the front men, were
regularly mobbed. Their sax player, V, being a woman, could disguise herself
more effectively.

His mother smiled slightly and gestured with her efficient
hands, nails trimmed short, blunt-ended. “It’s hard to miss it. Your concert
was on the TV news yesterday.”

Indicating that she hadn’t watched it specially. Despite his
age and how hard he’d worked for his independence, a shard of pain sliced
through him cleanly, leaving only a slight ache behind.

He turned his head when he felt a touch. Sabina was standing
next to him, and as he glanced down at where her hand had just brushed his, he
sensed she was looking back at him. He barely snagged her gaze before she
returned her attention to his mother.

“I would like to take you to dinner tonight, Mother.” He had
no hope of her agreeing. And so it proved to be.

She gave an exasperated shrug. “I cannot. I have much to do
before the concert.”

“Another night.” Signing had come back to him as if he’d
never stopped, his fingers moving fluently. A little hesitation when he’d first
arrived, but after that, it was as if he’d never left. Strange. He’d spent all
his life bilingual, and for most of it trilingual, because he spoke English and
American Sign Language too. A little Finnish, some French. He could only sign
in Swedish and English. “I have had calls from journalists wanting to interview
me because of you. I told them I must have equal space for the deaf separatist
party, but so far they have not accepted. If you told them you would not speak
to them unless they discussed the topic, that would help.”

As usual, she’d put him in an impossible position. “I can’t,
Mother.” Wouldn’t. “We have agreed to interview as a band, we rarely do it
separately.” He took a breath. She wouldn’t like what he was about to tell her.
“I will not ally the band to a particular political campaign. I will speak out
for the rights of the deaf, but you know I don’t agree with deaf separatism.”

“Why not?”

This time he wouldn’t argue. She’d spend hours trying to
persuade him. He fixed his gaze on her pearl necklace. “I think all people
should try to live together. Not apart.”

His mother smiled but her blue eyes remained devoid of
humor. “I didn’t know I’d reared a hippie. Face reality, my son. The world is
not fair and all we can do is try to make it equal. Or better.”

“I understand. Call me.”

“You mean text.”

“Indeed.” She could call, she had the best technology money
could buy, but this was another example of the separatism that she’d gradually
adopted over the years. Hunter was, as ever, conflicted. A hearing man in a
deaf world, he’d always seen both sides, but neither side thanked him for that.
He’d also learned to keep his mouth shut.

“Won’t you be staying here?”

“I’ve booked a room at the Lydmar. I didn’t know if you’d
turned the whole house into an office or if you were going away.”

“Sorry.” She didn’t look sorry, but she rarely revealed her
feelings. Only a few people could read her and he wasn’t one of them. “But I
knew you’d come because of the concert. I’ve been busy with the latest
campaign. You should be too. Do you intend to stay at the Lydmar then? Your
room is still available here.”

The house was decorated in typical Swedish style, with light
wood furnishings, clear colors and polished wooden floors, the windows large
and shaded only by light drapes. Despite that, the walls closed in on him, like
the shrinking prisons of horror stories. When he’d entered this house as a
child coming home from school, the tranquil hush was oppressive. His mother
ensured that she knew when he’d come in, had a meal ready for him, checked that
he’d done his homework before his hour’s TV and bed. The house was wired for
sound. Movement and noise resulted in lights flashing on in her bedroom,
protection in case he needed her in the night.

Only the system persisted. As a teenager, he knew he could
never beat the curfew and he couldn’t play his music, except on headphones.
He’d saved up and bought the best he could find, the kind that didn’t bleed
sound.

A good childhood. Not deprived, quite the opposite in fact,
nothing to complain about. So he hadn’t complained.

Now he replied, “Yes, I’ll be at the Lydmar. Out of your
way.”

“You’re never in the way, my son.”

He knew. She’d made sure of it, that he had all the care he
needed but wasn’t under her feet when she didn’t want him around. His mother
stared at him, a faint smile on her face, a look of exasperation in her eyes.
Or it might be impatience. Anyway, he’d seen that expression before. Time for
him to take his leave. “I’ll come by tomorrow, Mother. If you’re not too busy.”

Anyone else might take that as sarcastic, but not his
mother. She picked up the top-of-the-line cell phone that rested on her desk
and flipped through the pages. Then she put it down and signed to him. “I’m in
the office for most of the day. Come to dinner in the evening.” For the first
time, she glanced at Sabina. “I don’t need you any more today. You may take
tomorrow morning off if you wish. Go into town and meet Hunter for coffee, show
him the changes in Stockholm.”

Always the perfect hostess. Or was there more to it? His
eyes narrowed. She was up to something, though fuck if he knew what it was.

Sabina had won a scholarship for a nearby elite school for
the deaf, one that Emmelie Ostrander visited on a regular basis. A young
schoolgirl, stumbling through the new world she found herself in, she’d fallen
for the woman. Emmelie’s charisma, her cool beauty and her determination to
fight for the rights of the deaf showed Sabina a new way of living. Starting
with their very first conversation.

“I’m hearing impaired,” she’d painstakingly spelled out for
her future boss.

Emmelie had rejected that description emphatically. “Never
call yourself ‘hearing impaired’. Impaired implies there’s something wrong with
you. There isn’t.” That simple statement had saved Sabina from her despair and
self-pity, and she’d never looked back.

Sabina always counted herself lucky to meet one of the most
dynamic women in her world, luckier to work for her, but sometimes Sabina
wanted a little more room for herself. The system of lights, established
originally to keep Hunter safe when he was a baby, still worked. Walk through a
room and if Emmelie consulted the map of lights in her office, she could track
the person’s progress, know how many people were in the house and where they
were. In this city of cool, clear light, it seemed appropriate somehow. In her
own country, where they had darkness for half the year, it would have been more
intrusive, the lights brighter in the gloom.

Up to this point Sabina had cultivated a cool serenity that
had seemed appropriate for her job and this city and this space. But to go out
with Hunter, spend more time with him? Why would Emmelie want that? Sabina
didn’t hide from Emmelie’s faults. She’d seen the increasing awkwardness for
herself, an awkwardness that had led to coolness and then estrangement. If
Emmelie wanted him back, she wasn’t above using Sabina as her tool to get him.
Not that she’d do it.

Not her business, Sabina told herself firmly, despite the
sadness that flooded her at the thought of the two at odds again. She came from
a large and rambunctious family, and she was the only hard of hearing member.
In this place of quiet and self-discipline, she missed the pounding of her
youngest brother’s stereo, the shouts as the family communicated, some of which
reached her and reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

Hunter opened the door for her and she left, following him
through the house to where he’d parked his car outside. It glimmered in the
sunshine, the bright red a splash of hot color against the cool green of the
lawn behind. She put on a brilliant smile. “It was nice to see you.”

She didn’t need him to sign. He spoke now and she could
lip-read very well. He signed anyway, the movements almost automatic, as if he
didn’t know he was doing it. “It was nice to see you too.”

She put out her hand, touched his. He glanced down and saw
their hands together, turned his big hand palm up and clasped hers before
releasing it so he could sign. “I have a table booked. Come to dinner tonight.”
His expression softened, warmed, became more intimate.

“Where did you book it?” She shouldn’t ask. She had no
intention of going, truly she didn’t. Too much intimacy could lead to—too much
intimacy.

His eyes cooled a tad to friendliness. “At the hotel. It has
a great restaurant. I can get you a room there for tonight or drive you back
later. Whichever you prefer.”

Their easy communication jolted her back into a world that
had thrilled and confused her, made her think she had someone special. Not that
he’d felt the same way. He’d, perhaps unknowingly, created dreams for her and
then bolted. The only reason she was talking to him now was that she’d never
given him a clue about how much she’d cared.

One night out of time, after he’d told her he was leaving.
She hadn’t planned to change his mind or to get him to take her with him, but
after he left—not a word. Nothing. That was what had hurt her so badly. A world
of pain could be hers if she went with him now. She should refuse, go back in
and spend the evening quietly in her room.

“Yes,” she signed. “I’ll come.”

He was waiting for her when she emerged ten minutes later
with a small overnight bag. Just in case.

He stowed the bag in the tiny backseat, held open the door
of the car for her, and would have helped her put her seat belt on if she
hadn’t got there first. She hated that too careful treatment some people showed
her, but she wouldn’t hold it against him. His mother had brought him up to
have impeccable manners, and maybe that still lay underneath his actions. He
was a gentleman, despite the faded jeans, the shoulder-length hair and the old
T-shirt and leather jacket.

Vibrations purred through her as he started up the engine of
the powerful sports car. He turned on to the main road and pulled in at the
next parking spot. Heart in her throat, she turned to face him and this time he
spoke. “I know you can lip-read. Do you want to drive to town in silence
because I can’t drive and sign?” His voice came vaguely to her, spots of sound,
drifting in and out, no practical use. Even then, she remembered it.

Guilt flooded her but she persisted, cleared her throat. “I
can speak too.” She enunciated slowly and recalled it was weeks since she’d
spoken to anyone. Emmelie didn’t ban it, but she did refuse to accept it in her
house and discouraged it in her employees. Sabina always signed when she was
working, interpreting for high-ranking deaf officials in various capacities.

“You always used to.” His expression softened, his eyes lost
the flash of challenge. “I like your voice. Always have.”

When he looked at her like that, she melted. Already her
pussy was dampening, readying itself for him, as though it were on automatic
pilot. She barely resisted rubbing her thighs together to ease the tingling.
His nearness always affected her that way. She couldn’t let it.

Six years ago, he’d turned his back on her. She must never
forget that, couldn’t afford to. Six years ago, she’d fled home to Iceland,
broken in body and spirit, his silence having an effect on her worse than
anything else in her life, even going deaf. She’d given it six months, had
written to his old email address, the only one she had, but the address had
gone inactive and he never sent her a new one, nor a physical address. Missing
him more than she wanted to admit, she’d gone home, like a wounded animal
seeking its lair. But she’d regrouped and come back. She had a life to lead and
it was here.

Emmelie had accepted her back without a word, never spoke of
her son, as if he’d never existed.

Sabina turned her attention to the road ahead, effectively
stopping the conversation. “Thank you,” she said stiffly. But she wanted to
know. The sound of her voice reverberated around her head. People had told her she
had a great voice for a deaf person. She’d carefully retained what she’d
learned as a child, proud to use it in public situations. People didn’t always
realize she was deaf.

He started the car again and drove. They kept the
conversation short and impersonal, talking about the weather, the beauty of the
landscape they were passing through—strangers sharing a car. He kept his
attention on the road, watching the countryside give way to the outskirts of
Stockholm.

He’d chosen one of the best hotels in Stockholm. As he
slowed outside the building a valet came forward to wait until he’d come to a
stop so he could open the door for her and then take the car to the parking
lot.

She stood on the pavement and stared up at the huge front of
the Lydmar hotel. It was one of the tall, white buildings, coolly classical,
that gave Stockholm so much of its character, situated in the center of the
city overlooking the broad expanse of the Norrström River. She’d never been
inside. As was true of most local residents, hotels meant little to her.

Sabina didn’t belong here. As she walked through the glass
doors and into the main body of the hotel, she wished she did. Someone had
designed this place with an eye to style. The foyer didn’t feel soulless, and
when Hunter touched her elbow to guide her to the restaurant, she felt almost
comfortable, which she rarely did in the presence of luxury and expense.
Strange. Perhaps it was because she was with him. No. That wasn’t possible.
Just that she was exploring a part of Stockholm that she’d not visited before.
On her days off, she sometimes came to this district to visit the museum, so it
wasn’t as if she didn’t know it at all.

She hadn’t expected a hotel restaurant to contain a wall of
bookshelves, neither had she expected sofas and comfortable chairs framing the
tables. The maître d’ took them to their table without delay, a place set to
one side of the restaurant, not in the full light. Then she understood. Hunter
had become a local celebrity.

She waited until the maître d’ left them with their menus
before she ventured to speak. She was sitting with her back to the restaurant
and most of the sources of light. Frowning, she concentrated on his lips so as
not to miss a word. “Did you know I was in Stockholm?” A faint hope, but not one
she had any faith in, that he’d come back to see her as well as to visit his
mother.

“I didn’t know. Emmelie never mentioned it.” He met her
gaze, his own dark from the shadows, and maybe something else? No, she couldn’t
think like that. Then his face lightened and he smiled. It was like the sun
coming out. “But I’m glad.” He glanced around. “It’s too dark here, isn’t it?”

He beckoned the waiter and had a quiet word with him. Hunter
switched from English to Swedish with the ease of someone supremely comfortable
in both languages. She wondered if he had an accent of any kind. She’d love to
hear it. They always spoke English together, even used ASL or SEE when they
signed, dating right back to the days they’d first met.

The waiter took them to another table near a window where
the light still filtered in from outside. It was only seven thirty; it wouldn’t
get dark for another couple of hours. She could see him much better here. How
thoughtful of him to notice and have the table changed. “Thank you,” she said.

He smiled. “I want you to enjoy the meal. Have you decided
what you want to eat?”

“Scallops and steak,” she said. She’d barely glanced at the
menu. “They’re famous for it here.”

He raised a brow. She remembered those eyebrows, browner
than his hair, matching his lashes and the hair on his body.
No, not going
there.
Her mind raced on, as if it had a will of its own, ignoring her
commands. Six years ago, he’d had a beautiful body, only a light sprinkling of
hair on his chest, his shoulders already strongly developed from playing his
percussion instruments. Then, he’d considered a career as a classical
percussionist but his mother had shown no interest when he’d told her. “What do
I care?” she’d said. “I can’t hear any of it. Choose what you like best to do.”

Nobody except Sabina had seen his hurt, because he’d covered
it with insouciance, shrugged and left the room. That was when Sabina had gone
to him. Just before he left.

One thing she had to know, had wondered for all this time.
“Why didn’t you write to me after you left?”

He blinked, eyes wide, and touched his finger to her lips in
a gesture that left her utterly shaken. She sat back out of his reach and
stared at him, unwilling to miss a single word.

He signed his answer. “This is a quiet place and you were a
little loud there.” Flushing, she closed her eyes before opening them again
when she thought she’d regained her composure. He was waiting for her. This
time he used his vocal cords, but in English.

“Let’s talk about other things over dinner.”

Was he trying to avoid talking to her about the things that
had caused her so much pain? Probably, especially if she’d shouted her
question.

She thought her appetite had gone, but the scallops proved
her wrong. Every bit as delicately flavored and tender as the reviews had
promised. A tiny sliver of black truffle lay over the top and she saved it for
last. She glanced up from time to time, her habit in case she was missing his
words, but he knew how to communicate with the deaf. He’d touch her hand or tap
the table where she could see it if he wanted to speak to her.

He smiled when she glanced up. “You have a lovely accent,
you know that?”

She shook her head. “I thought I spoke English clearly.”

“It is clear, but slightly accented.” He stared at her, his
eyes unreadable. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking and she’d studied body
language closely enough that she could usually tell.

“Are they playing music?”

He smiled. “Quietly. A classical piece. Do you know Chopin’s
nocturnes?”

Tears sprang to her eyes and because he was watching her so
closely, he saw them. He touched her hand. No more, just that. She took care to
keep her voice down, regulating the strength of the vibrations in her throat.
“My mother used to play them when I was little. I remember a mood rather than
the notes.”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to give you a sense of what’s going
on. I should have known better.” He broke visual contact, turning his attention
to his food.

He shouldn’t feel bad about saying that. “You were right.
How were you to know? The memories are good.”

A smile flickered across his lips, gone as soon as it had
arrived, and he looked up again. “Thank you. I didn’t deserve that. It’s just
that music means, well, a lot to me. I always notice when it’s playing.”

“Did it always mean so much?”

“Yes.”

A simple but devastating answer. To love music so much and
grow up in a silent household—what torture he must have undergone. “When you
were a child, you must have felt so alone.”

He shrugged. “I found friends. I went to a hearing school.
It was okay.”

He’d clammed up. She’d find out no more from him now, but
he’d opened his mind a crack and given her a glimpse of the inner man. The hint
only made her hungry for more. She needed a reason for the way he’d hurt her
when he’d walked away and she knew the answer couldn’t be simple. Turning his
back on their affair after one night was one thing, but he’d also repudiated
their friendship and that had been the hardest to bear.