Page 11 of Reptile Dysfunction
I type a quick response:Working on the story. Don’t wait up.
“Is your father playing matchmaker?” There’s an edge to Thad’s voice that makes his snakes rise slightly.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Bradley Harrington the Third,” I confirm with an eye roll. “Pillar of the community, according to my father. Walking cure for insomnia, according to me.”
A few snakes make a sound suspiciously like snickering.
“You should go,” Thad says, though his snakes suggest otherwise, swaying toward me like they hope I’ll stay. “It’s getting late.”
“I’m not done with my questions.”
“The enforcer story or the personal inquisition?”
“Both.” I stand, moving deliberately into his space. “Unless you’re trying to intimidate me into leaving?”
His eyes darken. “That ability doesn’t seem to work on you.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re still here.” His voice drops lower. “Most humans have the sense to run when a Gorgon’s eyes change color.”
“Maybe I don’t have any sense.”
“Or maybe…” He reaches up, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he plucks my pen from behind my ear where I’d forgotten I’d stuck it. “Maybe you’re just a journalist who doesn’t know when to quit.”
The pen dangles between us like a challenge. When I take it, our fingers brush, and static electricity crackles between us—or maybe that’s just my imagination.
“One more question,” I say.
“Make it count.”
“Why does your brother get all the good press? He’s a Gorgon too. He must have been part of the enforcer system.”
Something flickers across Thad’s face—pride mixed with old pain. “Sebastian’s different. His abilities were never meant to intimidate. He creates sanctuaries, safe spaces. Makes people feel protected instead of afraid.”
“And you?”
“That’s two questions.” He steps back, creating a safe distance between us. “Time to go, Whitaker. Before your father sends a search party.”
“I’m not finished with this story.”
“No,” he agrees, and his snakes do that pleased swaying thing again. “I don’t suppose you are.”
The ride home is an exercise in self-control. The motorcycle requires me to press against his back, my arms wrapped around a torso that feels like it was carved from warm marble. Every turn brings us closer together, and my treacherous brain catalogs each point of contact. My nipples peak in desire, although I spend far too much effort convincing myself it’s due to the cool breeze.
He walks me to the gate, ever the gentleman despite his intimidating appearance. In the moonlight, his snakes appear almost silvery, and the iridescent one gives me what I swear is a hopeful look.
“Thanks for the interview,” I say, aiming for composed and probably missing by a mile.
“You’re welcome.” He reaches for the helmet I’d forgotten I was still holding. “And Sloane?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t believe everything you’re about to write about me. I’m not nearly as dangerous as I pretend to be.”
With that, he swings onto his motorcycle and roars off into the night, leaving me to wonder exactly when this story stoppedbeing just about Revelation Day and started being about something far more dangerous.
Inside, I find a note from my mother propped on my laptop:Hope the interview went well. Dad’s disappointed you missed Bradley, but I told him good journalism waits for no man. Even ones he handpicks. - Love, Mom
