Page 7 of Reptile Dysfunction
“Behave,” I mutter, and the snake retreats, but not without a soft hiss.
“Your hair has opinions,” Sloane observes, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“They’re not known for their subtlety.” I finish my coffee in one gulp. “Seven-forty-five. Wear something practical. Nothing that costs more than my bike.”
“How much is that?”
“Twelve grand, give or take.”
Her lips quirk upward. “For you, Gorgon? I’ll dress down.”
Something about the way she says it sends a dangerous heat darting through me, which my snakes respond to with entirely too much enthusiasm. Several sway in what can only be described as a pleased manner.
As she leaves, my turncoat snakes turn to watch her go. The Silver Swimmers don’t even try to hide their delight.
“She seems lovely,” Iris says with exaggerated innocence.
“She seems like trouble,” I correct.
Dorothy pats my arm. “The best ones always are, dear.”
By seven-fifteen, I’m second-guessing my decision. My home—a converted water tower on the outskirts of town—isn’t exactly designed for entertaining. It’s a space built for one very tall Gorgon who values privacy and doesn’t mind climbing the spiral staircase that leads to the cylindrical living quarters.
After a quick shower to wash off the chlorine, I assess the living area with fresh eyes. Brass pipes snake along the curved walls, some functional, others purely decorative. Vintage pressure gauges and copper fixtures catch the late afternoon light. The massive iron gear that once controlled the water flow now serves as an industrial coffee table, its teeth softened by age and polishing.
Edison bulbs in brass cages cast a warm glow over the leather furniture and exposed brick. It’s a strange mix of Victorian sensibility and industrial functionality—exactly what you’d expect from a Gorgon who appreciates both form and function.
The circular main floor with its round windows is divided into open sections: a kitchen with copper fixtures along one curve, a living space with saddle-brown leather couches and industrial lighting, and a wall of bookshelves that would make my librarian brother proud. The exposed brick walls curve gracefully, following the tower’s original architecture, while a narrow staircase leads to the bedroom loft above.
It’s not conventional, but it’s mine. One of the few places in Harmony Glen that can accommodate someone of my size andspecies. And after living in hiding my whole life, I can’t complain about the view.
At seven-thirty, I’m on my Harley, heading toward the address Sloane texted—her father’s house. I expected a McMansion that looks like every other expensive, soulless house on the block. But the house is one of the oldest in the neighborhood and has a certain antique charm.
She’s waiting by the gate when I pull up, dressed in this afternoon’s jeans paired with a simple black t-shirt and leather jacket. Her hair is still in that practical ponytail, but something about seeing her outside the newspaper context makes my throat unexpectedly dry.
“Right on time,” she says, appraising the motorcycle with interest rather than apprehension. “Nice bike.”
I hand her the spare helmet. “Ever ridden before?”
“‘Fraid not.”
“Rules are simple. Lean with me, not against me. Hold on to my waist, not my shoulders.” My snakes shift beneath my helmet, restless at the thought of her arms around me. “And try not to interview me while we’re moving.”
She laughs—a genuine sound that catches me off guard. “I think I can control my journalistic impulses for a ten-minute ride.”
“We’ll see about that.”
She puts on the helmet, climbs on behind me, and without hesitation wraps her arms around my waist. The contact hits like an electric current that runs straight from her hands to the base of my spine. My snakes purr—yes, purr—beneath my helmet.
“They make noise in there?” she asks, her voice muffled.
“Constantly.” I start the engine. “It’s like living with gossiping roommates. Ready?”
Her arms tighten slightly. “Ready.”
The ride to my place takes twelve minutes, during which Sloane proves to be a natural passenger—leaning into curves at just the right moment and adjusting her weight seamlessly with mine. By the time we pull up to the water tower, my body is humming with an awareness that has nothing to do with motorcycle vibrations.
“This is yours?”
