Page 6 of Reptile Dysfunction
She reaches for her wallet. “I distinctly recall offering to buy you coffee, Gorgon. Are you afraid of being in debt to a Whitaker?”
“I was thirsty. Waited thirteen minutes and ten seconds. Your loss.”
“And here I thought enforcer types honored deals down to the decimal.” She takes a deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t renege on deals. Next time, I’m paying. Tell your snakes to keep their hissy fits to themselves.”
Several of them rear up, tongues flicking. Her grin goes feral.
“Always this pushy, or am I getting the VIP treatment?” I ask, my own grin trying to break free.
She leans forward, lowering her voice. “Stick around and find out.”
“Clock’s ticking.” Despite the warning in my tone, my snakes slink forward, curious traitors that they are.
She cocks her head. “Such a grumpy, big, bad enforcer—serving coffee and teaching kids how not to drown. Adorable.” She becomes more serious as she adds, “Quite a change from keeping monsters hidden.”
All of my snakes go still.
The smile fades from my face. “We did what was necessary.”
She doesn’t flinch. “We did what kept people breathing. That’s all that mattered.”
“Whatever kept both sides safe.” I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. My t-shirt—clean but well-worn—stretches against muscle that once served a purpose beyond aesthetic appeal. “You understand this isn’t the feel-good Revelation story your father wants, right? There were no monster community bake sales before humans knew we existed.”
“I’m aware.” She pulls out a small digital recorder. “May I?” She nods toward the recorder.
I glance at the Busybody Brigade, who’ve stopped even pretending not to listen. Iris is openly writing notes on a napkin.
“Not here.”
“Where, then?”
“My place.” It’s out before I’ve fully thought it through. “Seven-forty-five. After my last class.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face, followed by something that might be professional curiosity or personal interest—hard to distinguish in journalists, especially attractive ones with agendas. “Text me the address?”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll pick you up.” The shocked expression on her face makes me want to press. “Unless you’re scared of the big, bad monster on a motorcycle.”
“Pick me up in what, exactly?”
This woman is cautious—rightfully so. “Notinwhat.Onwhat. My motorcycle.”
She doesn’t even blink. “I’ll need a helmet.”
“I have a spare.”
“Sloane,” Iris calls, clearly fishing for an invitation to join the conversation. “It’s such a treat to have you back home after your sojourn to the big city. How is your mother’s recovery?”
“She’s better, thank you. Turns out she was allergic to the metal in her first hip. So she’s back to square one. The new physical therapist has been a big help, though.”
“Glad she’s doing better,” Mabel says with a smile.
Dorothy leans forward conspiratorially. “We were so sorry to hear about your breakup with that nice lawyer from the city. What was his name, girls?”
“David,” Iris supplies helpfully. “Such a shame. He seemed very accomplished.”
To her credit, Sloane doesn’t flinch. “Career paths diverged. It happens.”
My snakes sit taller at this information, their curiosity embarrassingly obvious. One particularly nosy one at the crown of my head stretches toward Sloane as if for a better look.
