Page 37 of Reptile Dysfunction
“Yes… and no,” I manage. “Er… both.”
“Both?”
“Quid pro quo, I mean,” I reply. “I’ll answer if you answer. It can be a way for us to bury the hatchet.”
“I thought we already did.” I’m certain at this point that my nerves are winning me brownie points with this guy. I’m willing to play the fool for a good scoop and the same goes for the questions.
Keep telling yourself that… I stiffen at the thought.
“You okay?” he asks, his snakes dancing from side to side, possibly mocking me. I can’t be sure.
I’m starting to tell the difference between them and wonder if he can spot the dissimilarities, too.
“I’m great, just hoping to get a moment of your time.” I sound flirtier than I want to be, but anything for my career and reputation at the end of the day, right?
He squeezes me into his schedule where and when he can, which is pretty much every night this week. We meet in public places, mostly for dinner or a drink. Our quid pro quo sessions reveal more than a few similarities in our habits, including that we like to sleep in the cold, enjoy our hot beverages steaming, and shower at night rather than in the morning.
How we got on these subjects while discussing politics, I can’t quite recall, though I’m more than happy to forget about the little details at this point.
Currently, I’m standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, wondering how long my feelings for him have been festering. Is pursuing anything romantic with him worth the pain in the end?
I add more toothpaste to my brush and keep scrubbing, keep thinking. Mason’s been nothing but an open book, answering questions I threw his way just to be difficult.
What would you say is your greatest regret and why? How many girlfriends did you have growing up and were you faithful to them? Does making others happy excite you because then they have a reason to want you around?
“Maybe.” When he’d answered the question, my original thought was that the gorgon was joking. It wasn’t until he continued that I realized he wasn’t just telling me something honestly but from the bottom of his heart, too.
“I don’t need to be needed,” he told me one night while walking me to my car. I rinse my mouth out with water and picture his face in my mind now. “But I do like to be doing something, especially if that something has a lot of impact. It gets results. Curiosity isn’t mine. I know that. I’m not trying to make the place about me. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be part of making it better. Even a big part.”
His shrug caught me off guard when I saw it, even though it shouldn’t have. It paired well with his statement.
“What are you going to do, girl?” I say to myself, wiping my face before flicking the light off.
I head to bed while my heart and mind compete for who can race the fastest. I don’t want to get hurt or ruin a perfectly good professional relationship any more than I want to miss out on a real connection. But what if those things happen anyway, maybe even all of them?
22
MASON
“Charlotte,” I say into the phone, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “Would you like to come to a ceremony with me tomorrow night?”
“Sure,” she says a little too quickly, but then backtracks. “I mean, the profile piece is already done, but I’m sure I could work it into another article. What kind of ceremony is it?”
I palm my forehead, realizing I’ve screwed this up already.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean as a reporter,” I tell her, hoping this doesn’t entirely ruin my chances. “I meant in a more… personal capacity.”
“Oh,” I hear her say on the other end of the line. She’s obviously a little shocked and there’s a beat before she answers properly. “Sure, I’d be happy to.”
This second part seems genuine, and I make arrangements to pick her up the following evening. I know I’m going out on a limb here, but I can’t deny my feelings for Charlotte are real, and if there’s a chance she genuinely feels the same way, I have to know. I figure a date outside the roles of reporter and subject might give us the space we need to see if there’s something between us worth exploring.
When the next night comes around, I’m somewhere between nervous and excited to pick Charlotte up. When she opens the door, I can’t help but break out into a broad smile.
“You look lovely,” I tell her, and she does.
Her long dark hair is piled up high on her head, drawing my attention to the deep brown eyes that peer up at me with just a hint of nervousness. She’s wearing a pale blue dress that compliments her curves while leaving plenty to the imagination, and she could easily fit in at any event from a gala ball to a summer picnic.
“Is this okay?” she asks, gesturing to the dress. “I wasn’t really sure what kind of ceremony it was.”