Chapter Nineteen
Ryder
It’s nearly dawn, and every news channel is flooded with breaking reports about the confirmed sasquatch sightings from yesterday morning.
The Bureau has many approaches to the way it handles sightings, ranging from bribery to expert-level gaslighting—they have a whole team of talking heads ready to discredit the photos that pop up in the media from time to time, and staff psychologists to call into question the mental state of the people who take them.
But this time, they’re dealing with more than just one blurry, easily-disputable image.
This time, there are over a dozen clear videos, taken with high-quality phone cameras and immediately uploaded to every social media platform.
By the time the Bureau was aware of what was happening, it was too late to scrub them. The secret is out.
Cryptozoologists are being interviewed on every network, with many of them declaring that sasquatch aren’t the only mythical beings the government is hiding.
Animal rights activists are calling for the Endangered Species Act to be enforced.
And a text message, truncated by urgency, pinged me in the middle of the night:
::Nix::
I know u know already
Press conference @ 8a
1st time on TV!! 3
That means 5am on the West coast, but I wasn’t having an easy time sleeping anyway.
The news cast switches their camera feed over just as Nix steps up to the podium, positioned hastily in front of the drab faux-brutalist architecture of the BSCO Headquarters building.
I’m sure she’s been awake all night, but she barely even looks tired.
Nix has always been good at staying calm in the middle of chaos.
“Thank you, members of the press, for meeting me here on such short notice,” she says into the microphone.
If she’s even remotely stressed, she isn’t showing it.
“My name is Veronica Rasmussen, and I’m the Associate Director of The Bureau of Supernatural and Cryptozoological Oversight, a branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigations which has been active since the Salem Witch Trials of early colonial America, and was officially incorporated into the judicial branch in response to the Jersey Devil sightings of 1909.
I am representing my office in place of Public Relations Director Gregory Sieger, who is currently unavailable for comment.
“The BSCO began as a team of private citizens serving as liaisons between the known and the unknown. From its humble beginnings to present day, our priority was, is, and always has been to protect our cryptids, supernatural beings, and Quotidian humans alike. We have worked tirelessly in pursuit of this objective, but somewhere along the line, we have failed our communities. In an attempt to keep all our constituents safe, we have only succeeded in keeping them segregated. The bulk of the BSCO’s work in my time with them has been to hide the existence of supernatural and cryptozoological populations, which has only served to repress them.
I know I speak for many of my colleagues when I say that this was not the future we had envisioned when we began our work in this agency.
“Moving forward, we will begin a long and careful process of de-classifying the existence of cryptid species and supernatural occurrences, and will be working alongside the Environmental Protection Agency, the US Fish and Wildlife Service, and relevant international organizations, beginning first and foremost by enforcing the Endangered Species Act in order to protect the people and animals who need protecting. Our mission has not changed, but our tactics will. I’ll now be opening the floor for questions. ”
Before Nix has even finished her last sentence, reporters are jumping out of their seats and shouting over each other, desperately trying to get the best scoop on the news story of the century. Nix stays as cool and collected as ever, and I couldn’t be more proud of her.
A familiar warm chill runs over my skin, and I smile, turning off the TV.
My balcony door is cracked open to let in a breeze, and even though I can’t see anything through the sheer privacy curtains, I’m not even a little surprised as I step out into the cool night air and find Senán perched on my balcony wall, his feet dangling over the side.
“Nix is on TV,” I tell him.
“Really?”
“Uh huh. Press conference. Lot of shit’s about to change.” I pause just enough for emphasis. “They’re gonna get sasquatch classified as an endangered species.”
Senán gives me a glowy smile, the kind of smile that makes me feel warm all over, but it falters slightly with his next question.
“What time is your flight?”
My eyes avert to the ground—so he does know. “Noon,” I replied. “Airport shuttle leaves the hotel at nine.”
“Hmm. You’ve got four hours left.”
When I look up and see the cocked head, the flirtatious grin, I can’t help but feel relieved that, at least for now, our summer fling isn’t completely over.
Because once he leaves, we’ll be through.
I know that, and so does he. There’s no way this could turn into anything more than what it is, than what it has been.
Right?
“So, what’s next for you?” I ask.
“I’ll be helping the wee one heal for the next few days, then we’ll see how things go. I might be able to fly back home at that point.”
“To Ireland?”
He gives me an odd look. “Do you think I live in Ireland?”
“No, I—well, I thought you lived here.”
“You thought I lived… at the hotel?”
“No, not here here, but, y’know… in the area, at least.”
“Now, why would I be on holiday here if I lived here?”
I chuckle a little. Inside jokes. Shouldn’t read too much into that. “Right, of course. So, where’s home for you?”
“Boston.”
I feel something spark inside my chest, and it feels old and new at the same time. “Boston, Mass?”
“Mm-hmm. Little suburb of Salem, you might’ve heard of it.”
“Huh…” Wheels are turning, pieces stitching themselves back together in my mind. “You know, Boston isn’t that far from DC.”
“It’s at least an eight hour drive, Ryder,” he says dryly.
The side of my mouth twitches. I can’t help myself. “Driving, sure… but I was thinking it might be faster by broom.”
“Oh, now, that is just offensive,” Senán says, though he doesn’t look offended in the least. “Have you learned nothing about stereotypes while we’ve been shagging each other senseless for the past week?”
He’s only halfway through his rhetorical question when he hops off his perch on the balcony wall and starts pushing me into my room.
I let myself be corralled, walking backwards until my knees hit the bed and I fall onto it with a soft “oof.” Senán climbs on top of me, straddling my hips and kissing me hard enough to forget every part of my life that’s falling to pieces right now.
“Well,” I say as Senán pulls our mouths apart, “you’ve got me for a good three and a half hours. What do you want to do?”
Senán hums in thought before answering. “I want you to fuck me like you’re trying to break me in half.”
It takes my mind a second or two to catch up after all the blood in my brain rushes immediately south. “I can do that,” I say once the words form, then wrap an arm around his waist and flip us over, eliciting a delighted sound from Senán at the manhandling.
After that, it’s a flurry of fabric and giggles as I strip away all the layers of clothing until Senán is finally naked in my bed, every tattoo and freckle on display, just as captivating as ever.
But now, alone together in the privacy of my room, even with daylight and all it will bring with it encroaching, I have something I haven’t allowed myself until now.
I have time.
Senán arches up into my touch when I smooth my hands slowly over the black ink and run my fingertips along his ribs and hipbones. “Are you just going to cuddle me all morning or are you going to fuck me like you said you would?” he says.
I have to laugh a little. The sass and sarcasm were irritating when we first met, then endearing.
But I’m starting to understand it for what it really is: Senán’s roundabout way of getting what he wants without having to ask for it.
I like knowing Senán wants something from me, and I’m sure as hell going to like giving it to him.
But hearing him ask, hearing what words he’ll choose to describe what his body is aching for, that’s the feeling I’ll be bringing home with me.
And even better than making Senán ask for what he wants is making him beg.
I lean down and lick the soft skin just inside his hip bone, and I’m rewarded with a tight, breathy sound and a twitch in his thighs. I press my open mouth against it, sucking, using my teeth just enough that I know Senán can feel it but not quite enough to call it biting.
“Fuck’s sake, Ryder,” he says, his voice almost—not quite—a moan.
I could do this all morning, study his skin with my tongue until he’s shaking and pleading, but I know better ways to wring that kind of desperation out of him. I sit up, leaning over Senán to grab the bottle of lube I’ve kept stashed in the drawer of the nightstand.
“Look who came prepared,” he teases. I ignore him and pour a generous amount of the liquid onto my fingers. He spreads his legs further apart to make room for me to settle between them, then closes his eyes and hums in pleasure as I rub two wet fingers against his entrance.
His hips tilt into the touch, seeking more, but I’ve already decided that’s not how we’re doing this tonight, and I continue massaging him from the outside, working in slow circles that give pressure but not penetration.
“Good Goddess, are you trying to drive me mad?” Senán demands, but he’s squirming against my hand and his voice shakes so much that the words come out sounding like a prayer.
“He’s finally catching on,” I reply playfully as I grant a little mercy and slip one finger inside.