Page 24 of Reptile Dysfunction (Harmony Glen #11)

Chapter Twenty-Two

T had

She had a girls-only supper with her mom and stayed there for the night.

My snakes stiffen like drawn bows before I’m fully awake, already tracking potential threats as I grab my leather jacket.

Sterling, usually the showoff, coils protectively around my temple as I fire up the Harley.

Even my most flamboyant snake knows when a situation calls for enforcer focus rather than theatrical flair—a reminder that his shameless preening is a choice, not his only mode of operation.

The scene at the town hall tells its story quickly: about thirty protesters with badly spelled signs—”No MoNSTERZ in R Naborhood!” and “Keep HUMANS HUMANE – No More INFLITRASHUN!”—facing off against local police who look itchy to do something.

The upcoming Revelation celebration has drawn exactly the attention we were worried about.

“Thank God you’re here.” Sloane hurries over, notepad in hand. She’s wearing what looks like hastily thrown-on clothes, but her eyes are keen. “They showed up about an hour ago. The police notified us immediately. Dad’s inside with the crisis team, but—”

A bottle shatters against the town hall steps. Despite the tension, Sloane’s hand finds mine for just a moment, her thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that somehow conveys both “be careful” and “I believe in you.” My snakes straighten with renewed purpose.

“Inside.” I place my hand firmly on the small of her back, already moving to evade the next projectile. “Now.”

“I’m covering this.”

“Cover it from somewhere less likely to get you hurt.” My snakes rise defensively as another bottle flies. “Please.”

Something in my voice must convince her because she retreats to the doorway, though her phone is already recording.

Time to be professional.

“Guardian Solutions,” I announce, letting my voice carry. I dial the intimidation back to barely perceptible—just enough to make them take me seriously without triggering fight-or-flight. “This is a peaceful zone.”

“Monster lover!” someone shouts at Sloane, but the young man’s heart rate spikes when I turn toward him.

“Sir.” Keeping my voice carefully controlled, I meet his gaze. The truth compulsion kicks in automatically. “Why are you really here?”

He blinks, caught in my glowing amber eyes. “Because… because they said monsters were taking over the town. That they needed protesters to make it stop.”

“Who told you that?” My snakes track movement at the edge of the crowd—someone trying to slip away. “Maybe we should ask them.”

The would-be escapee doesn’t make it three steps before local police intercept them. As he’s led away, I catch a glimpse of a familiar company logo on their jacket.

“Look! Harrington Development Corp.” Sloane’s voice carries from where she’s hiding behind the heavy front door. “Bradley’s father’s company. The one trying to buy up monster-owned properties.”

The pieces click. The protest, the timing, the manufactured outrage—all designed to justify “protecting” human interests through strategic property acquisition.

“Anyone else here on Harrington’s payroll?” I ask the crowd, letting my eyes shift fully amber. The truth compulsion ripples through them. “Anyone else being paid to cause trouble?”

Several hands raise reluctantly. Others back away, suddenly unsure why they came.

“Go home.” My voice carries just enough enforcer edge to be convincing without crossing the line into fearmongering. “The celebration is about unity, not division. Anyone who wants to discuss real concerns can contact the mayor during business hours.”

They disperse quickly. Paid protesters tend to lose enthusiasm when their handlers are exposed.

“That was amazing.” Sloane approaches, phone still recording. “The way you balanced authority with approachability. Professional-scary indeed.”

My snakes preen at her praise, their defensive posture softening. Sterling makes a show of polishing his scales, the shameless flirt.

“It’s getting easier.” Drawing her close, I check for any injuries despite knowing she’s fine. “Though I could do without the 2 AM practice runs.”

“Sorry about that.” But her eyes shine with a journalist’s fever. “When the police called me—”

“You rushed into potential danger to get the story.” His lips twitch with amusement, perhaps because he knows me so well already.

“Says the man who just faced down an angry mob.” I’ve got his number, too.

“That’s different. I’m—”

“A professional?” Her smile is unfairly attractive. “Funny, so am I.”

Before I can respond, the town hall doors open. Mayor Whitaker emerges, looking surprisingly composed for someone who just watched his daughter’s ex-boyfriend’s family try to sabotage his celebration.

“Excellent work,” he says to me, and for once the political smile seems genuine. “Though I believe this calls for some revision to our security plans.”

“Already on my end of it.” Sloane holds up her phone. “I’ve already identified the names of three paid protesters. I’ll track them down and get them to go on the record about Harrington Development’s involvement.”

The mayor’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “The same company that’s been pressuring monster business owners to sell?”

“The very same.” She glances at me. “Think your company might be interested in providing some paid protection for those businesses?”

“I’ve already reached out to others with helpful skill sets. I think we can launch into basic protection soon.”

“I think,” the mayor says slowly, “that Harmony Glen could benefit from having its protectors operating publicly for a change.” He extends his hand. “What do you say, Thaddeus? Ready to make it official?”

Looking at his offered hand—at the choice it represents—I feel something shift. He leans back, sighing in what seems like genuine reflection.

“Perhaps I’ve been too focused on controlling the narrative,” he admits, “rather than letting the authentic story unfold. It’s served me well in politics, but…” He glances at his daughter and me with surprising vulnerability. “Maybe there’s room for both approaches in Harmony Glen.”

The admission, small as it is, represents a significant shift. Not full approval, but a willingness to consider perspectives beyond his carefully managed integration story.

“Guardian Solutions is at your service.” Taking his hand, I let my professional mask show just a hint of real feeling. “Though we’ll need to discuss rates.”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

Sloane threads her fingers through mine. “Ready to go write up some security contracts?”

“At three in the morning?”

“No time like the present.” Her eyes sparkle with that dangerous mix of journalist’s curiosity and personal interest that first drew me in. “Unless the scary enforcer needs his beauty sleep?”

“Watch it, Whitaker.” But my snakes are already reaching for her hopefully. “Some of us have a water ballet to rehearse tomorrow.”

“Poor baby.” She starts toward her car, then pauses. “Coming?”

“At your service,” I say, and every snake on my head bobs in emphatic agreement.

Sometimes a crisis isn’t really a crisis at all.

Sometimes it’s just the push you need to become exactly who you’re meant to be.

Even if it means doing paperwork at sunrise while your snakes try to help type.