Page 17 of Lessons with the Mothman

I groaned, my hips grinding down into the mattress that dipped away without offering friction.

Inappropriate, a prim voice warned.

"He started it," I whispered to no one, then stretched my arm out to my bedside table, fumbling in the shallow top drawer for my vibrator.

Instead I found soft, thick fur.

I sat up abruptly, startled at the piece of my inappropriate fantasies appearing in the waking world, and then huffed at the sight of Hubert rolled onto his back, belly exposed for my attention.

I sighed, digging my fingers in as he stretched his front legs up over his head and smiling at the resulting heavy motor of a purr.

It was probably betternotto try and get off to the thought of the mothman who was acting as my research assistant. Surely it would blur the roles between us too much…or something to that effect. I wasn't exactly clear on what the roles between us were, and Elias had remained silent and observant during last night's interviews.

It would be an inconvenient distraction, I told myself. And likely a bitter disappointment in the end. I grimaced, thinking of all I had overshared, and rolled to the edge of the bed, giving Hubert a last pat on the belly. My stomach rumbled, and a pinch of a neglected caffeine habit panged between my eyes. A drip of sweat shivered down my back, and I squinted out of my window at the sunlight clawing through the leaves of the trees.

I needed coffee, a shower, and food that wouldn't upset the strange balancing act I'd created at the diner, probably best arranged in that order.

In the quiet of my not quite studio—the very first place I'd ever lived alone—flickers of the night before organized in thoughts. Three interviews with three different species, two who had crossed over from human to monster. The hazy walk from bar to diner.

My coffee rested on the windowsill of my shower, every sip easing the stabbing in my head and making it easier to recall the details. The incongruous elegance of the moth fae across the table from me, illuminated by dusty, stained glass lampshades, glittering in those black orb eyes of his.

The water of the shower was cool, but it didn't soak into my skin, into my persistently needy core. I closed my eyes and sighed, trailing slippery fingers over my breasts and down my stomach, giving into the need for touch, even if it might not end with relief.

I chewedat the corner of my thumb, mentally tallying my expenses, the new dent of MSA's fee upsetting the careful grip I had on my money. After the breakup with Brett, I'd applied for and been granted a fellowship with the university, which was just enough for my off-campus apartment. That spark of independence—the refusal to move back home into the cradle of my parents' affluence—had started a wave of me snipping financial ties. I had a TA position now, occasionally covering a lesson, and slogging through entry-level psych classes' paperwork. Library hours helped cover the cost of vet bills and cat food for my little side project at home.

There's always the trust, a soft voice offered in the back of my head. My aunt had left me and my sister a hearty inheritance,but with a few more years of interest, I'd have enough to launch my own sex therapy practice.

"How did it go?"

I looked up, closing out of my banking app, and smiled at Lyle. "Better than I expected. But the all-nighter has definitely messed up my sleep schedule. I was up until three again last night." And then could barely fall asleep till dawn.

Lyle tipped his head. "You could get a job bartending. Probably make better money."

I wet my lips as a vision—innocent and charged—of brushing against Elias behind his bar passed through my head.

"Too social for me," I said, laughing to pass off my brief breathlessness.

Lyle's eyes narrowed, and I jumped up from my chair, turning to the library cart behind me. It wouldn't distract him—he'd already caught what I would've rather hid—but it would be a polite way of asking him not to pry into why that suggestion thrilled me.

"I saved these for you," I said, grabbing a few books Lyle had texted about.

"My hero. Speaking of socializing, want to come work at the table?"

"The table" was a long, eight-seat study table—with no less than twelve outlets—that the gender and sexuality department had been holding in shifts for at least five years, always with two people working there, open to close, on any given day. I'd done a couple shifts there in my first two years, but now preferred the solitude I found behind the front desk.

"Not today," I said, my usual answer. "I'm here till eight tonight."

My phone lit up under my hand as Lyle shrugged and left me. Sunday night wasn't the most popular night at the universitylibrary, mostly occupied by the more studious underclassmen who still lived in the dorms.

I slid my hand away, wincing at the latest notification, an email from Professor Stanton. I'd logged my interviews from the weekend earlier today, and sure enough, found a passive-aggressive reminder that he wanted to sit in on one, "preferably at more accommodating hours."

I considered replying with an equally snarky email about accommodating the living hours of my subjects, especially when they were nocturnal, but it was safer to leave communication one-sided for now.

A new notification popped up before I set my phone down, this one considerably more welcome, and such a surprise that I stared at the red dot over my messages for a long stretch before opening the screen.

Emma:How are you? We should get a drink soon, just the two of us.

Had Brett fucked up? Did she need to talk? Was she okay?

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