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Geri
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Tonight started off so damn promising—a lead on a possible UFO connection, the hunters coming to me at the lodge instead of me having to go look for them, and a dream-come-true candlelight dinner with the hottest guy I know, who also happens to be at the center of my investigation. Everything seemed to be on the up and up until the hunters all but told me to get lost, after which Sean seemed anxious to get the heck away from me. And now I receive this email from Derek:
I’m stymied, Geri, truly stymied. You’ve always been such a conscientious employee, so I’m literally reeling over the fact that you think you have the authority to just decide not to show up for the job you were hired to do simply because you want to do something else. If Global were interested in a story on a bunch of rednecks running around the Canadian wilderness, chasing mythical apes, they would’ve sent someone with the appropriate experience. Your expertise is in fashion, and you have over half a million followers expecting you to give them their daily trend tip, not the latest on Bigfoot.
I expect you back in the office Tuesday morning, on time, bearing my soy latte.
Derek
I stare at it, reread it, and say aloud, “Screw you, Derek”, give my laptop the middle finger and slam it shut.
Knowing Derek, he has told everyone in the office what I’m up to so they’ll know I’m returning with my tail tucked between my legs, and that burns me. It doesn’t just hurt my pride, but it angers me because I know there’s a story here—a cover-up or a conspiracy or both. I could be right on top of Canada’s very own Area 51. I just need more time.
But I’ll lose my job if I’m not back in the office by Tuesday morning at eight a.m. It’s already nine o’clock on Sunday night, and I have to get Mark’s truck back to Mom and Dad’s then make my flight out of Ottawa at seven fifteen tomorrow night.
For the tenth time, my mind comes back to a possible solution: If I can get the support of my social media fans, then Global’s support will follow because, as Derek has so often told me, it’s all about the ratings. And despite the hunters giving Anand the exclusive story, I have the opportunity to scoop it out from under him unless, as Jackson said, he grows some balls and joins the hunt. I mean, if I happen to come across the hunters while I’m out on a hike, I might as well snap some pictures of them in action, get a few comments on video, and post them immediately.
I open my laptop, do a search on Anand Dhalwal, and check out what he’s posted and reported on so far. He has some good action footage of the hunters entering Canada after their standoff with border officials, a few comments from Kenneth Broughton about how they’re going to go about the hunt, and a couple of good shots of the entire group with the forest in the background. He’s not exactly setting the bar high on this story. I can do better.
But first, I need to entice my followers to join me on this little adventure.
Since this is not a Global sanctioned story, the most judicial course of action is for me to post to the two hundred thousand followers I have on my personal accounts. Even though most of those “friends” are fans that found me online outside of Global, I’m still legally allowed to post about events in my life.
Hey, peeps, you’ll never guess where I am! In #Algonquin with the #Bigfoothunters on the hunt for #Sasquatch!
I include the picture of me with the hunters that Sean took this evening then wait to see how much engagement I get from it.
In the meantime, I download the video I took at the site onto my laptop so I can edit it. It takes longer to load than I expect, and I realize I have way more footage than I remember taking.
Wait a second—when Reptile Man started chasing me, I didn’t shut off the recording. I just dropped my phone into my pocket.
My fingers twitch over the keyboard, anxious for the video to finish downloading, and I fly into action the second it does. I’m not an expert in using video software, but I know how to speed up the frames, slow them down, and freeze the frame to extract it as a photo. So I whip through it at high-speed the first time, looking for a giant reptilian and feeling disappointed when I don’t find one.
Rewind.
I go through the video at normal speed. Only about ten minutes of it is actual footage because once I dropped it in my pocket the screen goes blank. The rest of it are just sounds the mic picked up, but I glean three important things: 1. Although the recording did not pick up the clicking noises that the reptile man made, it did pick up the louder roar from whatever was to my left. 2. The recording confirms that I did not scream until after Sean catapulted up onto the bluff. 3. The video captured what looks like a dark, hulking, human shape near a dense stand of evergreens. Was that the thing roaring on my left? Is it a—and I hate to even think it—Bigfoot?
I extract the three frames it shows up in, download them as pictures, and enlarge them. It looks like a big, hairy ape, but there’s nothing unique about the photo. It doesn’t look different from any other abstract photograph in circulation claiming to be a picture of a Bigfoot.
More than an hour has gone by since I posted, and I check my stats: almost seven hundred views and close to three hundred shares. Not bad.
I post the short, zoomed-in grainy video with this post: #Sasquatch or bear? What do you think? I’m on the #Bigfoothunt.
Then I add another post.
Strange things are happening at #Shaglake on the #Bigfoothunt...
Forty-five minutes later, I have hundreds of replies from people demanding to know what’s going on and to stop keeping them in suspense. Although I’m elated that I’m attracting attention, I was hoping for more engagement. The alien twist in this story is my own personal exclusive, and I need it to go viral.
Obviously, just hinting at a mystery isn’t enough—I need to up the ante. But how much should I reveal? If I admit to seeing a reptile man, no one will take me seriously.
Maybe sharing my research would entice more curiosity. I could start a conversation and ask for opinions on what I have so far. That could work.
I publish my next post:
#ShagHarbour and #Shaglake coincidence or #alien #coverup? Check out this link: https://shagharbourincident.wordpress.com/the-incident/ #Bigfoothunters
The glow of the digital clock on the colonial-style pine bedside table catches my attention as a four turns to a five. 12:45 a.m. I breathe out a low growl, knowing my time is running out. In just a few hours, I have to make my decision to either stay and follow the hunters or pack up and keep my job.
Exhausted, I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, knowing that no matter what I decide, I’ll be useless tomorrow if I don’t get some sleep.
Pushing my chair away from the desk, I go to the retro-style bathroom and begin my nightly ritual—brush my teeth, wash my face, moisturize, take a vitamin E pill, refill my water glass, and take it to the bedside table. With my mind still buzzing, I check my social media stats as I strip down to my cami and undies. While engagement has increased, it’s still too slow to predict whether it will go viral.
I struggle to loosen the tightly tucked sheets on the bed, slide under the covers, shut off the bedside lamp, and stare into the darkness.
What am I going to do? Let Derek fire me?
Stop thinking about it. Just get some sleep.
I can lie here awake all night, fretting about it, or get some sleep and check my stats in the morning. If they’re good enough, I’ll stay. If they suck, I’ll go home. There. Decision made.
But my mind is still buzzing, keeping sleep at bay.
I direct my thoughts to one of my favorite happy places—my vacation in Mexico two years ago. Warm ocean waves lap against a stretch of white sandy beach. The hot sun sinks into my skin, and the margarita turns my muscles into mush. The only thing missing on that vacation was sex, because I had just broken up with “Needy Noah,” the boyfriend who solidified my belief that all men are just grown-up boys desperately searching for another mommy to look after them.
But now that I’m thinking about sex, an image of Sean walking through the water, toward the white sand beach, his azure eyes a perfect match to the Caribbean Sea, pops into my head. I can just imagine how his wet blond hair would look slicked back from his face, while rivulets of water ran down his tanned eight-pack. And how his thickly muscled thighs would look working their way through the surf, his eyes locked with mine as he strode toward me...
Yes, Sean would’ve been a very nice addition to that vacation.
God, when he called me beautiful tonight, I swear there was desire in his eyes. It was all I could do not to reach across the table and feel his lips against mine again. But it was the again part of that scenario that held me back. I was afraid it would turn out to be Behind the Shed, Part Deux... or worse, Rejection In Front of Everyone In the Restaurant, Part One.
Sighing out loud in the quiet, dark hotel room, I roll on to my side, punch the flat pillow under my head, and tell myself that it’s seriously time to face the fact that I’m nothing to Sean but the bratty little sister he feels obligated to protect in his best friend’s absence. And honestly, he should be nothing more to me than a possible lead on a story that could make or break my career.
And here I am, full circle, thinking about my career again and whether or not to go find the hunters or get on a plane and keep my job.
The digital clock glows 1:35. If I fall asleep right now, this very minute, I might get four hours.
Or maybe I should get up and go for a hike, see if I can find the hunters. Jackson said they were close to the lake, about two miles from here, although he didn’t say which side of the lake. I can do a two-mile run in less than ten minutes on a flat surface, but on a rutty trail at night, I’m going to be a lot slower. So theoretically, if it takes me twenty-five minutes to run two miles one way, I give myself twenty minutes to search, and then twenty-five minutes to run the two miles back, I could search both sides of the lake in about three hours. If I don’t find them, I still have plenty of time to get to my flight. If I do find them, I’ll have my footage.
I sit up, letting the thick quilt drop off my shoulders, and test the night air coming in from the cracked balcony door. It has to be only one or two degrees Celsius outside. It’s really dark too. Not only is the light pollution of a big city missing, but also the overcast sky is blocking the moonlight. In fact, my hotel room would be pitch-black if it weren’t for the digital clock and the hallway light seeping under the door.
Could I actually find the hunters at night? By myself? In the dark? With coyotes, a reptile man, and Bigfoot on the loose?
You want to be like Anand, Geri? Grow a pair.
Throwing back the quilt, I swing my legs over the side of the bed with determination, but my resolve is short-lived when my bare feet hit the cold floor.
You can do this, girl!
Damn straight I can.
I take a big gulp of water from the glass on the bedside table and feel something solid flow into my mouth—a bug? I try to stop mid-swallow and spray out half the water, but I accidentally gulp the rest and feel the object go down my throat.
Choking and trying to hack it up, I set the glass back on the nightstand but end up knocking over the lamp. Both hit the floor, and water splashes everywhere, but I can’t do anything about it because my gag reflex has kicked in.
There’s a sharp knock at the door followed by, “Geri! Are you all right?”
I’ve worked myself into a full-on gag, and I’m trying to relax my esophagus while I get up to turn on the desk lamp, but I end up stubbing my big toe on the desk leg. Shrieking, I grab my foot.
The door blows right off its hinges and Sean rushes in, his fists ready to do battle. “Where the hell is it?” His tall, muscular frame is backlit by the light pouring in from where the door used to be.
“Where the hell is what?” I manage to ask through the pain.
He finds the light switch and turns it on.
I’m leaning against the desk, bent over, clutching my toe and waiting for the sharp pain to recede. He’s standing there in just his boxers—the white form-fitting Calvin Kleins I glimpsed earlier—and his chest is heaving. Despite the pain I’m experiencing, my eyes go straight to the apex of his thickly muscled thighs and stare at his sizable package. I bite down harder on my lip and force myself to look him in the eye.
He relaxes his fists as a wave of confusion passes over his face. “Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath against the pain. “I stubbed my toe.”
He’s looking beyond me to the broken lamp on the floor, the overturned glass, the dark stain of spilled water on the thin Berber carpet, and the balcony door that’s still open a crack. “What happened? Were you attacked?”
I ease my foot onto the floor to test it. “I think I swallowed a bug.”
“A bug?” he repeats in disbelief.
I nod and limp the few steps to the bed, hoping to find whatever it was on the bedcovers, praying that I spit it out and didn’t swallow it, even though I’m sure I did.
Then I feel the breeze from the balcony door across my bare butt cheeks, and I stop dead. I’m wearing a thong.
And to literally top it off, my white cami is wet from spitting water on it and completely see-through.
Heat creeps into my cheeks, the ones on my face, as I force my brain to work past the mortification paralyzing me and come up with a solution to this awkward turn of events.
“It was probably a fly or a spider,” I say needlessly, sneaking a peek at Sean over my shoulder. He’s staring my ass, and it’s obvious he’s enjoying the view.
“A spider?” His voice is tight, and he clears his throat.
My pajama bottoms are in my suitcase on the other side of the room. I’m going to have to walk around the bed, wet cami and all, and brush past him.
The room just suddenly got a whole lot smaller.
Despite my ragged breathing and legs that are melting into jelly, I force myself to turn in his direction to get to my pajama bottoms. However, now that I’m face-to-face with him, I’m frozen in place.
His blue eyes have deepened to violet, and they’re raking over me. And I’m looking at him, the curve of every hard muscle, and the abs my fingers are itching to trace.
“Sorry, I know we’re not...” he begins, his voice hoarse. “I mean, we’ve never, ah... Holy shit, you’re beautiful, Geri.”
“So are you,” I say lamely, because I’ve never known how to gracefully respond to a compliment.
Sean breathes out a shaky little laugh. “I should, ah... go.”
“Or you should kiss me,” I say quickly, not giving myself any time to rethink it.
What am I doing? Nine hours ago, I was questioning whether or not he was a good person, and now I’m asking him to kiss me?
But my God, he is the most stunning man I’ve ever seen, the only man who has ever set my heart racing and my hands shaking.
He stays rooted to the spot while I quietly attempt to decode the mix of emotions playing over his face, desperately wishing I knew what was going through his head right now.
“I want to.” He shakes his head. “I really want to, but—”
Before he can finish that sentence, I step toward him, wrap my arms around his neck, fist my hands in his hair, and pull his face toward mine. After all these years of wondering, I want to know once and for all if it was him who rocked my world behind the shed eight years ago or an honest-to-God seismic event.
Our lips press together, mine probing, while his are tight, rigid, and closed.
Geri, you idiot.
I break contact and pull away from him. But he groans, grabs me around my waist, and pulls me firmly against him. His lips move against mine, parting them, tasting me, and I pull him closer, thinking that was no seismic event eight years ago. It was all Sean Eastman.
He wrenches his mouth from mine. “I can’t do this,” he says, thrusting me to an arms length away from him.
Cold air rushes in between us. “What?” I ask vacantly, wondering what the hell just happened.
He drops his hands from me and takes a step back, shaking his head again. His eyes are wide despite the feverish desire gleaming from them, and it finally sinks in that he’s already regretting what we just did.
“Oh. My. God.” The heat of humility turns my face into a blazing fire. “I’m sorry, but I thought you...” I don’t say it. I just shift my eyes downward to pointedly look at his obvious desire. “I guess I misread the situation.”
“Obviously, you didn’t,” he says in a ragged voice, his lips still glistening from our kiss. “It’s not you, Geri. It’s me.”
“Because that line never gets old.” I jerk away from him and continue on to my original destination—to get my pajama bottoms.
“You don’t understand.”
“Of course I do.” I bend to step into the bottoms. “I’m your friend’s bratty kid sister, and it was totally out of line for me to come on to you.”
“You are waaaay off base,” he says.
I straighten, yanking the elastic waist up as I do, my hair flying wildly. “Am I really?”
“Yes,” he barks loudly then runs a frustrated hand down his face. “You want the truth?”
“That would be a nice change,” I say, forcefully pushing my hair out of my eyes.
“It’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to pick you up, throw you on that bed, and make love to you. But here’s the catch—one, maybe two nights is all I can offer because my life isn’t conducive to a long-term relationship.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that because all my body heard was that he wants to make love to me, and now it wants to throw itself on the bed in anticipation, even though the part of my brain still capable of rational thought is frustrated beyond belief with all this man-of-mystery crap.
I listen to the rational voice, because the image of me lying on the bed like an open invitation while he walks out the door with his resolve intact is too pathetic for me to allow.
“Then tell me about your life, Sean. Tell me what prevents you from having a relationship—not that I asked you for one.”
His eyebrows jerk up in surprise. “What is that supposed to mean, Geri? That you were up for a one-night stand?” He huffs a laugh of disbelief and narrows his eyes at me. “That you were going to use me?”
I dig my nails into my palm because the nerve of him. Why does he think it’s okay for him to own up to only wanting casual sex but not for me?
“That’s right, Eastman. I’m focused on my career right now, so my life isn’t conducive to a long-term relationship.” He glares at me, silence filling the room, and I glare back. “What’s your reason?”
He drops his eyebrows, hooding his eyes, and straightens up. “Same reason as you,” he says. “Too busy with work.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah? And what work is that?”
His mouth tightens into a straight line, as if he’s zipping it shut. “You know I can’t tell you.”
I throw my hands in the air, my frustration getting the better of me, because I need the mystery of Sean Eastman solved, not just from a reporter’s perspective, but also as a longtime friend. So I make the decision to let him have it—everything I’ve been thinking, wondering, and questioning about him—because I want answers.
“Does it have something to do with you being called away on a classified project and turning up in the exact location where a young woman disappeared? Does it have something to do with the fact that you catapulted up over the side of a cliff like some freakin’ superman? Does it have something to do with those ‘coyotes’ that chased me yesterday?” I make a couple of air quotes when I say coyotes. “And before you try any more of your psychobabble bullshit on me, I know I saw a giant reptile man.”
He opens his mouth then closes it and rearranges his features into an innocent I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about expression.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” I point at him, shaking my finger. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“We should switch rooms,” he says, changing the subject. “Your door is broken.”
We stare at each other again, both of us aware that he’s evading my questions. His lips are still firmly pressed together, and I know he’s not going to tell me anything.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll go to the front desk and ask for a new room,” I say dismissively, turning my back on him to open my suitcase, which is perched on the luggage table in the corner. Sean’s MIT sweatshirt is at the top of the pile, so I shift my body to block his view, not wanting him to know I brought it with me in case he thinks I’m carrying a piece of him around, which I am, but it’s not information he needs to know. I dig under it for my pullover sweater.
“I’ll get dressed and go with you to let them know I’ll fix the door.”
“Whatever,” I say without turning around.
I hear him leave and take this private moment to drive the heel of my hand into my forehead because how screwed up was tonight?
I finish getting dressed, grab my electronics for fear of having them stolen while I’m gone, and head down to the main floor. Mary’s at the front desk, and it makes me wonder if the woman works twenty-four, seven.
“Good morning, Mary.”
She greets me with a tired smile. “You’re up early.”
“I can say the same about you.”
“My nightshift employee wasn’t feeling well, so I sent her home. If you ask me, I think she’s pregnant by that no-good boyfriend of hers.” She looks at my laptop. “What’s your excuse for working so late?”
“Honestly?” I ask, thinking another opinion on whether I should stay and get the story or go back and keep my job wouldn’t hurt, because I’m down to just a few hours to make my decision. “I’m kind of at a junction in my career, and I’m not sure which way I should go.”
She nods. “I’m listening.”
“I’m a reporter with Global,” I begin.
“Sean mentioned it.”
“I work on their fashion column, and”—I hold my arms out on either side, modeling my baggy jammy bottoms and stretched-out sweater—“I don’t know the first thing about fashion.”
Mary arcs an eyebrow at my ensemble. “So why are you writing about it?”
I drop my arms to my sides. “Because Global offered me a job.” At her blank stare, I explain, “Global is the biggest news source on the planet.”
“Gotcha. High profile,” Mary says. “Go on.”
“Anyway, I took the fashion column thinking that once I became an employee, I could work my way into another department and do the kind of reporting that I really want to do. But two years later, I’m still in fashion.”
“What kind of reporting do you want to do?”
I shrug, not sure how to put it into words. “Well, the whole reason I studied journalism was because I wanted to report on the real issues of this world. You know, make sure people have all sides of the story so they can make informed decisions—like how the big fruit corporations exploit cheap labor in developing southern countries, which keeps the poor poverty stricken, which in turn promotes the black market for drugs, prostitution, and the sex slave trade, all just to keep the cost of imported fruit cheap in industrialized countries. I mean if people knew all that, maybe we could start a revolution for fair trade.”
Mary has a troubled look on her face, and I realize that my rant I made zero sense. I probably just came off sounding like a naïve whiny kid who doesn’t appreciate what she has.
I shake my head, a self-deprecating frown on my face. “I know that all sounds stupidly immature. But it’s honestly why I went into journalism. I had grandiose ideas that I could change the world, help make it a better place.”
“Saving the world is a very worthy pursuit,” Mary says with an approving nod. “So what’s stopping you?”
I perk up because she’s not making fun of me.
“Time,” I say. “I came here on my own to get the scoop on the Sasquatch hunters, who are arguably the hottest news right now, and prove to Global that I’m capable of more in-depth reporting. But my boss isn’t supporting me. He wants me back in the office tomorrow morning, which is in New York City, or I’m fired. So the question is, do I stay and try to get the story or pack up and keep my job?”
Mary skews her eyebrows. “So your big career decision is to continue to report on hot fashion tips or take a risk and stay to report on the hottest news?”
I nod.
She relaxes her facial muscles, and the wrinkles on her forehead soften. “Oh, because I thought you said you wanted to change the world.”
Now I’m confused. “I do. That’s why I want to prove to Global that I’m capable of investigative reporting.”
“On a bunch of Bigfoot hunters that are already ‘the hottest news story’? Huh. Sounds to me like you’re doing everything you can to fit into this world, not change it.”
It’s as though I’ve just been slapped, and the heat of the phantom strike is already causing my cheeks to sting with heat. “I don’t understand.”
“Everyone’s gotten so swept up in the entertainment of a Bigfoot hunt that they’ve forgotten the real problem. There’s a missing woman.” She leans ever so slightly toward me and speaks in a soft, gentle voice. “You want to change the world, Geri? How about starting with Lisa Hornsby. Find her, and you’ll make a difference in the lives of her family and friends.” She shrugs a shoulder. “But that’s just my opinion. Now, what brings you to the front desk at two thirty in the morning?”
I stare at her in silence, not sure what to say because I don’t know if I need a new room now or not.