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There's something distinctly off about this gathering, but Harry can't quite put her finger on it yet.
She takes a seat next to Fergus at the first picnic table beneath the pavilion, folds her hands in front of her on the surface. He's studying the park while trying to look like he's not studying the park, and Harry studies him, watches his eyes dart back and forth over his surroundings, his gaze flickering from side to side. He takes a moment, and then leans in closer, his whisper warm against her ear: "What do you notice about this place, Harry?"
Harry looks around. Most of the attendees seem to be either her age or Fergus's age, and they're all intermingling, hands brushing over hands, fingers twirling locks of hair between fingers, eyelashes batting up and down over cheek flesh. Everyone has a pink heart adhered to their chest; when a stunning woman - mid 50s, maybe, fire-truck red pixie cut, leather jacket with luxurious fur - turns away from the punch bowl and takes a seat at the table next to them, she realizes that they are name tags, and hers reads RUBY; 58; SHE/HER. Beneath it: SEEKING WOMEN 19-29.
"This... is an age gap speed dating event." She shrugs. "I suppose that's why it was so vague on the website you found. They... didn't want to raise too many red flags, maybe get their ad shut down."
"Any one of these people could be our killer," Fergus says, "and all of the women here - and some of the men - are looking at me like I'm a fresh slab of meat. Let's get going."
Harry cracks her knuckles. "So the victim was Emily Gray, 23. Died by strangulation, found here behind a trash can the night after the most recent gathering, which was one week ago. They found flakes of red--"
"They do this weekly? There are that many people here who want to sleep with an old---older women?"
"Be careful," Harry says, giving him a light, playful slap. "And it's not only people looking for older women. Sometimes it's older women looking for younger men."
Fergus rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth, parting his lips to reveal only the slightest shine of white teeth, but chokes on his words when the buzzer rings and the host calls for them to switch.
"Harry," he whispers. "Do something. I don't want---"
But she only shrugs, winks, and rolls her chair away. The kid she pulls up to can't be any older than nineteen, which his heart tag confirms, and oh, she really can't even be seen here, but there is something endearing about the way he's ogling her like he has an actual chance. There is something to this; she hasn't been looked at this way in so, so long. The boy across from her introduces himself as Felix, and he kisses her palm, and he's so smug, so sure of himself, as he tells her all about his startup tech company. Come on. If Harry was ever going to be with someone younger, it wouldn't be someone like him. It would be someone like---
She glances over at Fergus. He's chatting with a woman who looks almost like an older version of Lola---dark, long hair, those fae-like features, the curl of the smile. She's got her hand on his forearm, tapping her fingers over his sleeve. And---to Harry's utter horror---he's laughing, as if he isn't disgusted by it. As if the woman in front of him doesn't want something from him he can't give her.
Well. He is 18. He could, if he wanted to, she supposes, but he wouldn't do that to her. Would he?
"Hey," Felix says, snapping his fingers in front of her face. "Seems like you'd rather be with him."
"Oh, it's not---"
A warm smile. "I understand. Sometimes we're drawn to other people. You should go over to him, he looks kind. You'd be cute together."
The host slams the buzzer again, forcing a sigh of relief from Harry's throat. She stands up and tries to walk back to Fergus, but a hand---a hand boasting just the smallest traces of picked-off red nail polish, as if someone tried to remove it all but didn't quite get to finish the job---grips her shoulder and stops her in her tracks. The host turns her almost forcibly.
"You two have already been together," she says, sing-song. "You may meet up together once more at the end."
Fergus's eyes widen. He looks at Harry, gives another do something look----there's only one way out of this, and it should sound more daunting than it actually is. She mouths sorry in his direction.
"Um," Harry begins, moving towards Fergus and forcing him to stand, "you know what, I actually have found... the man... boy... of my dreams with him. I'm not interested in anyone else, and he said he isn't either, so if you don't mind, we'd like to go to the park bathrooms and---"
"Really?" the host interrupts. "You found the man boy of your dreams so quickly?"
Harry gives a defensive nod. "Of course. Fergus is... we only had five minutes, but that was all I needed. He's good with children, he's kind to strangers, he's---he seems---smarter than any man my age I've ever known, he works hard, he commits, he..."
"Do you two, like, already know each other?" Felix asks from behind her.
"No!" Fergus interjects. "No, we just met, but it feels like we've known each other forever, hasn't it, Harry?"
"Yes. And we'd like to get to know each other even better, so we're going to go now."
The host gives them a look of heavy suspicion, and Harry realizes that they aren't making it out of here without blowing their cover unless things get awkward.
"You know what?" Harry begins. "I can't wait. I need you now."
She pulls Fergus in by the loops of his belt, tries to look away from his expression of shock, and presses her lips against his. She makes it quick enough for him to forget about, passionate enough for it to make the others uncomfortable. He just sort of stands there, flopping around in her arms like a dying fish, until he starts to sink into her touch and breathes out an almost-moan, a ghost of a pleasured sound. If she didn't know any better, she'd think there was something between them---something hard and real and tangible---something the others here all crave.
"Just go," says the host.
And they're off; Fergus practically darts away, leaping bounds as he makes distance between himself and the pavilion. He heads toward the bathrooms to sell the story---she didn't expect anything else, he's a good detective, good at keeping cover---and he opens the door for her before slipping in behind her.
"I'm sorry about that, Fergus," Harry says. "I didn't have a choice."
"No, I get it," Fergus says, giving an awkward shake of the head and fiddling with the zipper of his jacket, "we can't let them know we're onto them yet, I know----did you see the nails?"
Harry finds herself breathless as she stares at him. He's shifting back and forth on his feet, covering his waist with his hands.
"The---? Oh, her nails. Yes, that was the host, Jane Greens. She had no alibi, but was overlooked as a suspect because of chronic pain and joint instability in the hand. They said she didn't have the strength to... to strangle Emily."
"That's odd," Fergus says. "She sure gripped you hard for someone with bad hands."
"You're right," Harry says. "She said she started doing these so... 'people could find a love as fulfilling as hers'. We should see what the husband knows about her injury."
"Good thinking."
"Mm-hmm."
"And we should question some of the other regulars after the event," Fergus adds.
"And we should talk about the fact that I kissed you and now you're hard."
Fergus sighs, tries to turn away. He gives an awkward gulp. "It's a natural bodily response. You're the one who talked about me like you're actually in love with me."
"Please, you should be so lucky."
A moment of silence spreads thickly across the shitty outdoor bathrooms. The gray concrete beneath them turns to white cloud matter, and the metal of the stalls surrounding them starts to shimmer rainbow---a dream sequence, something picturesque---and then they're kissing for anything but show. Harry evaporates into Fergus's body as his forehead rests against hers and he surges and lurches and aches outward for her, kissing her jaw and ears and neck. Harry cannot remember a time in which she was touched with this kind of tenderness and this much fervor; she can't think coherently at all.
"Bad idea," Harry breathes, but she still presses him against the nearest wall, reaches down, and paws at the buckle of his belt. It all falls into place, every drop of blood in the splatter analyzed, every piece of evidence logged, every suspect interviewed; she wants him---she needs him---it's more than any concept any writer has ever imagined up. They aren't even in a stall yet.
"Don't care much," Fergus replies, giving a gentle nod. At the invitation she frees him, palming his cock with her hand and giving it slow, aching strokes. She inhales as she takes in the sight of him, how large he is, how hard he is for her. It feels right. He feels right in her mouth.
She takes him in, wrapping her hand around him and pulling as much of Fergus into her throat as she can manage. He is still and careful with her as her head moves back and forth and back and forth, popping him out of her mouth for just a moment to watch the interconnecting strings of wetness and to see how beautiful he is again, again, again. When she curls her tongue just beneath its tip, he gives a sharp, sharp shriek, and his fingers begin to tug at the hair in her bun.
"Harry," he breathes, warning her.
"Tell me what you want."
It's oddly romantic, when he leads her by the hand into the largest stall and sits on the toilet lid. She feels so young doing this. She feels so, so young, but he wants her as she is. And he wants her. He tells her how much he wants her as he pulls her pants to the floor and guides her on top of him—-You're so beautiful, he whispers, as Harry settles down to straddle, her knees on either side of his thighs—-I think I've always wanted you as she grinds down against him and lowers herself on. When he is finally, fully inside of her he gives a grunt and buries his head in her neck, pants as the sensation overwhelms. God, he wants her; God, she loves him; God, they're a perfect team.
