Curves for Days

by Katie LaRoux

  EPILOGUE – JENNA

  It’s been a year since I met Ryan. It’s hard to believe life even existed before that fateful day we met. Since that moment we crossed paths in front of the elevator, the world changed forever.

  And not just our lives. Ryan took his cut of the buyout and put it all into starting a new company, with me as co-owner. I was shocked when he proposed this and tried to dissuade him, but he said I was good enough. His encouragement allowed me to believe him.

  Soon after, we went back to South America and dug our noses into the corruption story, side by side. After a couple months we finally brought down a government for human rights abuses.

  And a couple weeks after that … I was pregnant.

  He cried tears of joy when I told him, and so did I. No matter how unlikely it seems, happily ever after does exist. You just have to wait for it to find you.

  The Biker’s Curvy Love

  A Sweet and Steamy Bad Boy Alpha and BBW Romance

  By Katie LaRoux

  © 2019 Katie LaRoux

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  NOTICE: This work is entirely fictional. None of the characters bear any resemblance to any real persons, living or deceased. All acts depicted are consensual. All characters are above the age of 18.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE: Jessa

  CHAPTER TWO: Ryder

  CHAPTER THREE: Jessa

  CHAPTER FOUR: Ryder

  CHAPTER FIVE: Jessa

  CHAPTER SIX: Ryder

  CHAPTER ONE: Jessa

  I roll my eyes as I hear the roar of motorcycle engines come to a rest in the parking lot out front. Great, they’re back again to ransack the place, I think to myself.

  As if dealing with them weren’t always bad enough already, today I’m working by myself today. Jenna, my usual co-worker for this shift, called out. She says she has a “cold” – yeah right, more like a hangover.

  I’ve been working at this dive bar for three months now, ever since my dad went away to prison. Not that he was ever the best at taking care of me or my little sister, but at least he made enough money to keep the lights on and a roof over our heads. Of course, most of that money was made illegally, but at least he brought it home.

  Dad couldn’t keep ahead of the law forever, though, and his life of crime caught up with him. Luckily, I was twenty years old by that time, so my little sister and I didn’t have to go into foster care. We’re staying at the same rinky-dink rented house still, and I quit the local community college I was attending to pick up this job to support us.

  Bar tending at the dive-iest dive bar you can imagine – a place owned by one of my dad’s –ahem – associates, Russ. The bar mainly exists for him and his biker crew, The Hogs, to have a place to hang out – or, more accurately put, a place to trash whenever they want – and to launder the money his crew makes through their illegal activities.

  I brace myself for the hell I’m going to have to deal with. Free drinks all around, of course. Broken bottles? More than you can count (and I’m going to have to clean up all the glass). Drunk brawls that I have to dunk and cover from? Definitely – one or two … or three … or ten.

  And drunk biker guys harassing me and trying to grab a handful at every turn? You’d better believe it.

  The door busts open and the bright sunlight from outside illuminates the dim interior of the bar, making all the dust in the air visible. Hey, I try to keep this shithole clean, but there’s only so much one girl can do all by herself. Four of them walk through the door, laughing and carrying on, making a racket even before they approach the bar.

  An extra pang of dread hits me when I realize Russ isn’t among them. It’s always a shitshow whenever any of these guys show up, but when Russ is along, he tries to keep them somewhat in line. He is in charge of the gang after all, and he doesn’t want his guys drinking themselves into comas or killing each other in bar fights.

  And since he’s known my dad for a long time, he keeps the guys from acting too rough with me. But when he’s not around and they show up by themselves, all bets are off.

  Today it’s Mikey, Joe, Pete, and … wait, who’s this new guy? While the other three bikers, all of whom I’m way too familiar with, are laughing and cracking jokes in their loud, obnoxious voices, the fourth man keeps his composure. He’s quiet, he stands up straight, and there’s an intense concentration in his eyes as he looks around.

  My first impression upon seeing the stark contrast between him and the three other jokers is to wonder if he’s an undercover cop. Russ’s gang is into some pretty heavy stuff, not just small-time petty crime. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with transporting drugs around the country. Last year there was another new guy who showed up, they called him Jack, who “disappeared” after a couple weeks.

  Cops were stopping by the place all the time for over a month after that – we even got raided twice. But whatever happened to “Jack,” or whatever his real name was, the cops were never able to pin it on anyone in the gang strongly enough to make arrests. It was never spoken out loud, but everyone knew that had happened: “Jack” was an undercover cop, he got found out, and he was never seen again.

  Looking at the fourth man more closely, however, it started to seem less and less likely. For one, he was covered in tattoos. Intricate ink designs covered the entirety of his exposed, muscular arms – even his neck has tattoos. They were probably all over his body. He could never get hired by a police department with tattoos like those, even to go undercover.

  They make their way over to the bar, the fourth still remaining silent and looking all around the room. It’s like he’s a spy or something, surveying every inch of his surroundings and calculating a response to every conceivable possibility. I don’t know … maybe he is a cop.

  But Russ always thoroughly vets everyone anyone in the crew hangs out with, and he’s not fooled easily – especially after the incident with “Jack,” he vowed never to be fooled again, and has been even more suspicious about anyone he doesn’t know. Either way, that’s all above my pay grade. I’m just going to stop worrying about it and try to survive another day.

  “Look who’s at the helm today!” Mikey cries out, noticing me behind the bar by myself. He walks up to the bar and leans forward, while I stand there, eyeing him in annoyance.

  “What do you want to drink?” I ask him, after letting out a huff of annoyance.

  Pete swaggers up next to Mikey and rests himself against the bar with his elbow, looking at me with a cocky grin and says, “I don’t know what I want to drink, but I know what I want to eat!” He sticks out his tongue and flings it up and down. The three of them burst out laughing and his oh so funny joke.

  I just roll my eyes. These guys are pigs, but I’m used to it. Of course, no one tips, so Russ actually pays me a pretty good wage, better than anything else I could get in this crappy small down in the backwoods of Georgia with only a high school diploma.

  I turn around to the drinks and pick up a bottle of whiskey and four glasses. I place them on the bar in front of the four men who have now taken seats at the bar and pour out four shots for each of them.

  Mikey downs his first, with one quick gulp. “Wait until you get to know Jessa better, Ryder,” Mikey says, reaching his hand over the bar stool to “playfully” (that is, obnoxiously) tussel my hair. “She’s a prude but she’s alright.”

  So that’s the name of this mysterious new man, with the intense eyes, wild dark hair that hands over his forehead, and full-body tattoos: Ryder.

  “Yeah, maybe a prude,” Joe says. “But still game enough to get a little action now and again!”

  He stands up to better reach over the bar and take a slap at my butt. I recoil back and scream, “cut it out!”

  The three of them laugh with each other, but not Ryder. He’s lookin
g at me now – it’s the first time our eyes have met. With the other three laughing and carrying on, so proud of themselves for having made a big joke out of humiliating me, Ryder beckons me over with his hand.

  “Let me have another drink,” he says. I pour him another whiskey into his shot glass, which he promptly lifts up and empties down this throat.

  Once his glass is back on the table he stands up and lets out a sharp whistle that catches the attention of the other three.

  “Alright,” he says to them. “Time to head out. We have an appointment to make.”

  The other three groan and little bit and get to their feet. Wow, who is this guy who can command these rowdy bikers like this? He certainly speaks with incredible authority and confidence.

  “It was nice meeting you, Jessa,” he says to me, and then extends his hand over the bar. Is he actually wanting to shake my hand? I stand there a couple moments, almost in shock. Common courtesy? Not something I ever expect to run into at this job of mine.

  “Y-you too,” I tell him, holding out my hand to meet his in a handshake. His hand is so rough and hard. Something to be expected from bikers who use their hands to work on their bikes all the time. His grip around my hand is very gentle, obviously intentionally on his part, but in the subtle contraction of his grip around mine I can feel the incredible physical power that lurks within him.

  He turns toward the door and walks out, the other three following behind him. It’s hard to get a good view thanks to the dim lighting in here, but while I’m watching him walk away, I could swear that ass of his belong to a marble sculpture in a museum. I can’t help but lick my lips as he exits the bar.

  Now I’m alone again. I stand there for a minute, still feeling the pressure of his hand around mine. I let out a long sigh of infatuation before cleaning up their four glasses and trying to get some cleaning done in this pigsty.

  CHAPTER TWO: Ryder

  Having to babysit these three doofuses is a burden, but I guess I can’t expect Russ not to want his guys to keep an eye on me. We’re going out in the woods to receive a major shipment of crystal meth.

  I’m part of a biker crew from Texas, and this is my first time working with this crew up here, passing off the delivery to them for them to deliver to its destination up in Virginia. Neither of our crews produce or sell the drugs, we’re strictly transport. We live on the road, know which routes to take the steer clear of police, and have biker clubhouses and bars lining up and down all the major roads and backroads.

  It’s a natural way for us to make our money. Anyone who finds his way into a biker crew isn’t out for an office job. I know that includes me.

  Do I like that this is how we make our money? No, I don’t. I know the kind of harm these drugs cause. But I was born into this lifestyle. My dad was the boss of my crew down in Texas, and since he died two years ago in a shoot-out with police, I’ve stepped up. It was a struggle to take control in my old man’s absence; and yeah, I had to crack a few heads to make it happen.

  But I’m the boss now.

  This is our first time working with this crew, and even though Russ seems like the kind of guy you can trust – as much as you can trust anyone in this lifestyle – I make it a point to personally oversee every new business transaction with a new crew. I need to know we’re working with people we can trust, especially when money like this is on the line.

  One unexpected upside, though, was the girl I just saw in the bar these three bozos insisted we go to before picking up the delivery. Although she was behind the bar, and short enough that I couldn’t get a very good glimpse of that plump, curvy body, what I did see was enough to make the trip worth it.

  Her full, luscious breasts were impossible to miss, though. Even more impossible to miss was the beautiful face – full of both innocence and experience at the same time. Walking out of the bar, I can feel my cock stiffening in my tight jeans again just thinking of her.

  I now realize more than ever how long it’s been since I’ve been with a woman. I haven’t slept with anyone since my father died. Taking over the crew and making sure it didn’t fall apart with him gone took up all my time.

  Now that I’m secure in my position as boss of the crew, however, I’m thinking maybe it’s time to dip my feet back into the water. Right now, I can’t think of anything I’d want to dip into more than that cute, curvy bartender I just left behind.

  “Alright guys, let’s get a move on,” I say to the guys, as we hop on our bikes and start the engines back up.

  We speed down the open highway. The wind whips my hair, the sun beams down on me, and nature passes me by seemingly at light speed as we own the road. This is what it’s really about: the freedom. The invigorating speed and feeling of invincibility as I fly down the road. No way could I give this up to live an “honest” life.

  We slow down to turn off the main road, down a well-travelled dirt road that penetrates deep into the forest. Even as we slow almost to a crawl to make sure that the sound of our motors doesn’t draw unwanted attention, our wheels still kick up a thick cloud of dust.

  Soon we approach a tree with a red rope tied around it, the sign of our meeting place. We shut down our engines, kick out our kickstands and dismount out bikes. The other three stretch and yawn loudly while I crack my neck and bark at them, “Shh!”

  “Keep it down, guys,” I tell them. “Don’t draw any unwanted attention. We have to be careful with deals like this.”

  The three eye me with annoyance. Oh well, somebody has to be in charge here. The three of them mull around near their bikes, talking in low voices. I’m standing to the side, in a clearing, looking around. You can never be off your guard for one minute during a deal like this, even if you’ve taken all the proper precautions.

  We stay like this for several minutes, waiting for my guys to show up with the delivery. A sense of worry creeps up on me as each extra minute passes. Knowing that I’m waiting on my own crew, and know how my father built my crew and how I’ve kept it up, they should have been here on time. Certainly not – I check my watch – eight minutes late now. Of course, when you’re on the road, just about anything can happen. This delay could be nothing – an unlikely traffic jam, even in a backwoods like this, can happen now and then. A bike, even well cared for, can break down.

  And of course, worse things can happen. An accident, getting caught by the cops … but I have to keep my cool. In this business, if you lose your head at every little snag along the road, you’ll never survive.

  I walk back over to the bikes, where the other three are still standing around, reclining against their bikes, seemingly not worried or concerned at all.

  “Shouldn’t be anything to worry about,” I reassure them, though they seem unbothered in the first place – too dumb to worry, maybe? “We’ll give it another ten minutes. I’ll call one of my people if no one shows up by then.”

  If my guys are an extra ten minutes late at this point, though – that would be something to start worrying about.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of movement from one of the three guys. I turn my head to see him quickly pulling a gun out of the back of his waistband. In an instance, before a rational thought is even able to enter my mind, my fight or flight response activates.

  It activates the way it always has: fight.

  I rush forward toward him with two fast, long lunges, quick enough to grab the wrist of the hand he’s holding the gun with. I force his arm to the side just as he pulls the trigger, feeling a bullet wiz by the side of my head – the bullet that was destined for the front of my head, if I hadn’t reacted in time.

  With my hand gripping his wrist firmly and powerfully, I twist his arm to make him drop the gun. I ball my other hand in a hard, solid fist and bring it up to smash his jaw with an uppercut. He falls to the forest ground with a heavy thud.

  I’m able to complete all this before the other two even have time to react. But with their partner taken out and lying limp on t
he ground, they spring into action. I see them both reaching behind their backs – no doubt, for the guns they are both carrying as well.

  Making a split-second decision, I rush toward the one closest to me and take him out with a stiff elbow strike to the side of his head, before he’s even able to remove his gun from his waistband. But in the time it took to do that, the last of the three has drawn his weapon and is aiming it toward me as I turn around to focus my attention on him.

  I see him about to squeeze the trigger, so I lung to the side before rushing toward him. I feel a sharp pain as the bullet fired from the weapon grazes the side of my left arm. Ignoring the pain, I continue my rush forward. I quickly duck a second shot he fires off and get close enough to him to powerfully fling by head back up, making contact under his jaw, knocking him unconscious. His motionless body and his gun – missing two bullets meant to do me in – fall to the ground to join his two compatriots.

  My heart racing and blood pumping, I stand up and cautiously look around my surroundings. Is anyone else going to be coming for me? Have I neutralized all threats? After a couple seconds of quiet, my adrenaline starts to calm down. I can take stock of what just happened and start to think rationally – try to understand what just went on, and what I need to do from here.

  My breath is beginning to slow down and my mind is beginning to stop racing. I look down at the ground to the three bastards I just knocked out cold. I know I hit them hard enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about them waking back up for a long time.

  But what about my people? My crew that was supposed to make the drop off? Were they taken out by others from this damn Georgia crew that I was somehow stupid enough to trust? I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Luckily, it wasn’t damaged in any of the scuffles.