CURVY FOR HIM
The Botanist and the Biker
by
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
HELEN
I wait for the moon to move behind a cloud before I step out of the shadows. This is exciting. It’s like I’m in a mystery novel or something. A detective following up on a hunch. A rogue investigator catching the criminal in the act. Ohmygod, I’m so awesome!
I tiptoe through the dark, silent park. It’s a public park on the outskirts of town. Totally safe—I think. Safe for humans, at least. Not so much for the defenseless plants.
“Plants aren’t defenseless,” I remind myself as I move to the cluster of trees that are being ravaged by some strange disease akin to Burmese Tree Rot. I saw something about it on the Parks and Recreation Board website. Of course, they don’t have the funding to conduct real research on the cause. And so long as it doesn’t threaten America’s farmers, the Federal Government isn’t going to send too many tax dollars down here to study it either.
Which means it’s up to me, Helen Henderson, Botanist by day, and . . . well, Botanist by night, too, I guess.
Botanist and outlaw.
Yep, this park is closed for the night. Which means I’m technically breaking the law. The thought sends a shiver through me, and I decide that this might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I have a tenure-track job as an assistant professor of botany at the local university. Tenure-track means I don’t actually have tenure yet—that holy grail of the teaching world, where you’re guaranteed a job for life, a comfortable, engaging career in academia, the tall university walls keeping you away from the real world and all its drama and madness. I hate drama, and I don’t do madness. That doesn’t make for good science.
“This makes for good science,” I whisper as I creep up on the rustling trees. It’s not like they’re going anywhere, so I don’t really need to creep up on them. But hey, I’m under cover of darkness, dressed in black tights and a black fleece like I’m a female Navy Seal running a dangerous op in a war zone.
I smile as I pat my big butt and look around. I generally wear loose clothes when I’m alone in the lab (which is like most of my life . . .), but there is something about Spandex and the way it holds your ass in place that’s kinda neat. Thank God for the scientists that invented that shit. Spanx and Spandex are the greatest modern inventions of the past fifty years. Where’s their Nobel Prize?
“Would they get the Nobel for Physics or Chemistry,” I say out loud, raising an eyebrow as I finally get to the trees I’m studying and stop. I pull out my red-spectrum flashlight and twist it on. Red light is best at night. White or blue light messes up the plants at night, making them think the sun is up. Messes up humans, too. Phones and electric lights are the reason for the sleep-deprivation epidemic invading the modern world. That’s why I see eighteen-year-olds with dark circles under their eyes and premature lines on their faces in my Botany 101 class. My kids aren’t gonna be allowed to use phones until they’re like thirty.
I sigh as the thought of kids floats into my mind like the evening breeze. I’m a researcher and a scientist, yes. But I’m also a teacher, and my life is always going to involve kids. Just not my own. Nope. No time for that. Talk about bringing drama and madness into your life. Not my thing.
I frown as I try to focus on the task at hand. There’s a reason I came here at night and not during the light of day. Plant physiology is profoundly different during the day, and I need data on what happens in the darkness, when a plant’s pores open up, its leaves take in oxygen to breathe, its roots soak in nutrients from the soil. For some reason this curious new tree-disease seems to be spreading during the night, and I want to gather data on exactly why that is. If I can figure that out, maybe I can find a way to stop it before the City decides to douse the park with pesticides—or worse: cut down this cluster of trees to prevent the disease from spreading.
Of course, there’s another reason I’m here at night and not during the day. There’s another group of scientists studying this tree-rot, and they’ve got better funding and better instruments. It sounds silly, but in the world on botany, this is actually pretty exciting. We scientists live for discovering something new about the natural world. So yeah, it’s exciting as hell. It could also be a career-maker for me if I learn enough about this disease to get a paper published in a respected scientific journal.
I sigh again as I think back to my upcoming tenure-evaluation in less than a year. This is pretty make-or-break for me. If an assistant professor doesn’t get tenure, it usually means they need to move on to another job, another university, another town. I don’t wanna leave town. I have roots here, just like these trees.
Quietly I take my backpack off my shoulders and unzip it, reaching inside for my sample jars and other instruments of probing and measuring. But then I freeze in place when I hear voices. Male voices. Angry, threatening voices.
The blood rushes to my face so quick I can barely breathe, and my heart hammers away beneath my tight black pullover like it’s trying to jump out from between my big boobs and get the hell out of here! Suddenly all that innocent excitement transforms to dread and fear, and I close my eyes and wince as I wonder what the hell I was thinking sneaking into a park after dark! This is the kind of shit parents warn their daughters about, don’t they? Fuck, this is what happens when you spend your whole life in the secluded, safe space of a college campus, where women are empowered and protected in ways that sadly aren’t reflected in the world outside the campus walls.
The voices are coming closer, and I hurriedly jam my instruments back into my bag. Time to go. These trees will be here tomorrow. And maybe tomorrow I’ll just call the City and ask for permission to come here instead of acting like Catwoman.
I take a step forward, but then stop immediately when I realize the voices are between me and where my car is parked. This a just a city park—albeit pretty big—and there isn’t a fence or anything. There are side streets that run up along its borders, and that’s where I parked my lime-green Prius.
Maybe I can circle around them, I think as I feel my ears prick up like an animal’s. The men are close enough that I can hear what they’re saying, and the words don’t make me feel any safer or more comfortable.
“They’re fucking late,” growls one of the men.
“Relax,” says another, trying to sound calm even though I can hear the nervousness in his voice. “They’re always late. It’s a show of power. Motherfuckers want us to know they don’t give a fuck about this deal, that they can take it or leave it.”
They’re close enough that I can smell cigarettes and alcohol heavy in the air, and I wrinkle my nose up at the stench. I don’t drink, and I sure as hell don’t smoke. I do curse like a sailor (my one act of rebellion in a lifetime of conformity and good behavior . . .), but for some reason it’s still jarring to hear these foul-mouthed creatures swear like that. I can feel that these men are nervous, and that’s got me nervous too.
“Fuck them,” says the first guy. “I ain’t waiting around for these guys to roll in whenever they feel like. I’m a businessman, and I got options too. If the Vipers are doing so fucking well that they can take or leave a deal this big, then good for them. I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
“Just chill, man,” says the second guy, his pitch rising as if he’s almost pleading. “They’ll be here. They probably got into some drunken shit at the bar and it took a while for them to saddle up and ride out. Or maybe they got stopped by some rookie cop who didn’t know who they
were.”
“Cops?” snaps the first guy. “Fuck this. I’m outta here! Get outta my way.”
“Yo, yo, yo!” says Number Two. “I told you, the Vipers MC owns this district. The cops don’t mess with them. Just give it a minute, man. Just cool your fucking—”
The rest of his sentence is drowned out by a sound that I swear is right out of hell, and I crouch down on my knees as I wonder if this park is about to be air-bombed by Russia, China, or maybe even Canada. It’s only when I see the blaze of single-beam headlights shining through the trees that I realize that the unholy rumble is the sound of motorcycles, not freakin’ bomber-jets!
I shake my head as I think back to what Number Two said about the Vipers MC. It occurs to me that MC stands for Motorcycle Club. I read something about them a few years ago, but that kind of macho nonsense doesn’t hold my interest. Tattooed dudes in leather and boots riding big bikes and hanging out in some clubhouse. I did see something about MCs being involved in guns and drugs and all other kinds of nefarious activities, but that felt like testosterone-driven male fantasy to me. Surely the police would have shut all of that down if it were true, right?
Apparently not, I realize as the rumble rises to a roar and then abruptly dies out, like all the bikers killed their engines at the same time, like they’re a disciplined army and not a bunch of drunk idiots.
“About time you idiots showed up,” barks dude Number One. “I was about to walk away from this deal. In fact, I still might walk away.”
“Did you just call me and my men idiots,” comes a new voice, deep and low, blood-curdling in a way that makes me wanna squeak like a mouse in a hole. “That’s not very fucking nice, is it, boys?”
“Nah, that’s not very fucking nice,” says one of the “boys.”
“Well, it’s the truth. Only a bunch of amateur idiots schedule a meeting at night and then roll in with lights blazing and engines roaring,” says Number One, scorn in his voice. “The cops, FBI, and goddamn Homeland Security all probably all on their way by now. I’m outta here.” He snorts in disgust. “Can’t believe you vouched for these macho fucks with peanuts for brains,” he says, probably to dude Number Two.
There’s silence for one turgid moment, and then Number Two’s voice cuts through the night like a dagger. “I’m sorry, man. I had no choice.”
Another moment of dead silence, and then I hear the click of metal. Gunmetal.
A flash of light, a crack of sound, and before I realize it the birds are bursting out of the trees as the gunshot rings out like a churchbell’s death knoll. I don’t even understand what’s going on—not consciously anyway. At some level of course I know what just happened, and when I hear Number Two’s voice again, I realize that it’s only getting worse.
“What the fuck are you doing,” says Number Two. “I brought him to you. Now you got the stuff, the cash, and he’s out of the picture. Put the gun down, man! You know me! I ain’t no snitch!”
That cold, dark voice cuts through the night once more, and it’s like I can hear my own death in that slow drawl. “He trusted you too, didn’t he?” whispers the man. “And you led him to his death.”
“I did what you asked, Carl,” gasps Number Two. “This ain’t right, Carl! This—”
“I also asked you never to use my name in public,” comes the cold reply. A reply that’s punctuated by the thunder of another gunshot that wakes up the last of the birds.
Dead silence descends once again, and I’ve got my head between my knees like I’m in a plane about to crash. I do my best to control my breathing, to calm myself down, to not whimper, cough, or move on the grass. I’m wearing black and the moon is still behind a cloud. They’ll leave soon, and I’ll be safe.
They have to leave soon, don’t they, I think as my mind races. Yes, this is a big park and there isn’t a house around for at least a mile from where we are. But still. We’re on the outskirts of the city. Someone’s probably heard the shots. Someone’s called the cops. Surely these guys aren’t really idiotic enough to just hang out at the scene of a double-murder, smoking guns in their hands.
“Saddle up,” says Carl in a steady, calm voice that makes me think that this man has killed before, that taking two lives means nothing to him. “Cops will give us eight minutes to get the fuck out of here before they blaze in and declare it a gang-related killing and toss the case into the “Do Not Solve” pile. But we gotta meet them halfway by being long gone before they get here. Now saddle up. Yo, what the fuck are you looking at over there?”
I see a flashlight glowing, and I almost choke in fear as I wonder if they’ve seen my fat ass sticking out from behind these trees. Then I hear another man’s voice from some distance away, and I exhale.
But the relief doesn’t last.
“There’s a car down here,” the other man calls. “Hood is still warm.”
“Well, these dead fucks had to drive here somehow, Genius,” says another man, drawing a couple of chuckles from the others.
“In a bright green Prius?” says the guy who’s clearly found my car. “You think these fucks give a shit about the environment?”
“That truck down the road is what these losers came here in,” says Carl, his voice serious as death. He’s quiet for a moment. “There’s someone else here. Spread out. Seek and destroy. We got six minutes. Make it quick.”
2
HAWK
I make a quick left and stop the moment I hear the second gunshot. Two shots from the same gun. Perfectly spaced out. No silencer—not like a silencer does much anyway.
I stay silent as I kill the engine on my monster of a bike and turn off my lights and music. I heard the rumble of the Vipers earlier, and I know something just went down. So fucking what. This is Vipers territory, and something’s going down every night out here. It’s none of my fucking business. I shouldn’t even be here.
Nah, I shouldn’t even be close to here, I think as I rub my beard and shake my head. But I just got some work done on my horse and wanted to open her up all the way, see what she can do, feel the cool night air in my long, dark hair, let the throaty rumble of my 900cc engine invade my rock-hard body like a drug.
I sit back on my steaming hot bike and take a deep breath. I’m on the outskirts of a city park, the biggest in the county. It’s got small, wooded streets that cut through the dark trees, and I love to take the winding turns at a killer speed when there’s no traffic. Thought I could get away with it in Vipers territory tonight, but clearly these assholes chose the same spot to do whatever the fuck they’re doing.
And what are they doing, I think as I stare into the distance, where I can see the glimmer of a flashlight, hear faint voices come through the trees. I know those two shots came from Carl’s gun. He doesn’t use a silencer. It’s a show of power, a reminder that he owns this part of town. He also doesn’t do the double-tap like you see in fucking mafia or gang movies. One bullet, one kill. So two bullets means two kills. A double-murder. That’s reasonably serious even for the Vipers. Was it a deal gone bad or a double-cross? Breaking a deal is against the code, and even Carl doesn’t fuck with the code much. Also, killing your business partners isn’t good business. Makes others wary about making deals with you. It means the Vipers are getting desperate. Not good.
I look at my watch, frowning as I wonder why the Vipers are still here. I know the drill when something like this goes down—we Hellhounds have pretty much the same understanding with cops in our district: Don’t kill innocent civilians and we’ll generally look the other way if another drug-dealer or murderer ends up with a bullet in his head. But please fucking meet us halfway by leaving the scene before we get there, mmmkay?
There are more flashlights turning on, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise up as I slowly swing my long legs off my bike, being careful not to make any sound from all the metal hanging on my leather. The Vipers aren’t leaving because they aren’t done here. They’re looking for someone. Another target?
“Nah,” I grunt under my breath, narrowing my eyes and almost snorting as I see the lime-green Prius parked in the distance. The color is so bright that it almost gives me a fucking headache even though it’s the middle of the night. “A witness.”
I step lightly off the street and onto the grass, my well-worn leather boots making no sound. I glance down at my weapon: The short-handled tomahawk-style blade that I got made from an old Navajo dude out west. I’ve had it for what seems like forever. It’s my best friend, my goddamn lover, always by my side. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I caress the warm wood of its handle, gently run my rough thumb along its razor-sharp blade. I can almost hear my ‘hawk whispering up to me, telling me that it’s going to come alive tonight, it’s gonna taste blood tonight.
I close my eyes tight as I try to fight the urge to walk towards the action. This is a clear violation of the agreement between the Vipers and the Hounds. Neither of us can afford a war, and so long as we stay out of each other’s business it’s all good.
But my blood is running through my veins like a river going wild, the adrenaline pouring through my system like the Gods of War are urging me on. I’ve always followed my instincts with a blind faith that defies logic, ignores common sense, shuts down the man in me and gives full freedom to the animal inside, the beast within, the part of me that’s been two million years in the making.
I’m already halfway to the cluster of dark trees, not sure why my instincts are leading me to what’s most likely gonna end up with me dead. Then the moon comes out from behind a cloud, and I almost groan out loud when I realize what led me here.
When I realize who led me here . . .
The Vipers haven’t seen her yet, but I see her clearly. She’s the only thing I can see right now, and I just stare in silence as the moon lights her curves in a silver spotlight, like the Moon Goddess is pointing her out to me, telling me what I already fucking know from just one look:
She’s mine.
She’s fucking mine!
Curvy for Him: The Botanist and the Biker (Curvy for Him Series Book 8) Page 1
