Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(10)

Lytton introduced her as his wife, June. I took my Coke from Sock Monkey as Lytton told me, “June’s going back up to our plantation. She basically runs it for me, so I can be more hands-on in the dispensary.”

“But the new girl’s working out real well,” said June. “I want Lytton to take some time off, maybe even a vacation with me.”

“As if that’ll happen.” Lytton grinned.

“It will. This gal’s got a degree from Davis in plant biology, so she knows her shit. In fact, I’m bringing her up there now, if you don’t mind, baby. She has some ideas for new CBD hybrids that are blowing my mind, and she wants to see the grow.”

Biochemistry. My mind instantly went to the test tubes and chemistry-type stuff in the background of Flavia Brooks’ photo. Slayer had told me the Pure and Easy tux rental was owned by The Bare Bones MC. It was entirely possible that—

Bingo.

The side door opened to reveal a rectangle of light. I knew before even seeing her features that this short but curvy silhouette belonged to Flavia Brooks.

My destiny.

“June, can I get a bottle of water to go here?”

My mark.





CHAPTER FOUR




PIPPA


“Sure, just ask Sock Monkey. He’s the bartender,” June told me.

Leaning on the bar, I lifted my chin at the Prospect. “’Sup?” I’d developed a casual way of speaking while being held with the Joneses. Since being freed, I’d enjoyed the sun and wind, bicycling, Krav Maga, and even snowboarding again. But I still talked like a thug. My bar order, however, wasn’t. I had to follow June in my own cage so I could come back later to my tiny apartment and—well, lately I’d taken up knitting. That was something Flavia Brooks had never done. Flavia was a tomboy. A gritty, tough-as-nails scientist. But Pippa Lofting had to keep a low profile. “Bottle of water. Unopened.”

Behind me, I heard June tell some men, “Pippa has been experimenting with developing a hybrid that has lots of CBD and very little THC. This, obviously, could be very attractive to people who are allergic to the properties of THC.”

“Obviously,” said Lytton as I walked over to their pool table. “That would be great to offer a purer form.”

Two unknown guys were with Lytton. I’d grown used to assessing people at a glance. Believe you me, being held captive by the Joneses, every assessment turned out to be “he’s a worthless bone-headed moronic criminal.” These guys were different, though. Maybe they weren’t even Boners. The tall, dashing Latin guy had wavy, highly glossy salt and pepper hair. His ingratiating smile revealed capped teeth. And his white belt and shoes placed him firmly in the 70s, maybe his fondest glory days. But he seemed nice, and I shook his hand first.

“Pippa Lofting,” I said. I’d chosen my last name because I used to love Dr. Doolittle books. And I was hoping to eventually, some day, regain a sense of wonder and childhood.

“Santiago Slayer,” he said smoothly, with a very thick Mexican accent.

Boy, if that wasn’t a cartel name, my name wasn’t Pippa Lofting. I remembered Randy Blankenship’s warning to stay away from known felons.

So now I had to shake the other guy’s hand. A pointless ordeal, since I’d probably never see him again.

“Fox Isherwood.”

Now this guy stunned me to the core. Why, I had to figure out. It was his ice blue eyes, assessing me. He looked at me skeptically, the way people do when they’ve heard something about you, and it’s not quite jibing with what they’re looking at. He had a fine nose, and the very pale skin of the Irish or Scots. Didn’t seem to fit in a biker club.

Fox’s hand gripped mine a fraction of a second longer than was necessary. “You’re some kind of scientist then?”

What? “What?”

He released my hand, and the warmth lingered. “June said you were experimenting with CBD and THC.”

“Oh. Yes.” Pippa Lofting had that plant biology degree. “Right. Plant biology.”

June bubbled. “Can you imagine she was working at our tux rental store? Someone with a plant biology degree is right up our alley!”

Fox dug his fists deeper into his jeans pockets and said, “Yeah, you know what? Maybe I will take you up on that offer, Lytton. Let these gals show me some Mormon Lake sights. Sounds relaxing.”

We were supposed to take this paleface sightseeing? I had no idea how he was connected to the club—he didn’t wear a cut—but I didn’t need any lookie-loo getting in my way. I wanted to impress June with my pot knowledge. It actually wasn’t that extensive, just what I’d found time to study in the Corpus Christi cook house in between making batches of meth. But my science background was solid. I could fake it.

I was saved from playing tour guide when June said, “Well, we’re sort of in a rush, that’s the situation. I wanted to get up there to show her the CBD grow house before it gets dark.”

Fox frowned. “Isn’t there lighting inside it?”

“Well yes, but…”

Lytton stepped in to help his wife. “I get it. You girls are eager to talk shop. That’s June. Once she gets started—”

“Oh, but I love talking shop!” I said. I was just desperate to keep my new job. Blankenship had tentatively approved it, and it was ten times better than the evening wear rental place. And I really did have a great idea about CBD plants. I’d grown a few with an earthy aftertaste and a fruity aroma that was highly effective in masking the pain of a fractured rib from the day I was thrown into that awful warehouse. As a side effect, the burning and tingling in my feet from neuropathy almost vanished when I smoked it. I even had a name for it. Dabba Doo. That’s what I called my dog Monstro who I missed with a passion. The Department of Justice had given her to my sister Shelda, and I wasn’t allowed to know where they were, and so on.