Dragon's Curvy Assistant Read online

  DRAGON’S CURVY ASSISTANT

  by

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  ARTHUR

  Red swirls.

  Yellow streaks.

  Slashes of iridescent purple.

  Splashes of midnight blue.

  I step away from the massive canvas and raise my left eyebrow as I examine my latest masterpiece. The sun blazes in through the open window of my castle’s East Turret, and I breathe deep of the hot, salty air that flows over the Dead Sea and swirls against my bare skin.

  “Looks like every other fucking painting you’ve done over the past three hundred years,” comes Brogan’s mocking growl from the stone staircase leading to the bowels of my castle made of blackstone and goldleaf. “How about drawing something that actually looks like . . . I dunno . . . something!”

  “You’re right,” I mutter, rubbing the rough stubble on my massive chin that’s as peaked as the sharp towers of my castle. I know my annoying younger brother Brogan is just fucking with me, but he does have a point. “It’s shit. It’s all shit. I’m a failure. A fraud. A goddamn hack.”

  I hear Brogan’s heavy steps behind me as he clambers into the open room and folds his arms over his chest, letting out a slow sigh of satisfaction.

  “Been telling you that for centuries, Arthur,” he jabs. “Now go on, Big Brother. Rip that canvas to shreds. Tear it up and toss it to the wind so nobody ever has to look at your horrible modern art bullshit. Do it, Arthur. Do it.”

  The last words come out in a hiss, and I smell the dragonsmoke in the room as Brogan messes with me like he always does. He knows I always get into this hyper-critical mood when I finish a painting. He knows I always hate the painting, hate my talent, hate my fucking life that seems as pointless as these random splashes of color I call art.

  But he also knows I can never get myself to destroy one my paintings, ruin one of my creations, throw away what’s mine.

  Because it’s mine.

  Mine.

  All mine.

  Ownership.

  Possession.

  That is the essence of the dragon spirit, and it burns strong in me even though I have not Changed in almost five hundred years.

  Yes, it still burns strong in my tortured soul.

  The dragon’s need to hoard.

  The dragon’s need to possess.

  The dragon’s need to claim, to seize, to fucking own!

  “Can’t do it, can ya?” Brogan whispers from behind me. He’s still teasing, but I can hear the grudging admiration in his voice, the shared understanding that comes from spending centuries as brothers even though he’ll always be a kid in my mind. “Well, maybe it’ll be worth something when you’re dead, Arthur. The only problem, of course, is where the fuck you gonna keep this monstrosity? Your castle is overflowing with canvases! There isn’t a spare inch of wall-space! Your vaults are stuffed with rolled-up . . . um, ‘masterpieces’ . . . that aren’t worth the cost of the cheap-ass canvas you use to—”

  I whip around, a snarling grin breaking on my lean, scarred face as I square my shoulders and stare down my kid brother. I’m broader and taller than the asshole, but he’s rock-solid muscle just like I am, just like all the surviving Dragon Shifters are.

  Though how long will we survive without offspring?

  Without mates?

  Without . . . love?

  “How about I just roll up that fifteen-foot canvas and shove it down your throat for storage?” I shoot at him, clenching my fists as my fiery blood rises and my breath comes out in white wisps of smoke. I blink in surprise as I feel the Dragon coil inside me like it wants to emerge, spread its black-and-gold wings, burst into fiery life and smash through the stone walls of this self-imposed prison. Of course, that’s not going to happen. Hasn’t happened in centuries, so why would it now? “Or maybe up your arse,” I add, swallowing hard as I feel my Dragon hiss inside me, reminding me that all is not lost, that it is not dead yet, I am not dead yet, the Dragons are not dead yet. “That would kill two birds with one stone, in fact. Not only would my canvas be nicely tucked away, but you’d also shut the fuck up.”

  “Why is that?” Brogan says, scratching his thick head and grunting as he totally takes the bait.

  “Because most of the time you talk out of your arse and not your mouth,” I snarl, my face twisting in a devilishly triumphant grin.

  With a roar Brogan is on me, leaping across the sprawling room as I shout in glee and meet him halfway. And then we’re rumbling like two kids on the playground, punching and kicking like animals, snarling and spitting like no creatures on earth.

  “Not the eyes!” Brogan howls as I get him with an open-handed slap on his smug face, my long finger poking him in the left eye as he wildly swings his fist.

  “Man up, little boy,” I shout as Brogan’s face turns red from the force of my strike that I know hurts as much from the insult of being slapped like a boy instead of being punched like a man.

  We rumble like kids until we’re both exhausted, and finally we roll away from one another and lay on our backs on the cold stone floor of my dark castle. Our massive chests rise and fall, and the dragonsmoke is heavy in the salty air of the ocean.

  But it’s only smoke.

  No fire.

  No wings.

  No scales.

  “Look what you did, you clumsy oaf,” I say when I sit up and see that my newly minted masterpiece has a big hole in it the size and shape of Brogan’s meaty right fist. “Where’s my fucking needle and thread?”

  Brogan sits up and then immediately flops back down and rolls about as he mocks me. “You are not gonna sew this fucking hole closed. That’s just too much, Arthur. Seriously, man. I thought I’d seen everything, but this I gotta see.”

  It takes me a moment, but then I break into a smile until finally I’m laughing too.

  “Man, we gotta get out more,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “Speak for yourself, bro,” Brogan says. “You gotta get out more. I live an active, full life. I run twelve businesses in eight different countries.” He pauses and looks off to the left like he’s counting. “Well, fifteen businesses if you count the illegal ones. But since those don’t exist legally, let’s not count them.”

  “Yeah, let’s not count the sketchy, illegal businesses just in case the IRS is listening,” I say with an resigned shake of my big head.

  Brogan laughs, but then his green eyes narrow and almost soften as he focuses on me. “But seriously, bro. Just because our Dragons are lost doesn’t mean we’re fucking dead, you know. There’s still life outside these castle walls, you know. Life and love.”

  I snort at my brother. “Love? Is that what you call your drunken one-night stands?”

  “One and done, baby,” Brogan says with a grunt. “Until our fated mates roll in, of course. Curvaceous and naked, riding unicorns through a cloud of fucking stardust.”

  “Fated mates,” I grunt, trying to roll my eyes but for some reason not quite pulling it off. Again I feel my Dragon coil and hiss in the depths of my soul, and I blink and glance off to the left as I swallow hard. Then I blink again and manage to snort at Brogan’s comment. “So you ready to commit yourself to the myth or is the whole thing your new fantasy?”

  “Why not? It’s your fantasy too?” Brogan snaps.

  “Fantasy? What do you mean?” I snarl.

  “I mean this, Arthur!” he says, sitting up and spreading his thick arms out wide. “Locking yourself up for centuries in some fucking dark castle in the middle of the Dead Sea. At least I’m out there searching for my Fated Mate. You’re just sitting here and waiting for her to come to you! That’s not how shit works, bro.”

  “That’s
exactly how shit works!” I roar, my anger rising as now I’m the one taking the bait and getting pulled into a discussion I do not wanna have. “That’s what fate means, Brogan. That’s what destiny is all about. Faith in the universe. Faith in the future. Faith in what’s mine. Mine. Fucking mine!”

  Smoke billows from my nostrils, and I swear I feel the fire in my blood, hear my Dragon hiss and growl like it feels something coming, like centuries of waiting are coming to an end, like fate is finally rewarding my patience with the gift promised by the old Dragon Myth:

  The Myth of Fated Mates.

  One perfect woman for each of us.

  One perfect woman to re-awaken the Dragon in us.

  To carry our seed.

  To be ours forever.

  Mine forever.

  Mine!

  2

  ADDIE

  “Mine! It’s mine! Mine. Mine. Mine!”

  “Ohmygod, you are so out of control, Addie! Here—take it! Just don’t kill me, all right? I’m your best friend. At least I was your best friend until you totally cheated.”

  “I don’t cheat,” I say as I lean forward over the chess-board and take Bonnie’s queen with my humble pawn. She sucks at chess, but I don’t care. Winning is winning, and I love to win. Fucking love it! “Also, your queen is mine and your king is gonna be dead in like two moves.”

  “Wait, so the game still continues even if the Queen dies? That’s sexist, and I refuse to play. So it’s a draw.”

  I snort and shake my head as I go through the next three moves in my head. Then I nod with smug satisfaction. “Yup. Two more moves at most. And that’s being generous. You might as well forfeit so we can go again.”

  “Ohmygod, you totally weren’t listening to me!” Bonnie squeaks in that high-pitched tone that she knows drives me nuts. My hearing is super-sensitive, and there are times I swear I can hear the bugs crawling in the walls.

  I jerk my head to the left and frown at the powder blue walls of what I call my “sun room” even though it doesn’t get any more sun after they built that monstrosity of an apartment complex smack next to my little duplex. Superhuman hearing aside, I could hear the value of my property drop the moment they laid the foundation.

  Bonnie is saying something, but I’m not listening to her. I’m listening to it. That weird buzzing sound that I thought was the construction crew next door but feels like it’s coming from my walls.

  “You hear that?” I say, raising my left eyebrow and making Bonnie clutch her chest and gasp in that overly-dramatic way she has.

  “No,” she says, dropping the act and sighing. “I mean, yeah, I hear a ton of things if I pay attention. But it’s all background noise.”

  “That’s what this is,” I say. “Background noise. Listen. That buzzing noise. You hear it?” I glance at Bonnie and cock my head. “Actually it’s more like a hum, now that I think about it.”

  “No, it’s a buzz,” Bonnie says with an eye-roll. “Definitely buzzed.” In a flash she leans over and grabs my coffee cup. She sniffs it and grunts. “Huh. Just coffee.”

  I snap out of my zone and laugh. “What, you thought I was drinking vodka all this while? It’s like eleven in the morning, Bonnie. That’s more your style than mine.”

  “Um, that was both our styles back in college, hon,” Bonnie shoots back. “Definitely got the full sorority-girl experience there.”

  I laugh again as hazy memories of our sorority house come fluttering in like the strangely warm breeze that’s flowing through the cracked window. It’s a sunny day (though not in my “sun-room” of course . . .), but it’s also the middle of January.

  “Well, not the full experience,” I say, for some reason blushing as I pull my thick legs up towards my admittedly large body and hug myself like a schoolgirl. “We totally skipped the drunken sex part.”

  “Drunken sex is overrated,” Bonnie says with a giggle. “Too bad it’s the only kinda sex available to fat chicks.”

  I burst into laughter, clapping my hands and rocking back and forth until my big boobs bounce and jiggle in a way that sends a warm shudder through my body. I know Bonnie’s being sarcastic—or ironic—not sure which. But I get her humor. She and I bonded in college because we were big girls who’d been raised to love ourselves, to love our bodies, to love life and everything in it.

  “So where did we lose our way?” I mutter out loud as my mind sweeps over the decade since we graduated—a decade where both of us failed at love more often than seemed fair.

  “Um, clearly you’re having a conversation in your head, but nonetheless, my response to that is speak for yourself,” Bonnie says firmly, crossing her arms over her heavy bosom and looking down her nose at me. “I’m proceeding towards my goals as planned.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, losing the smile and glaring at Bonnie. I love her to death, but I also love to win—especially an argument. “Bonnie the big-shot banker. One promotion away from . . . what? From what, Bonnie? Happiness? Family? Babies? No. One promotion away from just another step on the fucking ladder. Don’t cut yourself when you shatter the glass ceiling, hon.”

  Bonnie stares like she’s wondering if I’m serious. My remark was a bit cutting, but I don’t back down from a fight.

  And when I see her brown eyes narrow and her lips twist into a competitive smile, I know she’s in it to win it too.

  “At least I have a career, goals, some damned purpose in life,” she shoots back. “You spent all the money your parents left you on this silly little house and now you’re broke. And alone. And unemployed. What’s your plan, huh? Wait for Nameless Disney Prince to come riding out of a fluffy white cloud on a unicorn? I mean, marriage, family, babies? Is that what you’re thinking about all day? Shit, you need to get out more, sister. Stop living in the past. A woman doesn’t need any of that shit to be happy and fulfilled.”

  I blink as her comeback stings like a slap. I know she’s right. I’ve seen a ton of women who are fiercely single and living great lives. But at the same time I don’t like how Bonnie’s implying that wanting that special someone, wanting the tradition of a wedding, the future of a family, babies and yards and dogs and all that, belongs in the past.

  I’m about to launch into my own spiel on the topic, but at the last second I stop myself. I know Bonnie’s covering up her own fears and insecurities just like I am. I know there’s a part of her that yearns for that one-and-only, that perfect match, a man who sweeps her off her feet like in every romance story ever written, someone who captures her imagination and her heart, her mind and her fucking soul.

  Captures it and claims it.

  “My kinda prince doesn’t ride a unicorn,” I say, backing down and forcing a smile as I try to control the fight in me. “More like a Harley.”

  Bonnie snorts, her own smile coming through. “Oh, please. You can’t do the bad boy thing. Your type is the brooding, tortured artist. Which means your prince is gonna ride in on a VW Bug with paint spattered all over it.”

  “Yeah, good luck getting my big ass to squeeze into a VW Bug,” I say, and now we’re both smiling wide as the mood lightens a bit. We both take deep breaths and then I sigh. “Seriously though, Bonnie. You know I’m with you on the every-woman-should-choose-her-path philosophy. But lately there’s been this need bubbling up . . . maybe it’s hormones or something—I dunno. I just feel like something’s coming, you know? For both of us.”

  “OK, that sounds like a freakin’ death-omen,” Bonnie mutters. She tries to roll her eyes but doesn’t quite pull it off. I’ve always been the more dreamy one of us, but though she’d never admit it, Bonnie wants that old-school love story too. “Something’s coming for both of us? Are you trying to freak me out or is it—”

  We’re interrupted by a ping on my big red phone, and I snatch it up in horror. I don’t want Bonnie to know I’m back doing the online dating thing. Not after the disaster six months ago, which sent me spiraling into my darkest spell of loneliness ever.

  “OK, you
’ve been banned from meeting guys online,” Bonnie shrieks as she tries to grab the phone. “We agreed that you need to get out there and actually meet someone in real life. Otherwise you get sucked into these text-only relationships and when you finally meet your prince he looks nothing like the photo and is nowhere near as nice as he is on text. And another thing—”

  I shut her up by tossing the phone onto her lap and grunting like at least I won this little battle. “It’s not a date. It’s a job offer. Purposeless and unemployed? Not for long. Take a look.”

  Bonnie blinks and focuses on the phone. She flips through that cool new app where freelancers can post their profile and it gets sent to all kinds of companies and individuals looking to hire someone for everything from mowing their lawn to managing their investments.

  “Um, this is for an assistant’s position. You have a college degree, Addie. Why would you even apply to be some executives personal assistant? Also, this is for some random company called Dead Sea Drilling in the Middle East or something. Dead Sea Drilling? Really? It sounds like a front for an underground porn company.”

  “The companies allowed on this website are all vetted and checked out,” I say, totally making it up as I go along. Of course, there’s no way I’m even gonna entertain responding to a mysterious message from a company called Dead Sea Drilling, but Bonnie doesn’t need to know that. “I’m sure it’s a totally legit business.”

  “Let’s see,” Bonnie says firmly. She tosses my phone back to me and pulls out her own sleek black all-business phone. “Dead Sea Drilling. Let’s see what the Internet has to say. Oh look. Nothing at all. A ghost company.” I sigh and wait for that look of triumph, but then Bonnie hesitates. “Huh,” she says, frowning and swiping. “Lemme see what my bank’s database has on these guys.”

  “Could be gals, you know,” I say.

  “No gal is starting a company called Dead Sea Drilling. Also, I think drilling for oil is illegal in the Dead Sea. There we go.” Bonnie’s frown cuts deeper as she reads whatever she’s getting from her bank’s private files. Then she looks up with a puzzled half-smile. “Huh. So the company is real. The bank has a file on them. It’s a holding company—which means it doesn’t do anything except own other companies. It’s also private, which means it’s owned by an individual or a family.” Another pause and another swipe. Then a tap on the screen and her eyes go wide like the sun. “Family, looks like,” she says, her eyes riveted to the screen in a way that gets my curiosity going like a cat in a new house. “Two brothers.” A pregnant pause punctuated with a gasp and an eyelid flutter. “Oh. My. God. You are taking this job, Bonnie. Even if you’re gonna be a fucking scullery maid, you are so taking this job!”