Page 10 of Tributary

CHAPTER NINE

Diana

I TRY TO forget that Asa Wexler came into my shop and fucked the wind out of me. That was equal parts unexpected and everything I needed to take my mind off of my work situation. I try to go about my business checking my plants, adjusting heat and temperature, but Enid, the town constable walks through the door and clears her throat.

I look up from my laptop and clench my jaw. “What can I do for you, Enid?”

She coughs again, shifting uncomfortably. “Look, Diana,” she says. “The thing is…” She looks around the front, where the shelves of spider plants and orchids sit waiting to be picked up by their owners who water them too much. “Well, dang it, Diana, people saw you.”

I flush. “Which people?” Depending on her answer, this could either go away entirely with a peace offering, or land me in the Oak Creek gossip mill.

I breathe a sigh of relief when Enid whispers that it was Aneke, the Oak Creek veterinarian. “She was all bundled up, rushing to get into the clinic and check on the fur babies,” Enid says. “She might not have mentioned it, except I went in to drop off Bruce—you remember I got a new dog named Bruce—and told her I was planning to thank you for shoveling out Ed Hastings, and…well…Aneke didn’t want me to interrupt anything.”

Enid flushes now and exhales, the weight of her confession dissipating as she adjusts her utility belt.

“Are you going to give me a citation?”

Her eyes go wide. “No! Are you kidding? What would I even write in the report? People read those, Diana. Lord! No.” She asks me to consider getting blinds, and I offer her a posey of herbs I was about to hang upside-down to dry.

She accepts my gift and I know I have to think of something big to get Aneke to keep her mouth shut. I curse my stupidity for letting Wexler distract me. This is why I leave town when I feel the urge to fuck someone. But nobody fucks quite like Asa Wexler. As I wrap up some catnip for Aneke, I remember the feeling of his tongue lashing against my clit, and decide it might just have been worth the hassle.

“I won’t tell a soul as long as you give me details,” Aneke says, reaching for the catnip with a sly smile. “You know I’ve been with Matthew for ten years.”

“Details about what?” Indigo appears out of nowhere, cradling a writhing bundle of fur and staring at me intently. “There was another rabbit in my basement, Aneke,” she says, thrusting the creature forward and then crossing her arms. “Diana Crawford, do you have something to tell us?”

I sigh and tug at the hair around my temples, wondering how to explain what happened when I still don’t understand it myself.

I give Indigo and Aneke the rough overview of my unplanned tryst in the Houseplant Haven, but I save the details for myself. I don’t want to share the way I felt when Asa seemed to know what would bring me the most pleasure, before I knew. Like he had a map of my nerve endings. I don’t want to share how it felt to let myself go, to lose control, and emerge on the other side a shivering puddle of post-orgasmic mess.

Later that afternoon, the bell rings above my door yet again. I emerge from the lab to find a confused courier I recognize from around the college campus.

“Diana Crawford?” I nod. He thrusts a box in my arms and I open it cautiously. I gasp when I see what’s inside. Gingerly, I lift out the tiny plant cutting and inhale. Tettnanger—German hops I’ve been dying to grow.

I hear a click as the courier takes my picture. “What the hell?”

“Sender wanted proof of receipt.” He cracks his gum and zips out of the shop before I can ask anything else. There’s no card, but there’s also no question where it came from.

“Damn you, Wexler,” I mutter, sniffing the fragrant hops again. I vow to make sure I don’t even exchange names with my next conquest. This is too messy—personal gifts. He knows how to reach me and of course, I can only contact him if I call his business number and ask his secretary. “It would serve you right if I chucked this in the compost,” I mutter, but then I stroke the plant apologetically, knowing I would never do such a thing.

I have the seedling transplanted and sunning against its own trellis an hour later, while I set up sensors and lights to get it going back in my lab. My mouth waters, imagining the summer ale I’ll brew. I don’t let myself think about drinking it with Asa, naked, after another mind-blowing session of filthy sex.

I don’t have time to dwell on Asa or his magic tongue. My research plants are nearing maturity, and it’s almost time to harvest them, pack them up gently, and trek out to Pittsburgh to deliver them to Dr. Khalsa in person. We both prefer when I transport the medical marijuana myself and take it straight to his lab at the hospital. Medical marijuana is such a new industry in Pennsylvania. There’s no real way to insure my crop or the delivery.

I’ve tried. And my brother Archer knows it, but I’m not about to let my family in on my business details. Archer knows I’ve been sniffing around talking to insurance brokers—he’s the only CPA in town and knows more about everyone’s lives than the pharmacist.

I’ve been cultivating this particular strain for Dr. Khalsa for a few years now, for his neurology research. I’m not licensed to grow medical cannabis for dispensaries yet, but I’m close. Khalsa has some sort of research loophole since he collaborates with other institutions in other states. Traveling out to see him every few months, talking to his neurology team…I’ll never admit it to my mother, but I’ve missed this sort of camaraderie, of working for a big academic system. I miss having colleagues.

But, when you work with other researchers, you have to trust that they aren’t going to steal your ideas and then leave you choking on their dust. It’s better this way, operating under the radar. Alone.

It was a fortunate accident that I found Dr. Khalsa right as I was setting up my lab once I bought the Houseplant Haven building. One of his patients was in town to give a lecture about something else, but she was staying with Indigo and I got to hear all about how her neurologist was among the first in the nation to dive into research for medical cannabis and seizure control.

Indigo called me to come meet Emma Stag, knew I’d be interested in nerding out about brains and plants. I smile, remembering how nervous I was to make a call to Dr. Khalsa that first time, and then how excited he was to hear from someone able to grow a specific strain under pristine lab conditions.

I shiver a little, walking the rows of genetically identical plants. My leech of an ex might have stolen my ideas in grad school, but his traitorous ass only made me work harder. This lab is a thing of efficient, nutrient-rich perfection. And I’ll be damned if I let another man so much as look at it.

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