Shotgun's (B)Ride (Men of Valor MC) Read online

  Shotgun’s (Bride)

  Men of Valor

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  Shotgun’s (B)Ride

  1. Shotgun

  2. Spring

  3. Shotgun

  4. Spring

  5. Shotgun

  6. Spring

  7. Shotgun

  8. Spring

  9. Shotgun

  10. Spring

  11. Shotgun

  Epilogue

  More Men of Valor

  Want a Freebie?

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2021 by Frankie Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Shotgun’s (B)Ride

  Men of Valor MC Book 1

  By Frankie Love

  After nearly losing my life on a Marine mission, I learned that every moment matters. Every day counts. Take nothing for granted.

  Now I’m living in Valor, WY, with my bulldog Bones, part of an ex-military motorcycle club. My life has meaning – but I want more.

  I want a woman to share it with.

  When Tulip steps into the tattoo parlor, reminding me of a spring day, I know she’s the only flower I ever want to pick.

  I may be the opposite of this sweet thing, but we match in the ways that really matter.

  But after one night of passion and pleasure, tragedy strikes.

  I want her more than anything but first I have to make this woman more than my ride – I need to make her my bride.

  Might be easier if there wasn’t someone standing in our way.

  Good thing I’m no regular man. I’m a man of Valor – which means I won’t back down from what is rightfully mine.

  This month 24 of your favorite short and steamy authors have come together to bring you a new motorcycle romance each day! The Men of Valor are more than ex-military bikers – they know what it means to go the distance for love.

  Hop on the back of a bike and hold on tight to your new book boyfriend – it’s gonna be one hell of a ride!

  1

  Shotgun

  I lean back on my front door, hold my coffee cup to my chest, and look out over the flowers blooming in front of me.

  Flowers, I know. It’s not the first thing that people would think to see when they come by here. The property where I live, the one I share with other guys from the Men of Valor motorcycle club, is one of those places that they tell you to stay away from. Full of dangerous men; hard-asses with a grudge.

  But that isn’t entirely true. We’re good guys, trying to make this town a better place. Sure, we all have some baggage and have been through some tough shit, but we served our time in the military and we know a thing or two about being real men.

  Ever since I got back from my last deployment, this has been my home. Not that I ever thought that I would be able to call anywhere home after everything that I went through – once you’ve been in combat, the thought of standing still somewhere for even a hot minute seems downright impossible.

  But here I am. One part of a compound where a dozen or so of us live. And I know that there’s nowhere in town I’d rather be.

  I take a sip of the pitch-black coffee in my mug, look down at the last dregs swirling around my cup. I need to get off to work soon, down to the tattoo parlor, but honestly, I’m feeling out of it today. Need something to kick my ass into gear. Something other than the paycheck that I’ll be getting at the end of the week.

  Ask any military guy and he’ll tell you the same – coming back to the real world after you’ve been in the service is a motherfucker. You get used to living with a certain level of excitement, a certain level of danger, and when you have to step back into the real world, nothing else feels like it comes close to giving you that same thrill.

  It’s why so many of us end up in groups like the Men of Valor. Well, maybe not so many of us are doing good in the world, but you get my point. Biking, gangs, moving in groups, it feels right when you’ve been out in the field for so long, and I’ve got to say, I don’t know what the fuck I would be doing if I didn’t have them to keep me on the straight and narrow. Probably drinking myself into oblivion, regaling whoever would listen to me at the bar with tales of everything that I had done in Afghanistan. As though there weren’t enough of those guys to go around already.

  Truthfully, though, I have started to feel a little out of it lately. Not that I’m not grateful for the job, or the home, or the friends I’ve made through the group. More that I can’t help but feel there should be something more to my life. Something bigger than this. Maybe it’s just because I’m getting older, or maybe it’s because it’s coming around to spring again, my nana’s favorite time of the year, and she’s been on my mind a lot lately.

  She was the one who raised me. Harriet. She was the kind of woman who took no shit, more protective of me than she ever was of her own kids. She’s the one who taught me that I needed to stand up for myself, first and foremost, that there were going to be a hell of a lot of people who tried to talk down to me or act like they were better than me because of where they were from or how they had grown up, but I was just as good as they could ever be.

  She passed a few years back, and I try not to spend too much time thinking about her if I can avoid it. It’s prone to drive me crazy if I’m not careful. But she always wanted to see me settled down and happy; she told me, over and over again, how good a husband I would be, how good a father. I never really believed her, never felt much draw towards that side of life, until the last few months when I felt something shift inside of me.

  After she passed, I planted tulips all over the front of my yard. Her favorite flower, she always kept a few in her slightly battered old vase on the windowsill above the sink where she would clean up the dishes and hum along to the radio. Whenever I saw them blooming, I thought of her, and it was hard not to smile. The colors, the purples, pinks, yellows, reds, have filled my space, and it feels like each one is a sprig of new life.

  Shit. I’m getting too romantic for my own good. I finish my coffee and take it back inside, dump the dregs in the sink, and grab my helmet. I have to be at the shop by ten, and I don’t intend on running late. Especially not staring at the flowers in front of me. I know that everyone on the compound thinks it’s strange enough that I have them, and I don’t much like the thought of explaining why they mean so damn much to me.

  I climb onto my bike and put the ignition into gear, grinning as the engine roars up underneath me. I’ve been riding motorcycles since I was a kid, and I worked my ass off to pay for my very first one when I was only sixteen. Since then, I’ve never been apart from the damn things, and I know that I never will be.

  The city is pretty quiet at this time of the morning; a few people entering the diner on the corner, a few people grabbing coffee at the café to start another day of work. I take them in, enjoying the rush of air over my hands, the smooth traction of the wheels on the tarmac below me.

  Passing by the Pink Pussy, I spot a cop car parked up on the sidewalk outside – rough night, huh? I recognize the cop at the door as Todd Chadwick, some new officer who has been making a lot of noise and trouble for members of the club lately. He’s new to the job, which means he is doing his best to prove to everyone what a big ol’ fucking man he is. Anyone who has to prove that, in my experience, is nothing of the sort.

  Finally, I get to Valor Ink. It’s an old house downtown that we converted into our shop. Kn
ight’s outside on the porch, flicking a toothpick. He recently quit smoking and I’m proud of the guy. He lives in the upstairs apartment and usually opens up the place. He nods to me in greeting, running a hand through his hair to push a chunk of blond hair out of his face.

  "Morning," he calls to me as I get off the bike. I raise a hand and, a moment later, Wild emerges from the back of the shop and jerks his head towards the two of us.

  "Come on, I need you in here," he tells us. "We’ve got a busy day. Trigger got here ten minutes ago."

  I get off my bike, passing the HELP WANTED sign in the front window. We need someone to man the front desk, and until we find someone, we take turns doing the grunt work of answering phones and making appointments.

  I store my helmet in the staff room, and head through to join them at the counter. There aren’t many people out here this early in the morning, but I know that it wouldn’t have done me any good to keep hanging around my house, all sentimental and shit.

  Of all the riders in Men of Valor, these three—Wild, Knight, and Trigger are some of the closest to me – not just because we run the shop together, either. Knight has a bright sense of humor that always makes me laugh, and Wild has proved time and time again that he’s willing to go to the mat for people he cares about. Trigger has worked the shop the longest, before he ever even enlisted. We might not have served together overseas, but I’m as close to them as I ever was to the guys I stood with in uniform.

  "What’s on the table today?” I ask, pouring myself another coffee from the pot and taking a long sip. It’s bitter, a little cold, but it’ll do.

  "You have a few regulars this morning. But there’s a newbie scheduled for you at three," Wild replies. "Here, you had a chance to look over the specs yet?"

  "Not yet," I reply, and he pushes a piece of paper over the table towards me.

  "This is the booking that she put in."

  "She?" I remark, raising my eyes. We don’t get a whole lot of women around here. Not many of them who would want to come to this end of town.

  "Yeah, and this is what she wants," he replies, stabbing his finger at the paper. "Think you can get something sketched up before she gets here?"

  "Sure," I mutter, and I lower my gaze to see what she’s got for me. And I can’t help but grin when I see what it is. Those colors, that green stalk, the bright yellow of the petals.

  It’s a tulip.

  2

  Spring

  As I approach the shop, I check my phone again to make sure that I have the right address. And I do. I’m here. So why have my feet just stopped moving underneath me?

  I’m more than a little nervous about actually stepping over the threshold and going inside. I know that this part of town has a bad reputation, but this shop has awesome reviews, and I want to make sure that I get the very best work possible. If I am going to remember my grandma with this thing, then I am going to make it the prettiest darn tulip that I’ve ever seen in my life.

  I take a deep breath and push open the door – inside, the place is scrubbed down and clean, smells like shoe polish and pine, and there is a man sitting at the desk. He looks up when I come in, and the way he stares at me, it’s like I am doing something wrong.

  Shit. Did I break some kind of etiquette without even realizing it? I look down at my clothes, wondering if I chose the wrong thing to wear – none of it covers the spot that I want to get tattooed or anything, but still. I’m in a sundress and strappy shoes, and there is still a smattering of paint on my front from when I was doing arts and crafts earlier with the kids at the daycare where I work. I bunch that piece of fabric in my hand, trying to hide the stains, and head to the desk.

  "Hi, I have an appointment?” I manage. He glances down at the computer in front of him.

  "Spring?”

  "That’s me," I reply. My voice sounds a little higher than normal. Ugh, I don’t want to seem nervous – I have to pull myself together. I roll my shoulders back as he calls through to the back, then tells me to wait for the guy who’s going to work on me to get here. A moment later, he emerges.

  And I swear I have to keep my jaw from dropping.

  Is this him? The guy who’s going to tattoo me? He’s tall, must be well over six feet, with thick, muscular arms written up and down with tattoos, black ink curling around his strong body. His dark hair is cropped short, and his deep brown eyes seem to slice right through me. He nods in greeting to me, and I feel my heart pound a little harder in my chest. Is he the owner of the motorcycle I saw parked outside? I can imagine him riding it. Maybe he’s part of one of the gangs that dominates this part of the city. Do I really want to know?

  "She’s your three o’clock," the man at the desk remarks, and the one who I can’t take my eyes off of comes around the corner, puts a hand on the small of my back, and guides me to a chair without a word. I realize then that I’m holding my breath. How long has it been since the last time that I’ve been touched like that? I’m not sure I much care one way or another. All that matters to me is his confidence, so sure of himself. It takes away my niggling doubts that this tattoo is a bad idea.

  "I’m Shotgun,” he tells me. “Take a seat." He guides me into one of the red leather chairs that lines the outside of this place. I watch as he heads back to the desk to grab a piece of paper. His shoulders are broad and his jeans hug his ass perfectly. Everything about him is so insanely hot that it’s getting hard for me to think straight... He is the opposite of the men I usually come across… but he is exactly the kind of man I fantasize about.

  He returns a moment later, crouches down beside me, and holds out the piece of paper for me to see.

  "This is the sketch that I did for your art based on the picture you sent in," he explains.

  He drew this? It’s hard to believe that someone like him would be willing to sit down and sketch out something as silly as this little flower...

  But I look down at the paper, and I can’t help but smile when I see what he has put together for me. It’s perfect – the petals seem to glow with this golden light, blooming open right at the top, as they do in real life when it’s the first week or so of spring.

  "I love it," I gush to him. "You really drew this?”

  "It’ll look better on the skin, once it’s saturated with some ink," he explains. "Where exactly do you want it?”

  I hold out my hand to him, turn it up so that my palm is facing him.

  "There, on the inside of my wrist," I tell him. He takes my hand – his fingers are callused, strong, but their touch is surprisingly gentle as he skims them over my wrist to trace out the point where I want my ink.

  "Here?" he murmurs, and I nod. I temporarily seem to have lost the ability to speak, for some reason. Maybe it’s got something to do with how good he smells – the scent of leather and fresh air, of engine oil and dark wood. I want to bury my face in his neck, but I figure that doesn’t come as part of the cost of service.

  "Okay, you ready to get started?” he asks.

  My eyes widen. "Just like that?"

  "That’s what you came here for, right?" He cocks an eyebrow, looking me over. I feel my cheeks flush. I almost don’t know if I am ready to go ahead with it just like that. But I take a deep breath, and I nod.

  "I did," I agree firmly, and he heads off to gather everything he’s going to need for this piece.

  I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I never thought I would actually get the nerve up to get a tattoo done – it just seems like so much pain and effort for a little picture on your body. But this is a picture I never want to forget – this is the version of me that I always want to remember.

  He returns a moment or two later and takes my hand in his, starting to sterilize the skin around the spot that I am going to get inked. When he touches me, I shift slightly in my seat, and he glances up.

  "Nervous?" he asks. I nod.

  "First time?”

  I nod again.

  "It’s not going to be as bad as you think,"
he assures me, with a smile. "Hey, why don’t you tell me about your tattoo? Keep your mind off of it."

  "Sure," I mutter, and I watch as he pulls the needles out. Honestly, I’m not sure that they bother me any more than the thought of him touching me again. His jawline is so sharp in profile that it looks like it could cut glass. It’s smattered with a dark stubble, and I have to fight the urge to run a finger down it.

  "Why a tulip?" he asks as he loads up one of the needles with the first color.

  "You know what kind of flower that is?" I reply, surprised. He nods. The needle meets my skin for the first time, and I gasp – he grasps my hand to keep it in place. I try not to think about how strong his fingers are right now.

  "It’s... what my grandma used to call me," I admit. "Just a nickname she had for me. Nobody else calls me that, but when she passed away, I knew that I needed to get something to commemorate her."

  "I’m sorry you lost her," he replies softly, and there is a slight sadness to his voice that tells me that he means it. His fingers tighten on my hand as I shiver, nearly jerking away as the needle scrapes at my skin. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, and though I could close my eyes and just pretend like this isn’t happening, that would mean missing out on him. And the intent expression of concentration on his face as he stares down at my skin like I am the most important person he has ever seen in his life.

  It’s something I haven’t felt since Grandma was alive, and it feels good. Which is something of a miracle considering the needle poking me right now. A smile spreads across my face as I relax, feeling totally secure under Shotgun’s hand.