by Dani Wyatt
BAD RIDE
Men of Valor
Dani Wyatt
Copyright © 2021
by Dani Wyatt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
www.daniwyatt.com
Editing Nicci Haydon
Created with Vellum
Contents
Reader’s Group
Men of Valor Series
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Get banged by Hammer
Follow Me
About Dani
Reader’s Group
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NEWSLETTER
Men of Valor Series
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Chapter 1
Chewy
There are people that fit in. They have the image of upstanding respectability and what happens on the underbelly of their life doesn’t seem to matter.
Then there are those that choose to live by a code, lawless as it may sometimes be, who get pinched because they wear a leather vest instead of pleated khakis and a button down.
Rodney and Breach see Mr. Upstanding-Member-of-the-Community coming through the door the same time I do and head for the back room, already lighting up cigarettes and shooting daggers at him with their eyes like the prince of darkness just entered the garage.
Only, this fucker doesn’t have to break down a door or force entry. He walks through life like butter but under the surface he’s greasier than my hands at the end of my day.
He’s halfway through the shop when his eyes catch mine. I snap my tongue on my teeth and spin from the roadster’s carburetor I have in my hand, heading into my office, knowing he’s going to follow me.
When is this guy going to give up?
He’s way dumber than he looks, thinking just because I’m still considered “new” to Valor and part of the Valor Club I’m going to cave to his business offer and skate my way into a parole violation that will land me right back in Lennon Penitentiary. As accommodating as it was there, I’m not going back. I’ll bleed out first.
I came here for a new start two years ago. Worked in Valor Customs for a year before setting up on my own. Finally turning a tidy profit and this motherfucker starts stopping by. Starting a new life is fucking hard but it’s way fucking harder when some stand-up, Superintendent of Schools starts trying to squeeze you to help him line his own pockets.
“Charles.” He walks into my office like I work for him. He’s wearing the light blue button down today, pulled over his expanding gut, making two of the straining buttons look like they are about to let loose and shoot my eye out.
It’s not that hard to make me hate people. It’s a character flaw and once I hate you, there’s no going back. Only, this asshole, he’s got one thing that keeps me from dropping him when he shows up here.
His daughter. Annie.
“Bart,” I seethe, returning his greeting. “For someone that works for the school board, you’re not very smart.”
He shrugs, stuffing his sausage fingers down into his front pockets. “Maybe it’s you that needs to be schooled.”
I walk over to the espresso machine on the wall across from my desk and draw a hissing cup of my special Turkish blend, ignoring him for a long moment before turning and seeing him looking down at the paperwork scattered over my desk then I glance up at the security camera disguised as a thermostat on the wall. It’s not the first time I’ve had these friendly visits from Bart, but what he doesn’t know, is every one of them has been recorded because I may look dumb but I’m far from stupid. Being set up once, shame on me, being set up twice, not happening so since I walked out of Lennon, covering my own ass has become priority.
I sidestep between him and my desk, getting right up in his personal space, and I can smell his onion breath mixing with the smells from the garage as I furrow my brow and take a sip of my espresso from the little porcelain mug that makes me look like I’m having a tea party with a five-year-old.
“Just thought I’d double check on my offer. I know you’re going to see your P.O. in a couple weeks. Wouldn’t want anything to come up before then.”
I sniff as he shrugs a shoulder on a smirk, and I hate that he has the same green eyes as Annie. His broken moral compass is something he’s worked hard to hide, even from his own daughter.
“Nothing better come up.” I shoot him a hard glare, then see Rodney and Breach come back into the open garage, a simple nod my way enough to ask if I need help. I twitch my head back and forth, sending them into stand-by mode as I finish up with this polished turd that seems intent on fucking with my program.
“It won’t. I’ll promise you that. Just come meet with us. That’s all. You see what we offer, you see how it can benefit us both and then you decide. Just don’t ignore me, Charles. I don’t like being ignored.”
“Well,” I pause, taking another sip of the steaming liquid in the cup, raising my pinky for effect before finishing, “I don’t like your face or your clothes or your breath or you.”
But, I do like your daughter. In fact, I’m pretty fucking sure I love her. So, that’s going to be a little complicated.
He chuckles, then looks at his watch. “Come by tonight, eleven thirty, the industrial building behind First Baptist on Maple. We meet, you decide, then we’ll see. Decide not to show…” He licks his lips, looking over his shoulder at my back up crew before finishing. “Just saying, there’s no espresso machines in Lennon. And your parole officer, Matthew Gerth, his daughter is a sophomore at the high school. He’s good people, comes to all the games. His little girl is a cheerleader.” He draws his lips back, sucking in air then smacks his lips together on a twisted grin.
“Get the fuck out.”
He turns on a smug smile. “See you tonight.”
I watch as he nods at Rodney and Breach, whistling as he walks out the open bay doors into the spring sunshine and gets in his shitty pearl-white Cadillac DeVille, disappearing down Forest Avenue toward town.
I let the hot liquid of my drink slip over my tongue and heat my throat as I swallow. How that horrible excuse for a human fathered a goddess, I’ll never figure out.
I hear the ringer on the wall phone go off in unison with the one on my desk, and watch as Rodney walks over to answer it as I look at the clock on the wall. It’s three thirty on Thursday. I wanted to finish up with Slate’s carburetor and get it back installed so he could pick up his 1967 Camaro tomorrow, ready for the local car show Saturday, but right now I need some air.
I leave the last sip of my espresso on the counter and stomp out into the garage as Rodney scribbles on a notepad, holding the phone receiver to his ear.
“I gotta go for a ride,” I grunt at Breach, who has his head back under the hood of a bright red, modified Ford Falcon.
“You wanna tell me what’s up? That guy’s been by three times this month and every time he does, your usually shitty moo
d turns shittier.”
I shake my head. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Our little shop here in trouble?” He raises his eyebrows, wiping a red cloth down the handle of a wrench.
Both of them took a shot coming on with me when I opened the place, leaving Valor Customs and Aces place to come build something different here, and I don’t blame him for being nervous. Even after two years, I’m a newcomer in the eyes of a lot of the club members and trust is something earned over time.
“We’re fine. I said I’ll take care of it and I will. Just finish that.” I nod toward the car as Rodney steps into my peripheral vision, jabbing a piece of paper my way, running his thumb on his other hand under his nose to hide a grin.
I look at the scribbled note, my heart rate tripling, then back at Rodney. “Give me a fifteen-minute head start, then bring the wrecker.”
“You got it, boss,” he answers as I’m already out the front door and on my bike, winding up the engine with a roar.
When I bought the garage, it was just an average auto repair place but it came with a tow truck and the business was on the rotation for local tow calls through roadside assistance policies.
We kept that going, but expanded into special work with mostly roadsters and custom engine work. I was thinking of shutting the towing business down, it’s not a big profit center, but I’m glad I procrastinated long enough that we got this call.
Navy blue 1977 Mustang, parked on the side of Hwy 44 and Thompson Road. License plate E43 TT9. Steam coming from under the hood, temperature gauge in the red.
That’s all the info from the roadside service company but it’s all I needed to know. I have that car and license plate already committed to memory and maybe this is the universe telling me to get off my ass, forget her fucking father and go claim what I already know is mine.
Chapter 2
Chewy
I see the glint of blue in the distance and the thought of rubbing her pretty pussy all over my beard drowns out the logical part of me that says keep on riding.
Don’t stop.
Her father is the world’s biggest jerk off and she’s part of that world, not yours.
The summer-blonde beauty barely knows I’m alive, but getting twisted up with her wouldn’t end well. For anyone. So, I’ve fought off the obsession for as long as possible.
It’s been two years since I first saw her running down Main Street in that vintage original Sapphire-Blue Mustang. It was the auto that caught my attention first, but in a flash, it was the driver that became my obsession. Since then, I’ve put the fear of God and the Devil into any of the other guys from the club, letting them know that she is off fucking limits.
Some of them knew her from years ago when she was jail-bait before I came on the scene and on her visits back home after leaving for university. She returned two years ago, same time as I got here, took a job as Ethics and History teacher at Valor High and she’s been driving me crazy ever since.
When Rodney handed me that tow order, something snapped. Now, I’m pulling up behind her car and my gut twists in a one-eighty, spinning and making me see double as I try to breathe.
This is it. She’s here. You’re here. Make it happen. Fuck the consequences, figure it out.
Fuck her, literally, until she has no doubt who she is.
Mrs. Charles Drake.
Has a nice ring to it.
I kick the stand down on my bike as her driver’s door opens and a speeding car flies by, nearly taking it off. I bolt forward, putting myself between her and the road.
“You need to be careful. Never get out on the driver’s side on the highway. Never, you hear me?” I blurt it out, anger that she could have been hurt fouling the first words I’ve ever spoken to her directly.
“Don't tell me to be careful. I’m perfectly capable of knowing how to keep myself safe.” She battles back, her brow tightening as those green eyes tangle with mine. “What are you doing here anyway? I called for a tow truck, not a local biker to give me shit about how I get out of my car.”
Keep your cool.
Being this close, the slight bit of control I had over my cock is long gone. She’s been hell on my dick since that first time I saw her. I’ve battled public hard-ons more in the last year than I ever did as a teenager with an out-of-control boner.
“Is that who I am? Some local biker?” I sniff, pressing my body closer, driving her to step to the rear of the car and off the fucking road so I can breathe again.
“Well, I don’t know anything else.”
I know way more about her than I should. She gets up at 5:50 every morning, even weekends. She drinks Earl Grey tea, but first she makes a cup of warm water with a lemon slice and downs it in a few gulps. When she’s done, she makes a face like it’s rotten shrimp juice, then puts that black mug back in her cabinet and uses a floral porcelain tea cup and saucer for her Earl Grey.
From there, she’s back in her bedroom where she sits on the floor, cross-legged, and meditates, chanting something I can’t hear but I imagine in my mind it’s a siren’s song she’s singing just for me.
She sleeps in boxers and a tank top or just the tank top with panties. Either way, she is more stunning than a Victoria’s Secret model walking the runway. She eats a pretty strict diet of fish, vegetables and the occasional comfort food of choice, macaroni and cheese.
I’ve seen her naked more than once and I should feel guilty but I don’t. See, two weeks after I saw her that first time, I started following her. My bike was loud, so I modified my 1972 Lincoln Town Car, making it ride in near silence inside and out. It’s a beast, long and sleek, but old enough that it’s overlooked for the most part.
I found the best places to park to not be seen while I stalked her, and lucky for me, her father’s place where she lives borders a cemetery. I have three look-out spots set up in there to catch her at different angles, depending on where she is in her house.
I’ve left a lot of jizz on top of some of those graves but no spooks have come up and complained, so either they’re into it or they don’t exist. That’s not the only place I’ve released my load with her name carved into every sperm, but that’s a surprise for her for later.
I stare at her, but the defiance in her eyes only makes me want her more. I’m not sure how much she knows about what a motherfucker her father is, but I’m not even sure I care anymore.
Send me back to prison, just give me a taste of her first. The memory of her could carry me through ten lifetimes as long as I knew no one else would ever touch her.
“Well, know this. I’m the one that’s here to help you now. So, a little gratitude might be in order.”
“What are you going to do? Drag my car back to your garage with that?” She leans over my shoulder and nods at my bike, her face twisting up like a bad flavor just assaulted her tongue but she’s still cute as fuck. Even with the off-duty-nun sort of clothes she wears, she’s stunning and I know what she’s hiding underneath. An ass that would make Jesus cry and tits that would make God create an eleventh commandment.
Thou shall not look upon Annie’s tits. Unless you are Charles Drake. All others, thou shall fuck off.
There’s a little gold cross she wears and her thick thighs and lush belly make my mouth water. She’s barely five feet making those womanly curves more pronounced, and I want to pick her up and carry her around like my own personal American Girl Doll.
Her mystic green eyes flick from my face to my boots, then pause near my center and stick there for a long moment, and I wonder if she’s counting the inches she sees or just thinking about what she needs from the grocery.
When her tongue dances out onto her lower lip and I see her nostrils flare as she takes a deep breath, I’m hoping for the inches, because very soon she’s going to get an up-close lesson in how to handle the thunder down under that’s been violently craving for her touch for too long now.
“I’m going to wait here with you until the tow truck from my garage comes
. Then, I’m taking you to dinner. Then from there, we’ll see.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Is that what you think? I called roadside assistance, they called you. I didn’t, so if you’re thinking I tried to get you here under false pretenses…”
“Whatever pretenses they are, babe, they’re here now, true or false, and I’m done waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“It’s been two years since we saw each other that first time. I know you remember. We’re way overdue, so when your insurance company called, I just took that as fate taking a hand. Telling us to quit fucking around and get to it.”
“Get to what?” She shakes her head on a dismissive laugh, leaning her voluptuous ass on the bumper of her car. “You are something, you know that?”
“That I am. And I’m very soon going to be something to you. Going to do something to you. With you…”
“What?” A pink glow slips onto her cheeks as she lowers her eyes to the ground and kicks at a rock with the toe of the simple, beige flat-heeled shoes she wears, then narrows her eyes back at me. “I’m a teacher. I have a moral turpitude clause in my contract. I’m not thinking spending time with a biker—sorry, but a biker with prison tattoos—fits with my career path.” She releases her arms and points to mine, exposed in the vest, where dark ink speaks in code words that most people wouldn’t understand. “Stop being so presumptuous. It’s ill mannered.”
Presumptuous. Ill mannered. Fuck, if her condescension doesn’t turn me on more. If that’s possible. I’ve always loved a challenge.