His to Protect (The Guard Book 3)

by Em Petrova

  “I take it they’ve been in town a while?” Dixon asked.

  “Been here since spring. They ride up into the mountains and raise hell during the days and come back here in the evenings to raise even more hell.”

  Dixon cocked his head. “What do they do? Party?”

  “More than that,” Tank cut in, setting his own auto part on the counter to ring up next. “The sheriff’s busy arresting them for theft and assault.”

  His brows shot up. “Fuck. Why doesn’t the sheriff just toss ’em out?”

  “He did. Three times. They’re set on making Mersey their town, and we’re stuck with the assholes.”

  Dixon hefted the case of oil under one arm and grabbed the big bag full of filters with his free hand. “Put it on the tab.”

  “I know, I know. Been dealin’ with you Rothchilds half my life.” Hall smiled as he gave him a hard time.

  Dixon walked out crossed the street again. Ordinarily, he’d drop the oil into the back of the truck, but knowing the town had more than a few sticky fingers in residence, he dumped the purchases on the passenger’s seat instead.

  An engine rumbled, and he looked up to see Tank whipping up on a rebuilt Harley. “Didn’t know you were ridin’ again.”

  “Never stopped. What’s your excuse?” He eyed Dixon’s old truck, and Dixon burst out laughing.

  “This thing’s a lady killer. Don’t let her fool ya.”

  “Well hop in that lady killer and head down to the Painted Pig with me so I can buy ya a drink.” With that, Tank laid on the gas and zoomed off down Main Street, not even slowing for the yellow light and sliding through it on red. A horn honked at him, and Dixon chuckled to himself.

  Some shit never changed, and for once since his return to Mersey, he was glad to find it was Tank who hadn’t. He couldn’t deal with some buttoned-up real estate agent standing in place of his rough and rugged friend.

  Friends. Damn, the last time he called anyone by that term, it’d been his own platoon. His mind shot to the photo he kept of everyone back at home on his dresser. The brotherhood broken apart now, but he’d fought with the best and called each and every one friend.

  More than a few were dead—killed in action. Fuck, they never did find Dax’s body.

  He swiped his hand through his hair and climbed behind the wheel. A minute later, he bumped into the parking lot of the Painted Pig. The name of the bar was a point of humor among all who visited—the idea that a person drank so much that even a pig in lipstick looked good enough to take home.

  Tank already waited for him, leaning against his bike with arms folded over his massive chest.

  Dixon jumped out. “Nice to see they never filled the potholes in the parking lot.”

  “Some things never change, right?” Tank extended an arm as Dixon neared and slapped him on the back. “Still whiskey?”

  “I’m a brand whore now, but yeah.”

  “Johnny Walker?”

  “Yup.”

  “I prefer the Crown myself. C’mon.”

  Once inside, Dixon saw the Painted Pig hadn’t changed a bit. The same photo of an ugly pig wearing lipstick hung above the bar, and the dim interior boasted the same booths and stools. He sidled up to one stool he’d held down on his last night in town. He wasn’t even legal drinking age yet, but the owner let him in anyway, saying any man going off to the Marines better have a drink or two in him.

  “Man, remember the last time you were in this bar?” Tank seemed to echo his train of thought. “We had to carry your ass out.”

  “Yeah, I regretted that hangover all the next day. The bus trip didn’t do me any favors. I pretty much ruined that bus bathroom.”

  They shared a laugh, and Tank settled on the stool next to them. Dixon looked around at the dark walls bearing various alcohol signs and logos. A rowdy laugh exploded from the back of the place, and he stared at the guys surrounding the pool table.

  He’d found the owners of all those bikes. He stared at them for a moment, taking in particulars that most normal citizens probably didn’t—such as how many there were, their positions, and who looked most likely to stir up shit.

  He glanced back to the bar, where a woman stood in front of him, waiting for his order. He let his gaze work over her honey-blonde hair, tanned, bare shoulders in her Painted Pig tank top and tight-fitting jeans. At her waist, she wore a leather belt with more than its fair share of turquoise and silver.

  “What can I get ya?” she drawled out.

  His mind went right to that disrespectful place. But he didn’t say any of the things going through his mind.

  Offering her a crooked smile, he said, “Johnny Walker. And a Crown for my friend.”

  “Comin’ up.” She didn’t stick around for small-talk. Instead, she whirled away and poured two shots in record time. She set them on the bar top. “That’s two-fifty each.”

  Surprise flitted through Dixon. “You want paid right now, or can we see if we want to drink another?”

  She held out her hand. “Pay now. I can’t trust everyone to pay for what they drink in this town.” She cut a glance toward the back of the room.

  “I got it. Thanks, sugar.” Tank slapped some bills on the bar top.

  The blonde settled a hard glare at him. “Not your sugar.” She scooped up the money and pocketed it before moving off.

  “Damn, she’s tough.” Dixon raised his glass to his lips. The scent of whiskey flooded his senses, taking him back to his last drinking spree. He and Dax and some other guys kicked back after a mission, glad just to be fucking alive.

  Soon after Waylan took a bullet, Dax went missing believed dead…and Dixon got his leg blown up. Three months in the vets’ hospital and two surgeries later, he could walk at least, but the scar was ugly. What did he care about scars when he had all his limbs?

  He rubbed a hand down his thigh where the muscle puckered the most. Another raucous laugh boomed through the room, and a petite brunette rushed out of the group of bikers like a chopper flying out of a fire cloud.

  She slammed down her tray on the bar and whipped off her apron. “That’s it! I can’t take this anymore, Fiona! I quit!”

  The blonde bartender turned to her, eyes burning with anger and jaw locked. “Wait, Cassie. You can’t quit on me. You’re the last waitress I’ve got!”

  “I don’t care. Those assholes are disrespectful and can’t keep their hands to themselves. The tall dude with the big beard grabbed my ass!”

  Tank and Dixon exchanged a look. Tank’s expression warned, Don’t do it, man.

  Even though the urge burned strong, Dixon anchored himself to the stool. He didn’t come back to Mersey to make trouble. He came back to figure out his fucking life, and it damn well wasn’t fighting. He’d seen enough of that for a lifetime.

  The waitress started to walk away, and the blonde launched over the bar top like she performed the move every day. She landed in front of the brunette. “Cassie, don’t go. Please. I’ll give you a raise. And a bonus too if you stay tonight. I can’t run this bar without employees.”

  Cassie threw a look at the back of the room. Some of the bikers were watching her, laughing and sneering at some joke one made. Dixon curled his fingers around his glass and tried to find his calm.

  Another laugh sounded, and he couldn’t stop his head from turning. He stared at the women. “You want me to handle them?”

  The blonde whipped around, hand on hip, eyes narrowed. “No, Mr. Tough Guy, I do not want you to handle them! I don’t need any more bar fights. Just drink your damn whiskey and leave the running of this bar to me.”

  As he twisted back around to face forward, his lips jerked upward at one corner. Tank chuckled and knocked back his shot.

  “That’ll teach ya for opening your mouth, Dix.”

  “Lesson learned.” They shared a laugh, but he kept tabs on the bartender and how she begged the waitress not to quit. In the end, the brunette stayed and the blonde agreed to deliver drinks to the bikers in th
e back.

  He and Tank stopped at one whiskey each, and he peeled himself off the stool to head home to his apartment above the shop. It always smelled of gasoline. Hell, coming from a family of mechanics on both sides, he’d practically been baptized in it.

  Outside the bar, he and Tank embraced once more. Dixon thumped him on the back. “Come by the shop.”

  Tank grinned as he swaggered across the lot to his bike. “I’ll be there tomorrow after my shift. We’ve gotta build you a bike, man. Can’t have you driving around in this piece of shit.”

  Chuckling, Dixon jumped behind the wheel again. For the first time, he was damn glad to be home.

  1-click DIXON

  Em Petrova

  Em Petrova was raised by hippies in the wilds of Pennsylvania but told her parents at the age of four she wanted to be a gypsy when she grew up. She has a soft spot for babies, puppies and 90s Grunge music and believes in Bigfoot and aliens. She started writing at the age of twelve and prides herself on making her characters larger than life and her sex scenes hotter than hot.

  She burst into the world of publishing in 2010 after having five beautiful bambinos and figuring they were old enough to get their own snacks while she pounds away at the keys. In her not-so-spare time, she is fur-mommy to a Labradoodle named Daisy Hasselhoff.

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  Other Titles by Em Petrova

  The Guard

  HIS TO SHELTER

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