For Love of Valor: A Bad Boy Military Romance

by Samantha Westlake

  Contents

  Front title

  Copyright

  Mailing list opportunity

  Dedication

  Inner title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  The End!

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  About the Author

  For Love of Valor

  Samantha Westlake

  Copyright 2016 Samantha Westlake

  All rights reserved.

  For Love of Valor: A Military Bad Boy Romance

  Book design by Samantha Westlake

  Cover Image Copyright 2016

  Used under a Creative Commons Attribution License:

  http://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0

  Adult content warning: All characters are legal and fully consenting adults and are not blood relations.

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  Melinda Gaines, overworked personal assistant, is cursed with permanently bad luck. Her boss keeps making unreasonable demands, and no guy has seen the inside of her apartment in months.

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  Dedication

  For all my readers, both new and returning. I write it all for you.

  For Love of Valor: A Military Bad Boy Romance

  Chapter One

  RICHARD

  *

  There was something magical, I felt, about how the whiskey seemed to dance and leap in the glass, almost like it was alive. I held the tumbler in my hand up so that the amber liquid caught the light, breaking it up into little dancing droplets.

  Next, I moved the glass to my lips, tilting it back and feeling that fiery burn as I swallowed the contents in a single swig. The fire singed my tongue and lips, but I savored its heat as it dropped down towards my stomach. It filled me with warmth that radiated out from the insides. With that warmth spreading, I felt a little better, the whispering at the back of my head growing a little quieter.

  I dropped the glass back down on the bar, raised a finger to catch the attention of the bartender behind the counter. The man immediately spotted me and moved down to help me, ignoring the other patrons who tried in vain to capture his attention as he passed. I had laid down a twenty for each drink I'd ordered, and this bartender was quick enough to figure out that keeping me happy meant some great tips to line his own pocket.

  "Same thing, sir?" the man asked as his quick fingers darted out to sweep my glass off the counter and tuck it away. "Jack Daniels, neat?"

  "Sounds good to me," I said, pulling another twenty out of my pocket. I dropped it on the counter of the bar, and the bartender's fingers again moved quickly to make the bill vanish.

  "Oh, and maybe you should make it a double," I called out to the man as the bartender turned and reached for the bottle behind him. "Might save you another couple trips back over here."

  "You got it, sir," came the reply. I waited impatiently for the drink that arrived a second later, this time filled up quite a bit further. "And you let me know if you need anything else."

  I didn't bother to reply. I just took another long gulp of the whiskey, savoring the fire, enjoying how I could already feel the strong booze starting to dull the thoughts that never seemed to leave my brain alone. I turned around on the bar stool, leaning my elbows on the stained and scarred counter as I looked around the place.

  Busy, of course, but The Local always filled up with people by eight at night on a weekend. Young people were here along with the regulars, some of them even daring to move out onto the bar's small, crowded dance area and shake their bodies to the thumping bass music. The Local didn't turn the music up so loud that drinkers couldn't hear each other talk, like some of the other, more youth-oriented clubs around here, but they still offered some music as a nod to their younger drinkers.

  I didn't care about the music. I'd tried the louder, younger bars, and the music hadn't done enough to drown out my inner thoughts.

  But booze, in sufficient quantities, seemed to do the trick.

  My eyes, roaming around the bar, lingered on a group of college aged girls dancing out on the dance area, hands held up over their heads and bodies shimmying back and forth in time to the music. Their tight, short dresses left next to nothing to the imagination, especially under the shifting lights over the dance floor.

  The part of my mind that spoke as my conscience guessed that the oldest of the girls was still probably close to a decade younger than me. Thirty-four didn't sound that old when I said it out loud, but I'd been through a rough last few years.

  Nah, more than just the last few years, I amended this most recent thought. Rough decade, maybe a decade and a half. The military really did take everything out of a guy, leave a dried up husk behind. That was how I felt, now. Used up, emptied, and discarded. I'd served my time, and look where it got me.

  "Right here, Richard," I muttered to myself, downing another big swig of the Jack Daniels. "Getting drunk to shut up the damn voices in my head."

  After finishing off his drink, I set the glass back down on the bar, and then seized the wood with both hands. I stood up cautiously, testing my weight on my bad leg before risking the full weight of my body. It usually held me, but every now and then, when I felt a spasm of weakness, I feared that it might give out and dump me down on the ground...

  Not tonight, it seemed. The leg slipped a little, but then held me up. I let go of the bar, stepped away, moving through the crowd towards the dance area.

  As always, my eyes swept around the interior of the Local, sizing up various other people and assessing them as potential threats. Of course, I knew that I wouldn't find an IED or a suicide bomber here, not in the good old American Midwest, but those instincts didn't go away. They remained, shouting out to me that danger lurked behind every corner, that I needed to be prepared, to reach for my service weapon at the s
lightest sign of danger.

  A service weapon that I don't carry, I reminded himself. My fingers might itch to pick up my M16 and hold it at the ready, but I'd left that behind when I came back home. I could apply for a concealed carry permit, but to tell the truth, I didn't trust myself with a firearm.

  Not when I still sometimes heard those voices whispering to me, telling me exactly what I ought to do with that gun.

  I reached the dance floor, putting on a smile as I approached the young dancing women. I saw them cast approving glances over my flexing muscles, my figure that I still kept in incredible shape, pushing myself to my limits with daily workouts. One of them seemed to linger for a minute on my hair, slightly gray around the temples, but the others appeared willing to overlook that minor detail.

  "Hey there, big guy," said one of them, a blonde with a hefty rack that seemed in imminent danger of spilling out of her tight little tube top at any second. "You lost, or looking for someone to give you your next heart attack?"

  "Trust me, my heart – and other organs, too – can handle you with no trouble," I replied, grinning at the banter. The three glasses of whiskey in my stomach helped loosen up my tongue, gave me a boost of glibness. "In fact, I could probably handle a couple of your friends, too."

  The other girls giggled, but their appraising glances told me that they were imagining the idea. "Well, Emily, you're out," one said. "Unless you think that Marc's going to be cool with another guy."

  "Well, Marc isn't around, is he?" The blonde, Emily, planted her hands on her hips as she snapped at the other girls. She turned back to me, and I felt the alcohol fizzing in my brain as I briefly wondered who Marc might be. "And you're pretty damn hot, especially for an older guy. You know how to dance?"

  "Try me," my mouth answered for my brain.

  Emily's smile widened. Next thing that I knew, she had my hand in hers, tugging me out onto the dance floor. She spun around, pressing a round, delectably soft ass up against my crotch and grinding it back and forth.

  A little part of my mind, the part trying to fight off the effects of the alcohol, kept on wondering about Marc. You focus on that, the rest of my brain said, and we'll instead pay more attention to how this hot little number feels with her ass pressed against us, that blonde hair cascading down and sticking to our chest. All we need to do is put our hands on her hips, slide them up to get a good squeeze of those tits...

  God, they're real. Even with a half dozen shots of Jack Daniels in my stomach, I had no trouble feeling the stiffening of my equipment. From the way that Emily sighed and leaned back further against me, she didn't miss the sensation either.

  "Looks like someone's hiding a gun in his pants," she murmured as she arched her back, looking up at me through thick lashes.

  "Nah, that's all me," I answered. Not the best comeback, but come on, I was running on half blood flow to my brain at the moment! My fingers dug into Emily's hips, tugging her back until I nearly penetrated right through my jeans, through her tight little dress, to take her here on the dance floor.

  She gasped, writhing in my grip in an incredibly arousing manner. She spun around to face me, pressing that amazing set of tits in against my chest, reaching up to wrap her hands around my neck. "God, you better get me out of here soon," she breathed, even as her lips pursed and she rose up on her tiptoes to try and match my six feet and change of height.

  I lowered my mouth to meet hers, already picturing how I'd get her into a cab outside of The Local, how I'd bring her back to the big house and fuck her brains out. Show her how a real man, someone with a few years of experience, could perform.

  That was my big mistake, I admitted ruefully to myself later.

  I shouldn't have started thinking that far ahead. By doing so, I took my eye off of the current situation, lost awareness of what was happening all around me.

  And as I knew from years of experience, from losing some of my closest friends in a matter of mere seconds, things could change in an instant.

  Suddenly, Emily wasn't in my arms any longer. I raised my eyes up, looking to see where she'd suddenly gone – and spotted the fist swooping in towards me.

  I managed to turn slightly to the side. It wasn't enough to completely avoid the blow, but I turned a solid punch instead into just a glancing blow, bouncing off my jawline. Still stung like hell, but didn't bring me down. Wincing, I took a step back, trying to figure out what had happened.

  A young man stood in front of me, flanked by a couple of his buddies. Muscle-headed jock, I thought as I sized up this opponent. Probably on some sort of juice, given the big veins that stood out from his neck and bulky arms.

  "Who the fuck are you?" the young man shouted out, raising up his fists as he took another step forward towards me. "The fuck are you doing with my girl, you fucking fucker?"

  "Good vocabulary," my mouth replied automatically. This must be Marc, the guy that Emily had said to not worry about. He certainly looked like a concern now, standing in front of me and hopping mad.

  Looking past Marc and his pair of roided-up buddies, I saw Emily standing back. She looked surprised and a little concerned, but not totally shocked. So, she'd known that her boyfriend was hanging around the club, but still decided to tug me out onto the dance floor and get me hard and worked up. Bitch.

  "Hey, right here!" Marc snarled, stepping forward. "Don't fucking look at her, look at me! I'm the one who's going to kick your fucking ass!"

  "I don't think so," my mouth answered him.

  This time, I saw the punch coming from a mile away. Marc, it seemed, needed to learn how not to telegraph his moves. I easily dodged aside, slammed my own fist into Marc's side just below the ribs. I heard the man grunt as he staggered back, clutching at his stomach.

  "Why don't you walk away," I suggested, tensing my fingers as I worked them into fists. "This isn't a fight that you're going to win."

  Marc, however, didn't appear inclined to take that advice. He howled and charged, his two juiced-up buddies following in on his heels.

  I almost had the fight under control. If I hadn't tossed back the fourth drink, I figured, I would have managed to move fast enough to dodge the flurry of blows, to land my responses properly. Even with half a dozen drinks slowing me down, I nearly made it out of the fight unscathed.

  But nearly doesn't count except in horseshoes and hand grenades, as an old sergeant of mine had been fond of saying. And although I hit Marc again in the face, the cartilage of the man's nose breaking from my hit, one of the juicers managed to get his fat arms around my ribs.

  By the time that The Local's bouncers made it over, I felt myself bleeding freely from a cut on my cheek, and felt bruises blooming on my ribs and shoulders. I'd managed to give out just about as well as I got, but the numbers eventually overwhelmed me; I couldn't fight when the odds were one on three. Still, I kept on swinging, kept on shouting even as the bouncers closed their arms around me, pinned my hands behind me and hauled me bodily towards the door.

  "I didn't start the fight!" I hollered as the bouncers man-handled me out of The Local, out onto the street. "It was his girl who decided to upgrade!"

  "Fuck you!" shouted Marc again, although the words were somewhat indistinct, thanks to his broken and bleeding nose.

  "Whatever," growled the huge, bald man who threw me out into the street. "I don't care who started it. Get outta here."

  "Fine. I've got plenty of money, and I'll go spend it somewhere else." I stood up, but held my hands out as my world wobbled drunkenly. "I don't need here. I'm rich. And a veteran. And I'll kick anyone's fucking ass."

  The bouncer watched me wander off down the street, arms crossed. "Drunken ass," he muttered to himself, waiting a minute longer before heading back into the bar.

  Once I felt confident that I wouldn't go tumbling over into the street, I checked my pockets, making sure the roll of cash was still there. Yep. Still more than enough to get me drunk off my ass tonight.

  No girls. Right now, I just needed
the oblivion that came only with booze. I stumbled off to find another source.

  Chapter Two

  RICHARD

  *

  "Ugh," I groaned, slumping further over in the plastic chair. The thing didn't provide any support, and I felt on the verge of slipping out and landing on the linoleum floor of the hospital at any second.

  "And what are you groaning about, sonny?" growled the man sitting next to me, a grizzled looking older man in his late fifties who clearly had misplaced his razor a few weeks previously. "You missed your shower, by the way."

  I lifted my head up to look over at him. Thanks to the after-effects of the alcohol, my head felt on the verge of cracking open like a spoiled egg, dumping my pickled brain out onto the ground. Hell, maybe I'd feel better if I just scooped the whole thing out of my skull. All it seemed to do was torment me.

  "At least I managed to finish up my service with all four limbs attached to me," I snapped at the man next to me, my eyes noting how both of his legs ended just below the knee.

  I almost expected him to snap at me, but although I saw him narrow his eyes for a minute, he let out an unexpected laugh instead. "You're an ass, man," he chuckled, wiping off one hand on his dirty pants before holding it out to me. "What's your name?"

  For a second, I considered standing up and moving to a different seat – but the VA clinic had filled up quickly, and I didn't see any other open chairs. Besides, I considered, maybe talking would help me ignore the pounding hangover.

  "Richard," I said, accepting the handshake. "Richard Stone. Captain, Second Marines."

  "Marines, huh? Bunch a' hard-asses." The older man grinned. "Dirk, Twenty-Fifth Infantry. Never made it up to officer status, so I guess you outrank me there."

  I sat back in the chair, leaning back to rest my head against the wall. "No more ranks, not out here," I said softly. "All that goes away in the real world, Dirk. Leave it in the past and move on."

  "Big words, coming from someone sitting in a VA clinic," Dirk said. "Somehow, the past keeps on reminding us that it's there. What are you in here for?"