Gun Shy: Stone Hard SEALs, #5

GUN SHY

The scorching sequel to Hot Rod

A Stone Hard SEALs Novella

By Sabrina York

Text Copyright Sabrina York 2016

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-1-941497-44-9

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Sable Hunter.

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt appreciation and humble thanks to Pansy Parsons, Fedora Chen and ELF. This story is so much better thanks to you and your amazing eyes.

Editor: Write Right Edits

Cover Artist: Dar Albert

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Gun Shy  

Returning to his hometown to sell his hated father’s ranch, the last thing Luke Grant expects to find on his first day in town is a reason to stay. But there she is, Melissa Divine. The girl he loved all those years ago.

But Melissa has changed since those innocent days. She’s just escaped from a hellish marriage and wants nothing to do with any man. Especially not this big, burly alpha biker who reminds her of her ex.

Can this former SEAL change her mind before his time runs out?

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONNECT

Books by Sabrina York

Chapter One

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Luke Grant gunned the engine of his Harley as he waited for the light to change at the corner of Clay and Main. He sucked in a breath and tried to soothe the angst roiling in his gut at the familiar sights and sounds of the town where he’d grown up.

It had been a long time since he’d set foot in this place, and for good reason. It was surreal to be here now. More surreal was the fact that his father was dead. Finally. Marcus Grant had dominated Luke’s world, his consciousness, his every breath since the day he was born.

It was a strange thing to think of the world without that looming presence.

But somehow, the knowledge made the sun shine a little brighter.

It was a lovely day in late May in the Hill Country of Central Texas, with a slight breeze and pleasant temperature. Quite a departure from the battlefields of Iraq, where he’d spent the past seven years.

That was another thing he had to get used to. Being a civvie. He’d joined the Navy as soon as he was old enough to get the hell out of Dodge, and then became a contractor for his friend Ryder’s protection company, operating mainly overseas, and he’d never looked back.

’Til now.

How strange it was to be back, though Kerrville seemed unchanged—with the exception of more traffic. The town hall looked the same, as did the Schreiner mansion. Viola’s Diner was still there too, on Water Street.

But he was definitely a different man.

He was absolutely strong enough to face what had to be done, but he dreaded it.

Surely it wasn’t cowardly to put it off for a day or two. Maybe a week.

He’d reserved a room at a local motel so he wouldn’t have to sleep at the ranch while he settled his father’s estate. Not that he would have slept. The old house was full of horrific memories. Memories that made his years in Iraq look like a walk in the fucking park.

The light changed and he revved the engine, whipping down Main Street as though running from the past.

Which was foolish.

You can’t run from something you carry inside yourself.

As he followed his GPS and turned onto the road where his motel was situated, the blaring sign for a bar captured his attention and, with no hesitation, he turned into the parking lot.

He needed a drink.

Maybe two.

It was early, so the bar was sparsely populated and dim. It matched his mood precisely. Luke bit back a grin as he noticed the mechanical bull in the middle of the cavernous room and the dancefloor at the far end. This place was probably a zoo later at night. Since it was close to his digs he’d probably be spending most evenings here, so he scoped out the place, looking for a quiet corner.

He bellied up to the bar and lifted a finger to the dark-haired waitress who was wiping down the well-polished counter.

She ignored him.

After a moment with no reaction, irritation bubbled up within him.

If this place had sucky service, he’d have to find another bar to hang out in. He couldn’t stand bad service.

He cleared his throat and the waitress jumped and glanced at him. Or at least in his general direction.

I’m sorry, she said in a melodic voice. I didn’t hear you come in. What can I get you?

Whisky, he grumbled.

Any preference?

Just whisky. He didn’t care. Not today. Not in this town. He just wanted to numb the edges. Besides, it had been a long drive to make it to town before nightfall. All he wanted was to drink and chill.

He watched as the waitress made her way to the bottles decorating the shelves above the bar. His brow furrowed when she didn’t reach for the whisky, but rather felt the bottles. Felt them. With a grin she pulled one out and queried, How’s this?

She had unerringly found his favorite brand of Scotch. Perfect.

Rocks or neat?

Neat. Ice was nothing more than a diversion, and tonight he didn’t want anything watered down.

She nodded and deftly poured a couple fingers into a lowball glass and set it on the counter.

It was then he realized—to his shock—the waitress was blind.

Nothing gave her away, other than the fact that her gaze didn’t quite connect with his and she set the tumbler just a little too far to the right of his elbow. But he knew it.

His irritation at her melted like snow in springtime.

Thank you, ma’am, he said gruffly. Honestly, sometimes he was such an ass.

No one cared if you were an ass in bivouac. Hell, most guys were asses in the field—farting and spitting as though they’d been raised by wolves. But he wasn’t surrounded by badass SEALs anymore. This was a kinder, gentler, civilian world.

It would behoove him to be a little polite.

You new in town? she asked, and Luke blinked.

He couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter, though there was little humor in it. I grew up here.

Really? Her brow quirked. It occurred to him she was a lovely thing. And she had excellent taste in whisky. Your voice isn’t familiar to me. You’ve never been here before.

Not a question.

Yeah. I just got back into town. Been away seven years or so. He glanced around the bar.  This place is new.

Not so new. She chuckled. You probably know the owner. He grew up here too.

Really? He wasn’t in the mood for reunions of any kind. His plan was to slip into town all quiet-like, arrange to sell his dad’s place, and then continue on wandering the roads of this great nation on his Harley. He’d already visited sixteen states and planned to hit them all. Or at least those on the continent. Who is it? he asked, but only because it was good manners.

Marcus McLaren.

The name hit him like an IED. Shit, he said with a chuckle. Marcus McLaren. He and the McLaren brothers had been closer than bacon on a pig when they’d been younger. Luke couldn’t remember how many times they’d all been hauled before the principal in school.

He scrubbed his face as the memories flooded him.

Hmm. I can tell by your tone you remember him.

I remember all of them.

The waitress grinned. They are hard to forget.

Callum and I were closest. Probably because they’d both been cocky turdblossoms who thought they were God’s gift to women. Being on the football team back in high school hadn’t hurt. What’s he doing now?

Her delicate shoulder lifted. He’s married.

Luke barked a laugh. Really? Is that all?

Her grin was infectious. You’ll understand when you meet Louisa.

Well, hell. He wasn’t meeting Louisa.

He didn’t plan to stick around long enough to meet anyone.

There was only one person he was even remotely curious about, but he’d never ask. Because part of him didn’t want to know what had become of her.

The door opened and a chipper male voice bounced off the walls. Hey there, Ashley. What’s the haps?

Speak of the devil.

Now, come on, darlin’. I’m hardly the devil. A minor demon, maybe. The man, tall and broad with dark features shaded by the rim of his cowboy hat, headed for them.

We were just talking about you, Ashley said, gesturing in Luke’s general direction.

The man pinned his curious gaze on Luke, and though Luke recognized Callum McLaren at once—he hadn’t changed much—it was clear his once-friend didn’t remember him. Memories of the antics they’d gotten up to flooded his mind and his lips twitched.

Despite his desire to remain anonymous on this trip, he found himself thrusting out his hand. Grant, he said. Luke Grant.

Cal’s eyes widened and he dropped down on the stool next to Luke. You are shitting me.

I shit you not.

Holy crap. He thumped Luke on the shoulder, tipping him sideways. You did come back.

Just took me seven years. Luke sipped his whisky.

We were wondering if you would...when your dad died. Sorry about that, by the way.

Are you?

Cal snorted a laugh. Well, not really.

Marcus Grant had been a mean son of a bitch but very few