Page 1 of Single Mom for the Bikers

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SHELBY

“Mommy, what's that?”Mia’s already half out of her booster seat by the time I have her door open.

It's a sign of how absolutely exhausted I am after a ten hour day that I don’t even turn to look. Don’t judge. She started asking questions as soon as she could speak, and hasn’t slowed down since. “I don’t know, baby. Do you want spaghetti tonight?”

“Mmhmm,” she agrees, distracted by whatever caught her eye. Probably the neighbor’s cat again.

It's not until I turn around that I see where she’s looking. Somehow, in the fading, dusky twilight, I missed the motorcycle wheel sticking out of the ditch in front of our house. My stomach drops instantly, and goosebumps raise every hair on my arms. Bikers and I have a history, not least of which is the just past four-and-a-half year old little girl who I manage to grab by the back of the shirt before she runs to investigate.

“Go wait for me on the porch. Here, take my phone and don’t forget your backpack. Do you remember how we practiced calling for help? If I tell you, you do it, okay?”

She looks up at me with huge eyes and nods, not used to the serious tone. That she listens to me on the first try must be the same primal instinct that keeps baby animals safely hidden with a single warning from their mothers.

My own instincts are to run as far and as fast as possible, but someone could be hurt, and I can’t let them suffer just because my ex was a violent bastard.

I don’t see the rider at first. He must’ve managed to get out from under the bike and crawl a little before collapsing, but there he is, just halfway out of the ditch. “Shit,” I whisper under my breath, taking him in.

He’s huge, and even unconscious he radiates danger. This isn’t a weekend warrior, a guy with a desk job that likes to feel the wind in his hair once in a while. Not with his muscles covered in a patchwork of black tattoos and a worn leather cut covered in a motley assortment of patches that looks like it’s seen years of sun and hard use. One of them says “The Misfits” which doesn’t ring any bells, but he’s built like a fighter, and from my short time surrounded by guys like him, I’d put money on him being a lifer.

Red flags are popping up left and right, but he’s still a person, and he’s hurt. Or at least I hope he’s just hurt. There’s been enough death in my life, and I don’t want to have to explain it to my daughter quite yet.

Dark red blood seeps from cuts and scrapes on his face and arms and his short hair looks matted and sticky. I inch forwards, ready to bolt if he makes a sudden move, but he’s still as a corpse. Drawing a soft breath, I try not to curse too loudly.

But then, there it is. A slight rise and fall of his broad chest.

Oh, thank God.

He’s breathing.

“Hey. Hey, you,” I try, getting exactly what I expect in response. Nothing.

I drop to my knees and put my fingers against his throat, feeling for a pulse. It's strong. Good. I just want to raise my baby girl in peace, and the last thing I need is biker trouble.

He's handsome in a rugged way, with a strong jaw covered by a dark beard and a distinctive nose that's been broken at least once. A faded scar runs from behind his left ear and onto the side of his neck, the kind of rough attractiveness that teenage me swooned over, but that I learned can mean big trouble in real life. Even if it was a risk I was willing to take personally, it’s not just me anymore. I have Mia to think about.

But I can't just let him lie here, either. Even if he's not dying, he could be seriously hurt. I pull out my phone to call 911. At least I try to, but like lightning, there's a massive hand enveloping my forearm in an iron grip.

Dark, nearly black orbs stare right into my soul. “Who the fuck are you?” he gets out between gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and thick with pain. He struggles up on one elbow, but he's teetering, like even that is too much. It doesn't make him any less terrifying.

“Nobody,” I whimper. “I just found you here. Stay still. I’m going to call for help.”

He shakes his head, wincing. “No ambulance.”

“I can’t just leave you like this!” I glance over to the house. Mia’s watching with wide eyes, but she's staying put. Good girl.

“Help me up,” he growls, like asking hurts as much as whatever injuries he has.

“Um…” I'm not sure what he expects me to do. I wrap both hands around one of his wrists and tug, but it’s like trying to move a boulder.

He snorts, and using me for leverage while I dig in my feet, he manages to pull himself upright. Mostly. He's unsteady, and the few words he bites out as he puts weight on his right leg make me glad Mia isn’t close enough to hear.

“Look, I'm not a doctor, but you're hurt, and I don't know how to help you. Let me call someone.”

Savage eyes glare at me. “No 911, no cops, no nothing. I just need a minute for the world to stop spinning.”

“You're barely walking!”

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