Page 2 of Single Mom for the Bikers

“I’m fucking fine!” is all he gets out, and it doesn’t take my non-existent medical degree to know that he’s lying through his teeth.

What do I do? I can't just leave him out on my lawn. It would only be a matter of time before someone else spots him, and then the cops will definitely get a call. It might be for the best, but he knows where I live and I don’t want to bring down the wrath of whatever MC he’s in when they find out he got picked up.

“Listen, you can’t just stay out here. You can rest on my porch for a while, but then you have to leave.” Stupid. I’m being so stupid.

Staggering under his weight, I help walk him over to my front steps, where he sits down heavily. He touches the back of his head and his hand comes back tinged with red. He groans.

Mia jumps up. “Is he hurt? I can get Band-Aids,” she volunteers, trying to be helpful.

His whole head swings her way.

I bat him on the shoulder to get his attention away from my daughter. “Hey! Listen to me! You need to lie down. Stay here. I’ll get you water and some pain killers.”

Leaving our unexpected guest, I pull the keys out and open the front door. Mia darts in and I follow, basically chasing her to her room. “I need you to listen to me, okay honey? Play in your room until I come back. It won’t take long.”

“Is the man okay? I don’t like blood.” She looks up at me with her big baby blue eyes, trusting me to keep her safe from everything in this world. “He’s not one of the bad people, right?” She's a smart cookie and she knows something’s wrong, but she barely remembers the time when we practiced what to do if the bad people came.

“No, of course not. He’s going to be fine. I just want to go back out and check on him to make sure his friends are going to come pick him up. Be a good girl and wait in your room, all right? I'll be right back.”

She nods as she works the zipper open on her backpack and pulls out a stuffed bulldog, her favorite plushie. “Mr. Bear says he likes spaghetti, but not with lumps.” She squeezes him tight as I close the door.

I turn around and walk right into what's got to be well over six feet of biker. It's like smacking into a concrete wall. God, why didn't I lock the door behind me? “Listen… whatever your name is, I said you could stay on the porch. You can’t just come into my house. No bikers in here, okay? I'm not okay with this.”

“Just… gotta sit down. Drink some water. I'll be fine.” He keeps saying that, but he still doesn't look fine. “I'm not gonna cause trouble, fucking swear it.”

“You're causing trouble just by being here,” I grumble under my breath. Strangely enough, I’m scared of what him being here could mean, but not of him. He looks like the sort of man that’s used to violence, but not one that uses it just to be cruel. “Fine, go sit on the couch. I'll get you water.”

With a grunt, he drops onto the couch so hard it creaks. Its legs hold, but I swear it's only barely. Bracing his elbows against his thighs, he puts his head in his hands and groans.

I put the water glass on the coffee table in front of him. “Here. Do you have a name I can call you? Or a number for someone to come get you?”

He drains the glass in one long drag, his big Adam's apple working with each deep swallow. When he puts it back on the table, I have to move fast to keep it from falling off the edge. “Thanks. Needed that. You can call me…” He trails off, sounding strangely uncertain. “Fuck.”

He doesn't remember.

Crap, he doesn't remember his own name. He must've hit his head harder than I thought. This is so far above my paygrade. “You've probably got a concussion. You can't stay here. You need help.”

“Fine. I'm… fine. Just need to sleep it off.” Leaning back, he rests his head against the couch back. Probably getting blood on it. His eyes droop shut.

No, no, no.

“Hey! You can't just…” I clap my hands right in front of his face, but all he does is twitch.

His breathing is slow and steady, and his color better than it was. I leave him on the couch, because what else can I do? There’s no way I can drag him out of here as deadweight.

While keeping an eye on him from the kitchen, I make some PB&J sandwiches and fill a couple of water bottles to bring to Mia. She won’t be happy about the change in dinner plans, but calmly making dinner and sitting at the table while this man is passed out on my couch is out of the question. I’ll lock us in my room where there’s an attached bathroom and hope he’s gone by morning.

Wait. Maybe he's got a wallet or something that can help me identify him, or an emergency contact who can take him off my hands. I sneak up on him like he’s a sleeping tiger.

He shifted while I was in the kitchen, sprawling out on his back, with one arm flung over his face. Tall, dark and deadly, he’s exactly the sort of man I shouldn’t find attractive anymore, but damn. The woman in me can’t help but notice how his t-shirt is doing God’s work, stretched to the limit over his broad chest and showing off a man in his prime. My mouth goes dry as I take in every inch of him, from the tattoos winding up his neck, down to the narrow waist with a gun tucked into his pants on the one side.

A gun.

In my house.

Air hisses through my teeth in surprise as I do my best to not freak out. Holding my breath and watching for even a tiny twitch from him, I touch the grip. He doesn’t stir. I pull it free. Themetal is warm from his body heat, and heavy in my hands. I push the release and pop the magazine out. Just because I don’t like guns doesn’t mean I don’t know how to handle them. Another thing my biker history has taught me.

First things first. Before I check for a phone or wallet, I stash the gun in the fire safe in my hall closet where neither curious little hands, nor big angry ones can get to it.

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