Page 11 of Biker's Babygirl

“You don’t say,” Shep deadpans.

I ignore him, eyes focused back on the boy, my mind racing as I go over my medical training at a lightning-fast pace. “I was checkin’ out the wound when he passed out. I’m thinking he’s in shock.” For some reason I can’t fathom, Shep snorts.

Even Elvis smirks.

“What the fuck’s gotten into the two of you?”

But before either of them can answer, the boy shifts and mumbles.

Good. He’s coming around. That’s a good sign.“We’ve got to get back to the house.” Without another word, I stand and sling the kid over my shoulder without so much as a grunt.

And the boys, used to following my orders, follow. Only Shep isn’t carrying a passenger, so he gets stuck with the guns which he puts in his sidecar when we make it to our bikes.

I’m a lapsed Catholic, but as I buckle the patient into the sidecar I’d planned to use for the coyote, I find myself remembering my upbringing. And even though it’s been decades since I’ve found myself inside a church, I remember the words.

Mother Mary, full of grace…

As the engine roars to life and the world around me becomes a blur of color as I speed down the street, I can’t help but looking at the prone figure in my sidecar. For one thing, I have to keep checking that he hasn’t woken up. The last thing I need is him freaking out to find himself strapped into a motorcycle sidecar. Doubtful, given the fainting spell, but one thing I’ve learned in every walk of life is that you can never be too careful.

But for another… as weird as I know it is… I just feel this boy—kid or no—is special. He needs someone to take care of him, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking care of people. It’s the only thing I’m good at, really.

Hang in there. We’re almost there.

Assuring myself that my passenger is okay, I twist the throttle. It only takes about ten minutes for the two of us to arrive at my house, but by the time I’m pulling my motorcycle into the driveway, it feels like it’s been an hour. I’m as careful as possible unsnapping the buckle and lifting the still-unconscious patient out of the sidecar.

Ellie must have been watching from the window, because she is waiting with the door open and as I nod my thanks, I see her concerned expression. “What happened?” she murmurs as she follows at my heels.

“Coyote,” I answer shortly.

She swears hotly. “Why did you?—”

“Relax. I’m not an idiot,” I remind her, my tone sharper than normal in my haste. “It’s just a scratch. The boy’ll be fine.” I lay my charge down on the couch, barely sparing him a glance before rushing to get his bag.

“Um, Duke?”

“Yeah?” I call over my shoulder as I’m rushing to get my supplies. But she’s too far away for me to hear what she says.

By the time I make it back to the living room, however, Ellie is leaning over the stirring patient.

I’m not a particularly warm and fuzzy guy, and as such, bedside manner isn’t my favorite part of medicine. Thankful for Ellie’s presence, I set my bag down and open it, reaching inside. I am meticulous—both of my careers honed that tendency to perfection—so I don’t even have to look to find my alcohol and bandages.

“Where… where am I?” The voice comes out sounding woozy and confused.

“Duke.”

I’m too busy gathering supplies to turn toward them.

“Where am I?” The question is more panicked now.

“Duke!” Ellie’s voice is more insistent, too, and draws my attention.

“What?”

“Heis ashe,” Ellie informs me in a low, meaningful voice just before the patient hops off the couch and makes a beeline for the door.

Ginny

I’d thought there was nothing scarier than going toward certain death, but as it turns out, waking up in an unfamiliar place when you still have some fight left in you tops it. I recognized the guy from earlier half a second before I bolted. And now I’m dashing for the front door with both him and the woman who had been tending to me in hot pursuit.

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