Page 3 of Call Out
“Ma’am, I’ll flush out the wound with a saline solution. Then I’ll apply a topical antiseptic and dress both of your knees.” For a split second, he stares right at me. Dreamy gold tones swallow me up, and the slight quirk to his Marlon Brando lips sends my head into a spin. I nod in agreement, only because he sounds like he knows what he’s doing.
The guy has medical supplies in his backpack. What a sensible biker. I like that about him, how he’s prepared for every eventuality. Biking accidents. Damsels in distress. Cuts. Stabbings. Bullet wounds. Ugh!
Vivian Rose Swann, he’s an anarchist gang member. Do not tell him anything, especially your name and address. Bikers are not sensible. They’re barbaric.
I silently watch his professional manor, tensing when he sweeps gauze over the bloodied mess. “You’re doing great. Nearly done.” That bassy pitch sends a shiver to my core. “You’re shaking, ma’am. That will be the shock of your accident.”Or the fact that you are utterly delightful and beyond handsome.I’ve never met a man who could melt my insides with one glance or one simple touch. “There you go.” He fastens two strips of white tape to a wad of padding and lowers the hem of my skirt.
Thick leather squeaks when he stands and offers me his large hand. He effortlessly jerks me upwards until I’m gazing at his chest. This guy is so tall and wonderfully robust and exceptionally thoughtful… and sucking me in like the big bad wolf. “Thank you.”
“Is this stuff yours?” He sidesteps me, swoops down to the sidewalk and lifts my coin purse, then stretches right and collects a travel packet of intimate wipes, a tampon and a wrapped tea bag. “An eclectic mix.” The hot biker grins when I open the bag wide, allowing him to plop the items on top of my other essentials.
“You never know when you’ll need a wet wipe.” I swing my braid behind my back. I’m sure he doesn’t realize they’re for refreshing lady parts.
“Exactly.” His choppy hair taunts me, filling my head with dirty thoughts, like raking my fingers through the textured lengths.
My hands tremble. A button pops and a zip buzzes like a wasp. Seductive musk surrounds me when he places his massive jacket over my shoulders. My heart bucks like it’s dancing for his attention.How can a biker be so attentive?
“Can I walk you home?” His brows hitch, like he’s waiting for me to divulge my name. Next he’ll be asking for my address and social security number, then I’ll be gagged, bagged and found in a basement.
“Eh, no thank you. I live a few minutes down the road. I won’t keep you any longer.”
“You’re in shock. I’d like to make sure you get home safely.”
“Honestly, I’m fine. It was a minor accident. You’ve done an excellent job.” I peer up at his thick dark lashes that match his shadowed jawline.
A plain charcoal jersey top is now exposed, neatly hugging a firm torso. There aren’t any skull embellishments, or cross bone patches, or any gang branding, for that matter. I shake my head and gulp.Stop staring at him.
“If you’re sure?” He gathers his helmet and slots it back in place. Those amber eyes of his are regretfully hidden from me. I oddly wish for one last glimpse to commit the exact color to memory, so I can plant pretty flowers that match the glorious shade. The mysterious biker slides his backpack over his wide shoulders.
“Wait... your jacket.” I shrug off the warmth, instantly feeling cold. “It’s not safe to ride a motorcycle without the appropriate clothing.”
He secures his chin strap with a hint of a smirk curving his lips. “Agreed, ma’am. It’s also not safe to run without the appropriate footwear,” he chuckles, taking the jacket back.
“Agreed, sir.” I blush a million shades of wanton. “Thanks for all your help,” I murmur, comforted by the low light which disguises my flaming embarrassment. “It was thoughtful of you to stop. I hope it didn't disrupt your plans.”
“Not at all. Happy to help.” A lean leg swings over his bike, and a firm ass lands on the tan seat. I’ve always been drawn to the suited, suave and sophistication of Hollywood stars and starlets. Nowhere in that fantasy lived a rugged bad boy with leathers and an Indian motorcycle. “Goodnight, ma’am.” And impeccable manners.
Suddenly, my heart rate skyrockets and a wash of intense hunger burrows under my flesh.Is this what lust feels like?
“I’m Viv!” I holler over the raucous growl of his engine. “Thanks again.”
“See you around, Viv.” He releases the throttle and drives off.
Is this not the part when he captures me? I feel a little disgruntled that Nonna’s description of a biker fell short—in every way. He wasn’t a rogue, or mean, or violent. My hero was careful, courteous and drop dead gorgeous. And now he’s gone.
Every time my partner and I get called out to assist with a medical emergency my adrenaline kicks in. This call out is no exception.
“You ready?” Johnny buckles up in the driver's seat. The sirens scream on the truck’s roof overhead. “An elderly lady? What happened?”
I scan the details. “Breathless. Tight chest. Possible fall. Blossom Grove Nursing Home.”
“Let’s go.” Johnny slams his foot on the accelerator, and the ambulance careens away from the dispatch center.
“When are you going to take the wheel?” He side eyes me.
“I thought you enjoyed driving?” I avoid the subject. “You know I prefer motorcycles.”
“Those things are lethal.”
