Until Amy - Jessica Ames Page 0,1

know,” I admit. I hate how useless my words are, how they don’t offer any reassurance, but I know it’s not a good idea to give false hope in situations like this.

I’ve seen my share of accident victims—wrecks, gunshot wounds, mishaps with power tools, I’ve seen it all—but this is the first time I’ve ever been a witness to a scene. I try to keep my cool, to treat it like I would if we were in the ER.

As I come around the front of the car, I see the rider lying on his side. He’s not moving, which makes my heart jolt in my chest. I quickly assess the scene, using all my training to make sure the area is safe. Then I jog towards him. As I get closer, I see spread across the leather vest he’s wearing is a skull with wings wearing a crown. The words ‘Untamed Sons’ arc over the top while ‘London’ spans across the bottom.

He’s not just a biker. He’s a biker.

Nashville and the surrounding areas are home to numerous motorcycle clubs, including the Broken Eagles, a club Wes Silver—July Silver formerly Mayson’s husband—is a member of. I’ve been to more barbecues than I can count at their clubhouse with her cousin, Harmony, who bagged her own biker, Harlen. I’ve heard of the Sons. Everyone in the area has. They’re men who live outside the law. True outlaws.

I move around the front, and get my first look at his face.

And what a face it is.

He’s wearing one of those half open helmets, so I can see the chiseled cheekbones and the strong jaw that is hidden beneath a dark blond beard. His full mouth is ringed by hair, making him look wild, but it’s his eyes that I’m drawn to. Dark pools that are haunted even beneath the fire flashing in them. They’re eyes that say he’s seen more than he should have in his life and that he’s lived through hell. He’s a man with demons and that doesn’t seem right in such a handsome face. My heart stutters in my chest and I try to clear the lust-filled fog that is descending over me as my world feels like it grinds to a halt. All I see is him and that scares me. I’m off men. I’m not ever going there with another. I can’t, but my body throbs with need in spite of my thoughts.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his eyes fluttering as his face scrunches up in pain.

That has me pulling on my professional mask.

I let my eyes roam over his body, trying not to linger too long as I look over his injuries. He’s bleeding from a cut to his face, but thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any life-threatening damage done that I can see on my quick scan of him. That’s not to say he’s not bleeding internally or that his clothes don’t hide other injuries, but I can’t see anything obvious.

My eyes drop to his wrist, which he’s holding to his chest, as if it hurts, but any damage is hidden beneath the leather jacket he’s wearing beneath the vest.

He starts to sit up and I push him back down, surprised at how easily he moves beneath my hand. The man isn’t small. Even curled on his side, I can tell he’s at least six foot, probably more. I would have to tip my head back to look at him if he was standing, but at a petite five foot three, I have to do that with most people. I can also tell he’s bulky beneath his jeans and jacket, well-built, like he works out a lot.

“Don’t move. I need to assess if you have a neck injury. Do you have any pain there? Tingling in your hands and fingers? Shooting pains?”

He ignores my question and instead demands, “Where’s the fucker who hit me?”

The sharpness of his words doesn’t faze me. People in pain act differently than they would normally, but it’s his accent that has my focus. I think it’s British, which would fit with the ‘London’ on the back of his vest, although it’s not like any British I’ve heard before on the TV dramas I watch. There’s a roll in his words as he speaks, a rough quality that somehow makes my stomach flip. It sounds gritty, raw and sexy as hell.

I swallow down my own desire, trying to remember this man is not only a patient, but a victim of a terrible accident.