Single Mom for the Bikers by Stephanie Brother EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Stephanie Brother
- Language: English
- Genre: Polyamory Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 3.4 MB
- Price: Free
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.
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