Page 1 of The Biker and the Single Mom

CHAPTER 1

DOC

One AM, and sleep's a stranger I stopped expecting years ago.

I give up on the bed and pull on jeans and a shirt. The clinic needs inventory anyway. Might as well do something useful instead of lying here watching shadows on the ceiling.

The clubhouse sits quiet when I slip out. Most of the brothers are either sleeping or passed out after tonight's party. The only sound is my boots on concrete as I head to the clinic.

My clinic. Army gave me the skills—three tours as a combat medic, steady hands that could hold a man's life together with nothing but pressure and prayer. But the discharge papers came stamped with PTSD, and now the nightmares keep better hours than I do.

I unlock the clinic door and flip on the lights. The familiar smell of antiseptic settles something anxious in my chest. This is where I make sense.

A sound stops me cold.

The distinctive wheeze of someone struggling to breathe. And a woman's voice, desperate: "Come on, baby. Deep breaths. You're okay."

I'm moving before I think, medic training overriding everything else. The sound comes from the back—the supply closet where I keep the good stuff locked up.

Except it's not locked now.

A woman crouches on the floor, holding a nebulizer mask to a little girl's face. The kid can't be more than four, her small chest heaving with each breath. The woman's hands tremble, and when she sees me, panic floods her expression.

"Please," she says. "Please, I'll pay for it—I just—she couldn't breathe and I didn't know where else to⁠—"

"Move." I drop to my knees beside them, already reaching for the child. "How long?"

"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. I lost track." Her words tumble out fast. "I have her inhaler but it wasn't helping and I⁠—"

"Asthma?" I check the nebulizer—she's got it set up right, at least. Albuterol. Good choice.

"Yes. She usually—it's not usually this bad⁠—"

The little girl looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes. "Mommy," she wheezes. "Is he a doctor?"

"I'm a medic, sweetheart." I keep my tone calm, the voice I used on eighteen-year-old Marines bleeding out in the sand. "What's your name?"

"Luna." Another wheeze. "My bunny—I need Mr. Hops⁠—"

"Your bunny's right here." The woman presses a worn stuffed rabbit into Luna's free hand. "This man's going to help you breathe better, okay?"

Luna nods, clutching her bunny tighter.

"Keep the mask on," I tell her, checking her pulse, her color, the effort each breath costs her. "You're doing great. Just breathe with me, okay? In... and out... in... and out..."

My hands don't shake. Never do when I'm working. It's only after—alone in the dark when the memories hit—that the tremors start. But here, now? My hands are rock-steady.

The nebulizer finishes its cycle. Luna's breathing comes easier, the wheeze fading to something manageable. The panic in her eyes recedes.

"Better?" I ask.

She nods, clutching her bunny.

"Good girl." I rock back on my heels, finally letting myself look at the mother.

And Christ.

Dark hair escapes from her bun in messy waves. An oversized hoodie hides her frame, but I register the curves beneath anyway—soft everywhere, exhausted everywhere. Dark circles shadow her eyes. She's been running for days, maybe longer. Her hands won't stop shaking even though her daughter's breathing easier now.