Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
He snorts, and using me for leverage while I dig in my feet, he manages to pull himself upright. Mostly. He's unsteady, and the few words he bites out as he puts weight on his right leg make me glad Mia isn’t close enough to hear.
“Look, I'm not a doctor, but you're hurt, and I don't know how to help you. Let me call someone.”
Savage eyes glare at me. “No 911, no cops, no nothing. I just need a minute for the world to stop spinning.”
“You're barely walking!”
“I’m fucking fine!” is all he gets out, and it doesn’t take my non-existent medical degree to know that he’s lying through his teeth.
What do I do? I can't just leave him out on my lawn. It would only be a matter of time before someone else spots him, and then the cops will definitely get a call. It might be for the best, but he knows where I live and I don’t want to bring down the wrath of whatever MC he’s in when they find out he got picked up.
“Listen, you can’t just stay out here. You can rest on my porch for a while, but then you have to leave.” Stupid. I’m being so stupid.
Staggering under his weight, I help walk him over to my front steps, where he sits down heavily. He touches the back of his head and his hand comes back tinged with red. He groans.
Mia jumps up. “Is he hurt? I can get Band-Aids,” she volunteers, trying to be helpful.
His whole head swings her way.
I bat him on the shoulder to get his attention away from my daughter. “Hey! Listen to me! You need to lie down. Stay here. I’ll get you water and some pain killers.”
Leaving our unexpected guest, I pull the keys out and open the front door. Mia darts in and I follow, basically chasing her to her room. “I need you to listen to me, okay honey? Play in your room until I come back. It won’t take long.”
“Is the man okay? I don’t like blood.” She looks up at me with her big baby blue eyes, trusting me to keep her safe from everything in this world. “He’s not one of the bad people, right?” She's a smart cookie and she knows something’s wrong, but she barely remembers the time when we practiced what to do if the bad people came.
“No, of course not. He’s going to be fine. I just want to go back out and check on him to make sure his friends are going to come pick him up. Be a good girl and wait in your room, all right? I'll be right back.”
She nods as she works the zipper open on her backpack and pulls out a stuffed bulldog, her favorite plushie. “Mr. Bear says he likes spaghetti, but not with lumps.” She squeezes him tight as I close the door.
I turn around and walk right into what's got to be well over six feet of biker. It's like smacking into a concrete wall. God, why didn't I lock the door behind me? “Listen… whatever your name is, I said you could stay on the porch. You can’t just come into my house. No bikers in here, okay? I'm not okay with this.”
“Just… gotta sit down. Drink some water. I'll be fine.” He keeps saying that, but he still doesn't look fine. “I'm not gonna cause trouble, fucking swear it.”
“You're causing trouble just by being here,” I grumble under my breath. Strangely enough, I’m scared of what him being here could mean, but not of him. He looks like the sort of man that’s used to violence, but not one that uses it just to be cruel. “Fine, go sit on the couch. I'll get you water.”
With a grunt, he drops onto the couch so hard it creaks. Its legs hold, but I swear it's only barely. Bracing his elbows against his thighs, he puts his head in his hands and groans.
I put the water glass on the coffee table in front of him. “Here. Do you have a name I can call you? Or a number for someone to come get you?”
He drains the glass in one long drag, his big Adam's apple working with each deep swallow. When he puts it back on the table, I have to move fast to keep it from falling off the edge. “Thanks. Needed that. You can call me…” He trails off, sounding strangely uncertain. “Fuck.”
He doesn't remember.
Crap, he doesn't remember his own name. He must've hit his head harder than I thought. This is so far above my paygrade. “You've probably got a concussion. You can't stay here. You need help.”
“Fine. I'm… fine. Just need to sleep it off.” Leaning back, he rests his head against the couch back. Probably getting blood on it. His eyes droop shut.