by Jessica Ames
Until Amy
Jessica Ames
Until Amy
Copyright © 2021 by Jessica Ames
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published by Boom Factory Publishing, LLC.
Jessica Ames CONTRIBUTOR to the Original Works was granted permission by Aurora Rose Reynolds, ORIGINAL AUTHOR, to use the copyrighted characters and/ or worlds created by Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Work; all copyright protection to the characters and/ or worlds of Aurora Rose Reynolds in the Original Works are and shall continue to be retained by Aurora Rose Reynolds. You can find all of Aurora Rose Reynolds Original Works on most major retailers. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.
Editing by Erin Toland
Proofreading by Gem’s Precise Proofreads & Word Bunnies
Cover design by Desire Premade Covers by Jessica Ames
Beta readers: Lynne Garlick, Clara Martinez Turco, Allisyn Pentleton, Pat Labrie
To Aurora, for letting me play in her sandbox
Contents
1. Amy
2. Whizz
3. Amy
4. Whizz
5. Amy
6. Whizz
7. Amy
8. Whizz
9. Amy
10. Whizz
11. Amy
12. Whizz
13. Amy
14. Whizz
15. Amy
16. Whizz
17. Amy
18. Whizz
19. Amy
20. Whizz
21. Amy
22. Whizz
23. Amy
24. Whizz
25. Amy
26. Whizz
27. Amy
28. Whizz
29. Amy
30. Whizz
31. Amy
32. Whizz
33. Amy
34. Whizz
35. Amy
Epilogue
Have you checked out the other amazing stories in the Happily Ever Alpha World?
About Boom Factory Publishing
Also by Jessica Ames
About the Author
1
Amy
My morning commute is thankfully short, but my routine is always the same. Shades on, iPod plugged in with my favorite tunes blasting, and the windows up so no one can hear me wailing like a dying animal. I live for this routine. It helps me unwind before I get to the hospital, where my life is more somber. I love my job. Helping people is something I can’t stop from doing. Even as a little girl, I was always the caregiver in my family, but as a trauma nurse in the Emergency Room, I see people on the worst day of their lives. Sometimes, that gets to me, which is why I need my morning routine.
I’m tapping my fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the music, my eyes on the traffic when I hear the squealing of tires, followed by the screech of metal. My eyes snap in the direction it came from and I watch, horrified, as the red car in the adjacent lane to me slams into the back of a fierce looking motorcycle. The bike fishtails and goes down, catapulting the rider into the air before hitting the asphalt hard. His bike doesn’t do well either. It slides up the road before smashing into the back of a pickup, twisting the frame into a pretzel.
Instinct has me slamming on my own brakes, narrowly avoiding clipping the car in front of me as the driver pumps the brakes. The car behind isn’t as fast to react and crashes into my bumper, roughly shoving me into the vehicle I avoided hitting. As soon as the two vehicles make contact, my head snaps back and forth from the force, bouncing off the steering wheel hard enough to make my vision momentarily splinter.
Stunned, I reach my shaky hand up to skim over my temple, which is now throbbing. It comes away blood smeared and I wince at the pain as I peer through the windshield, my vision wobbling a little as I try to blink it clear.
Shit, that hurts.
Leaning forward, I hit stop on my music, which seems too happy in the circumstances. The silence that follows is eerie and puts me on edge.
Heart thumping in my chest, I reach for the handle and push the door open, pulling free of my seatbelt, so I can assess the scene.
The red car is stopped, the front of the hood banged up a little. Debris litters the roadway, and I’m not sure if it’s from the vehicle or the bike. I turn and glance behind me as I lean against my car door, trying to catch my breath for a moment.
The line of traffic on my side of the road is backed up and it looks like I’m not the only one who hit the vehicle in front. There’s at least a nine-car pileup, with the rest of the traffic coming to a stop behind the mess.
Even though my head is aching, my training kicks in. I’ve never been out on a scene before, but I still know how to triage patients. I can see that most of the people in the pile up behind me seem to be moving and alert, even though the traffic was moving fast. I expect there will be a few injuries, probably minor ones, but my main concern is the rider of that bike. He has to be badly injured after a hit like that.
I move to the trunk of the car and struggle to get the dented metal to open. Eventually, it gives and I pull out the First Aid kit I keep in there.
Then I turn and jog toward where I last saw the biker. As I get nearer, I’m analyzing everything, triaging the scene as I’m trained to do, steeling myself for what might be about to greet me. I’ve seen bike accidents before, seen the damage that can be done when a car hits one and I’m not sure I’m mentally prepared.
The driver of the red car tries to climb out as I get closer, his legs trembling as he puts weight on them. He’s probably in shock, and while I should check him over, I’m more anxious to get to the rider of the bike. He could have fatal injuries.
“Sir, stay in your car,” I yell out.
He’s a young guy, maybe mid-twenties, and his eyes dart around frantically as he takes in the carnage.
“Did I kill him?” he asks, his voice pitched high. “Is he dead?”
“I don’t 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. I shouldn’t be ogling him.
“He’s okay. Just shaken up.”
“Don’t care if he’s okay.” He hisses the words out between clenched teeth. “I’m going to fucking throttle him. The fucking bike is wrecked.” The hand not clutched to his chest thrusts out in the direction of the twisted motorcycle.
He’s right. It’s screwed. No amount of hammering is going to straighten that frame again.
“Maybe think about throttling him when you’re not lying in the middle of the road, bleeding.”
His dark eyes snap to mine and the fire blazes for a moment before it dims.
“You’re also bleeding, sweetheart.”
I ignore the fact his endearment makes my stomach flip and reach up to my forehead, touching the blood I know is there. “I’m okay. It barely hurts.” He starts to move and I try to stop him again, but he brushes me off. “You really shouldn’t move, sir. Your neck—”
“Is fine.” As if to prove his point, he wobbles his head from side to side. “See.”
I can’t stop from glaring at him. “That wasn’t a good idea. What if you had a spinal injury?”
His eyes slide to me, eyes that flash irritation and he does a full body sweep of me that makes me feel like he’s mentally undressing me. I shiver under that dark gaze, one that looks like it’s seen into the depths of hell. “What’s your name?”
“Amy.”
“Well, Amy, take your high school First Aid course somewhere it’s needed.”
I splutter at his words, indignation making my tone terse. “I’m a fully-trained trauma nurse.”
I clutch my kit to my chest like it’s armor that can defend me from his words. He’s not the first biker I’ve treated, but I’ve never treated one so… obnoxious before.
I worked hard to get my nursing qualification and then to get a spot in the trauma center I work at. It was nearly all taken away from me after a doctor at the hospital took an unhealthy interest in me, but that’s behind me now.
His brows raise. “You’re a nurse?”
I glare at him, not liking the tone of his voice. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not, but we have that in common. I was a medic in the British Army.”
Now that he’s said it, I can imagine him being a soldier. He certainly looks big enough to be one.
He starts to sit and I help him the rest of the way, against my better judgment. He clutches his arm above the wrist and I carefully help him out of his vest and leather jacket.
“Don’t lose that,” he says, jutting his chin at the vest.
The leather is soft beneath my fingers as I fold it and place it back on his lap, then I move my attention back to his wrist, which is starting to swell and looks misshapen. It looks gnarly.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Whizz.”
I snort. “Your name’s Whizz?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Is your bedside manner always like this?”
I bite on my lip. It’s not. Usually, I’m a lot more professional, but this man is tying me up in knots I can’t explain. “Sorry.”
“Ain’t my real name. It’s my road name.”
“Road name?”
“Name given to me by my club.”
“What’s your real name?”
He stares at me for a beat, as if he’s contemplating what might happen if I know his secret identity.
“Shane.” It suits him. A strong name for a strong man.
I eye him. “You could still have a spinal injury. You should wait to be scanned at the hospital before moving around.”
“My spine is fine. It’s my wrist that’s fucked. What’s your expert opinion?” he asks.
I raise my eyes to meet his, thinking he’s ribbing me, but the look on his face is serious. I peer down at the misshapen limb.
“It could be broken.”
His mouth pulls into a line. “It fucking feels like it is.”
In the distance, sirens start to wail, coming closer. He glances around, his eyes locking on the red car. His brows draw down. “That fucker wasn’t paying attention.”
“I’m sorry he hit you, but at least everyone is okay.”
“Apart from Betty.”
“Betty?” I ask, worried I’ve missed a patient.
“Havoc’s old bike.”
I arch a brow as I gently take his wrist in my fingers. “Another road name?”
The darkness in his eyes vanishes as he smiles. It lights up his whole face, making him not just handsome, but stunningly so. He should smile more often. “Nosy, aren’t you?”
I smile back. I can’t stop myself from doing it.
“It’s my job to be nosy. It’s how we find things out about patients.”
“Ain’t your patient.”
“I’m treating you. That makes you my patient,” I say as I lightly trail my fingers over his wrist. This close to him, I’m aware of the electricity sizzling between us. I’ve never had chemistry like this with another man. He sets my body alight, like a bonfire. I ignore it, or try to, splitting my gaze between his injury and his expression. He winces, but doesn’t let any other emotion slide onto his face. “You sound like you’re a long way from home.”
“Been here two weeks and laid down a bike. Never done that the whole time I was in the UK.”
; I release his wrist. “I think it’s just sprained. I can’t feel any breakage, but you need an X-ray to be sure.”
“Fuck.” He spits out the curse. “I hope so. A fracture will stop me riding for too long.”
I watch as he fumbles one handed with the strap on his helmet. After a moment, I move to help him. His eyes come to mine and the look he gives me is so intense it robs me of my oxygen. I draw in a quick breath as his eyes dilate. His gaze drifts to mine and I see the question in them.
I swallow hard, unsticking my tongue from the roof of my mouth and avert my gaze to the deep cut below his eye, where the helmet failed to protect him. It’s leaking blood, dripping it down his cheek. I open my First Aid kit and pull out a pair of gloves before I take a piece of gauze and tape it over the wound. It won’t stop the bleeding. It needs stitches, but it’ll hold until he can get to the hospital.
“You’ve done this before.” His voice is soft.
My breath lodges in my throat, the butterflies in my stomach taking flight as I say, “I told you. I’m a nurse.”
“Wasn’t sure I believed it.”
I open my mouth to respond when someone says my name.
“Amy?”
The spell between us shatters as the outside world encroaches on our moment. I glance up and see a familiar figure walking toward us. Cobi Mayson. Harmony’s cousin looks good, but then all of Harmony’s cousins look good. It’s like the Mayson family stole all the good genes. He’s wearing a pair of tailored pants and a shirt with a tie haphazardly pushed up to the collar, the muscles beneath straining against the material. On his hip sits his police badge, on the other his gun. Like my brother, Chase, he works for the local PD.