Chapter 2

Iwas practically on autopilot as I drove home from the salon where I worked, but when I realized I was behind a motorcycle, I slowed until about eight car lengths were between us. With how tired I was and the sharp curve coming up, I didn't want to get too close to the rider.

That choice turned out to be the right one because I was far enough away to pull over to the side of the road when he lost control of his bike and crashed. I watched in horror as his head hit the road, thankful he was wearing a helmet. He slid a few feet, not moving when his body finally came to a stop.

"Crap, crap, crap," I mumbled, my hands shaking as I put the car in park and pushed the button to kill the engine.

I jumped out of the driver's seat to run over to him, skidding to a stop in the gravel on the side of the road. He was sprawled face down, not moving. Crouching, I noticed the leather vest he was wearing, recognizing the motorcycle club logo on the patch on the back. He was an Iron Rogue.

Under normal circumstances, I'd call 911 right away, but with him being a biker, I wasn't sure what to do. The Iron Rogues president and VP's wives were clients of mine, and the last thing I wanted to do was get their husbands jammed up by involving the police. For all I knew, this guy had a gun or something else illegal on him that the cops would find if they came to investigate the accident.

Luckily, I had a way to get ahold of someone who could tell me how to handle this situation. Yanking my cell phone out of my back pocket, I called the salon. Although my shift was over, we were still open for another three hours.

Our receptionist picked up on the second ring. "Chop Chop, how can I help you?"

"Hey, Tori. Could you do me a favor and pull up the alternate number Dahlia Pearson left on her account?" I requested.

"Sure." There was a tapping sound in the background, and then she rattled off the number.

"Thanks."

Taking a deep breath, I punched in the digits she gave me and waited for someone to pick up.

"Iron Rogues," a man growled.

"Um…yeah…I'm not sure who I need to talk to, but one of your guys was just in an accident at the curve on Fisher Street. He's banged up pretty badly," I explained.

"Hold up a second," he barked.

There was the muffled sound of deep voices in the background before another guy came on the line. "This is Wrecker. Who're you?"

"Marnie Miller, sir."

He chuckled. "No need to be formal. I haven't been called sir in a fucking long time, girl. Just tell me what happened and who I'm comin' to help."

After I explained what I saw, I added, "I'm not sure which of your guys he is, though. He's face down on the pavement, and I'm afraid to turn him over. I'm not sure how injured he is."

"Good call. I'll be there with a couple of guys soon. You hold tight," he ordered.

The man groaned and rolled over, and I spotted the patches on the front of his vest. "Wait. He's an enforcer. Ice."

"Ice, shit," he grumbled. "The last thing he needs is another serious injury. He's barely recovered from the last one."

I glanced down at Ice, wondering what had happened to him. He groaned, his brow furrowing, and I felt a huge surge of relief, almost missing Wrecker's question.

"You call anyone else?"

Although he couldn't see me, I still shook my head. "No. I didn't want to…um…"

"Yeah, another good call. We'll be there soon," he assured before hanging up.

I shoved my phone back in my pocket and stared down at Ice. I almost shrieked when his eyes blinked open. Their pale blue color pierced through me even though they were foggy with confusion, and there was a clear visor between us. "Are you an angel? 'Cause no way did I think I was going to heaven."

The line was corny as heck, but it still got to me. His deep, raspy voice sent a sensual shiver down my spine, which was inappropriate considering the circumstances. Clearing my throat, I murmured, "I guess you can't be as hurt as I thought if you can still flirt."

"I'm used to pain, angel. A little more isn't gonna stop me from hitting on you, no matter how outta practice I am."

He let out a low moan as he reached up to grip his helmet. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist. "I don't think you should take that off. You might have injuries that'll get worse if you move too much."

"Had my bell rung plenty of times and broken more bones than I want to count." He flashed me a cocky grin. "So I know when I'm hurt badly enough to be worried. Don't be afraid, angel. I'm a little banged up, that's all."

Releasing his wrist, I heaved a deep sigh as he removed his helmet. His wince of pain didn't detract from how hot he was, my eyes widening as my gaze swept over his thick, dark hair, full beard, and plump lips. Paired with his icy-blue eyes, it was a lethal combination, even when he wasn't at his best.

And it was more than enough to attract my interest, which was a surprise since I wasn't normally one to gawk at random guys. Or even ones that I knew, really.

"Still okay?" I whispered after he dropped the helmet next to him and slowly sat up.

"Yeah." He raked his fingers through his hair, his gaze darting over my shoulder when the roar of motorcycles reached our ears. "How long was I out? Did you call anyone before I came to?"

"Maybe four or five minutes, tops," I answered. "I called the clubhouse and talked to a guy named Wrecker. Before that, the receptionist at the salon where I work to get the number."

Some of the tension leaked from his tall, muscular frame. "Good girl."

Holy heck, my inner walls clenched at the compliment. "I do Molly's and Delilah's hair, so I've heard a few things about the Iron Rogues."

"You do hair?" His gaze raked over me, lingering on my long black locks. "Makes sense. Yours is fucking fantastic."

I bit my bottom lip. "Thanks."

"Never thought I'd be jealous of a prospect, but now I wish I was the one our prez sends out with his old lady," he murmured.

"How come?" I asked, tilting my head to the side.

"'Cause then I woulda met you a fuck of a lot sooner." He gestured to his banged-up body. "And in better condition than this."

My cheeks were still hot when a biker pulled up next to us. Killing his engine, he knocked the kickstand with his boot before climbing off his motorcycle. "Shit, man, you look better than I expected. Blade's on his way to the hospital. Dragged my ass away from my wife and kid thinking you were gonna be near death's door when I got here."

"Tried to control my bike the best I could once I realized I was going down, Whiskey." Ice shrugged. "Not that it did much good. The brakes were shit."

"Fucking hell," Whiskey growled.

"Yup," Ice grunted, shooting a look at me. "But at least I got to be rescued by an angel."

Rolling my eyes, I whispered, "Stop. I didn't do anything except check on you and call your club."

Two more guys pulled up in a truck. Whiskey lifted his chin in greeting as my blush deepened. "Wrecker and Wolf are gonna load your bike up and take it back to the shop."

Both guys climbed out, and the one behind the wheel said, "Drop the gate, Wolf. I wanna grab the bike and get outta here."

"Will do," Wolf muttered as he headed to the back of the truck.

"Ambulance is right behind us," Wrecker warned. "Called for one once I knew we'd beat them here."

"I don't need a fucking ambulance," Ice grumbled.

Wrecker shrugged. "Sorry, man. Blade said to call one. That you needed to be checked out more thoroughly than he could do at the compound's clinic."

"Motorcycle accidents are no joke," Wolf added.

Ice looked as though he was going to argue, but the wail of a siren stopped him from saying anything else. He just reached out to interlace his fingers through mine and waited for the paramedics to exit the ambulance while the guys quietly worked to load his motorcycle into the back of the truck.

Now that the cavalry had arrived—times two—I probably should have left. But something about Ice made me want to stick around. At least long enough to know that he'd be okay.