Callie couldn’t concentrate when she woke that morning. Her night had been uneventful, quiet even. She’d heard Grady’s motorcycle on the street and her heart had raced. Was it excitement or nerves? Likely both. Just as she was about to step to the front door and open it, a smile of welcome on her lips, he had suddenly taken off, passing her house in a blur. He’d never returned. She’d tried to tell herself she wasn’t disappointed, didn’t feel rejected and confused. That was Grady. Grady did what he wanted when he wanted. She should have remembered that, realized that he would change his mind. Grady wasn’t big on talking. Not usually anyway.

She skipped her morning coffee, despite the early hour. She was jittery enough already for a reason she couldn’t nail down. Today she had the early morning shift, starting at five o’clock in the morning until nine.

Just like her night, her shift was uneventful. It gave her mind far too long to conjure up reasons why Grady had bailed on her the night before, and just the right amount of time for her to berate herself once again for even considering a relationship might be possible with him. The man was sex and sin on legs, but the fact he’d pulled away from her doorstep without even a whisper the night before . . . well, it was better really that things ended before they really began. Before she’d had a chance to get attached.

She stood from her desk, letting Glenda, her colleague, slide into the chair. Who was she kidding? She was attached already. Her only saving grace was that Grady didn’t know it. Soon enough, life would go back to normal, and if she tried really hard, maybe she’d even be able to forget what it had felt like to be with him, to feel his hard body slide against hers as he thrust inside her, bringing her to ecstasy.

Glenda’s voice next to her broke Callie out of her dreaming. Her hands were gripping the edge of the desk and her cheeks flamed. Jesus, a few minutes more and Glenda might have gotten an indecent surprise at the start of her shift.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” Glenda spoke into her mic.

The man speaking on the other end of the phone was frantic, his voice loud enough for Callie to hear. “I’m on . . . I’m on the Sixty-three Frontage Road, just past the warehouses . . . northbound. There’s a motorcycle down in the middle of the road, and . . . and there’s a guy lying in a ditch . . .”

A motorcycle. Callie’s breath hitched, and her body moved as if on autopilot as she leaned over and switched the call to speaker. Glenda glanced at her, but kept talking.

“Sir, is the man alive?”

“Yes . . . yes, I think so,” the caller said, voice trembling in nervousness. “I don’t really want to get too close. He’s unconscious, got some road rash, don’t know how long he’s been lying out here . . .”

“Sir, please stay on the line. We’re dispatching an ambulance now.” Glenda quickly tapped her keyboard, notified the patrol car closest to the incident, and dispatched an ambulance and fire truck to the scene. “Sir, can you tell me how old the victim is?”

“Looks to be in his early thirties, kind of scruffy looking. He’s wearing a black motorcycle jacket with a logo on the back . . .”

The caller’s tone changed from one of sympathy to one of disgust. “Ah, shit, looks like he’s in a motorcycle gang.” Callie stared at Glenda, her heart skipping a beat. Was she going to have that kind of a reaction every time there was a call about a downed motorcycle? The sudden worry? The spine-chilling fear? Could it be Grady—

“He’s a Steel King,” the caller said. “Look, I gotta get to work. I don’t want to get mixed up in no gangs. You got an ambulance on the way, right?”

“Yes, sir, but please, stay there. Stay on the line—”

The call disconnected. Callie’s heart pounded harder now. A King. Grady had passed by her house at about eight-thirty, maybe nine the night before. Could it be him? Surely he’d be back wherever he was going long ago by now? She didn’t know how many members were in the club, but there had to be a least a few dozen. The downed motorcycle could have belonged to any one of them.

Callie stood stock still, listening as Glenda talked to the first responders as they arrived on the scene. The accident victim had no ID, but was being transported to the regional hospital with some possible broken ribs, a head wound, and road rash. There was no more news than that.

She glanced at the clock. Her shift was over. She had to go to the hospital. She had to at least know if it was him, even if they wouldn’t let her through the doors because of confidentiality laws. Surely they’d let her in if she could potentially identify the man, wouldn’t they? But then she couldn’t really. Apart from Grady, she had little knowledge of the rest of the men in the Steel Kings. All she’d be able to tell them was that the man wasn’t Grady. Please, don’t let it be Grady.

The seconds dragged on forever. It seemed to take a million years to clock out and grab her things from her locker. Even longer to walk to her car. It was only when she sat in the driver’s seat that she realized her hands were shaking too hard to get the key into the ignition. Her nerves were completely shattered, trying to convince herself that it hadn’t been the man she was terrified she was falling in love with who was lying broken on the road. She was so damn scared; scared of everything she felt for Grady, and at the same time scared to death that she’d never have the chance to feel it again.

Callie shook her head. “You’re being pathetic,” she scolded herself under her breath. Grady wasn’t lying injured and unidentified in a hospital somewhere. He couldn’t be. He’d blown her off, that was all. He was fine. She sucked in a breath, clenching her fists to stop the trembling. Sitting in her car letting her imagination run wild wasn’t getting her anywhere. She’d drive herself crazy and not know a single thing more. It couldn’t have been Grady.

But then why hadn’t he come to her house last night? Would he really have changed his mind so easily? Before the last few weeks, before they’d shared that incredible night together, it would have been so much easier to think that of him. But now? No, not anymore. He’d been so serious. If Grady hadn’t shown up last night, there was a reason. She just had to pull herself together enough to find out what it was.

Sweat ran down her back, from stress and panic or the heat of the car, she couldn’t tell. Callie reached over and rolled down the window to try to release the heat built up inside. It was another hot day in Oklahoma City. A laugh escaped her, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. God, why was she sitting there pondering the weather?! What if the victim was Grady? What could she do? Would he let her take care of him? Would the club?

She shook her head again. She was getting ahead of herself. She wouldn’t sit here another second driving herself insane with worry. She couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even think, until she knew whether or down the downed King was Grady. And if it was . . . against all odds, what if it was Grady? What was she supposed to do with that information? She went around and around. Who would take care of him after he was discharged? What if he was seriously injured? Did he even have insurance? How would he pay his hospital bill? She sighed, finally jamming the key into the ignition, put the car into gear, and drove out of the parking lot, heading toward the regional hospital. There was only one way to find out.

She arrived at the hospital twenty minutes later, her palms sweating with anxiety. Like she needed more anxiety. Taking a deep breath, she entered the Emergency Department, gazed around the lobby area, and oriented herself. To the right, the reception desk, a curved wooden waist-high desk that took up nearly the entire east wall. Reception and Admission. In the center, a small yet high-end bistro and coffee shop. She caught the scent of cinnamon, cocoa, and vanilla. Muffins, cupcakes, and bagels lined up in a roll-away display case prompted a rumble of hunger. She ignored it. She walked past the bistro, got a whiff of pizza, and her stomach grumbled again. To her left stood the Emergency Room waiting area. Beyond it, walled in behind what appeared to be bulletproof glass, was a bank of desks and filing cabinets. Two women sat at computers, busily typing on their keyboards. She walked up to the Emergency Room receptionist, who glanced up from her computer keyboard and slid open a window separating them.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” Callie said, trying to sound confident. “I believe a friend of mine was brought in this morning. Motorcycle accident.”

The woman looked up at her, typed a few keys on her keyboard, and then looked back at Callie. “Name?”

“Grady Corben.” She waited with bated breath as the woman typed in the name and then shook her head.

“When was he admitted?”

“I’m not sure,” Callie said. “I work dispatch with the Oklahoma City PD. I heard the call.”

“You said you’re a friend, not a relative?”

Callie nodded. She knew the rules. Already she felt a sense of frustration. “Look, I know about HIPAA and confidentiality and all that, but he’s a good friend of the family. I just need to know if it’s him or not.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No,” she admitted. “He was found north of town on the frontage road without any ID.”

The nurse eyed her for a moment, then sighed. “You might want to talk to the two police officers on the second floor. I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You’ll need to talk to them.”

The glass divider slid shut and Callie turned, concern and anxiety adding to her now racing emotions. Police? Was Grady in trouble? Wait a minute. She wasn’t even sure if Grady was the patient. She shook her head, once again telling herself that she was being stupid, but made her way over to the bank of elevators on the far side of the reception desk and pushed the up button.

After several seconds, the door slid open and she stepped inside, the lone passenger. She stood in front of the panel and waited for the doors to slide shut again. The inside of the elevator car smelled of disinfectant, its tiled floor shining, the faux wood paneled walls smelling of pine scented furniture polish clashing with the disinfectant. She pushed the number two button and then stepped back into the corner, waiting in anticipation for that brief sinking feeling in her stomach as the elevator headed upward. Seconds later, it stopped, bounced gently for a moment, and then the door swished open.

She stepped out and immediately found the nurses’ station to the left, rooms stretching along both sides of the hall. The nurses’ station formed an island of sorts between both sides of the hospital floor, decked out with several computer system stations, overhead cabinets, med carts nearby as several nurses prepared to make their med passes. A police officer stood near the nurses’ desk, mildly flirting with a nurse behind the counter doing her best to ignore him, while another was stationed in front of the doorway at the far end of the hall, at the moment glaring at his partner.

She stepped toward the nurses’ station, and as she got closer, the officer turned slightly at the sound of her approach. She recognized the police officer although she didn’t know his name. She walked through the bullpen or the main room of the police department every day on her way to the dispatch center so it wasn’t unusual to see many of the same faces based on their rotating shifts. The police officer seemed to recognize he, too, offering a nod of greeting, an eyebrow lifted in curiosity.

“Hello, Officer ”—she glanced at his name tag—“Hooper.” She glanced down the hallway and gestured. “I was on dispatch when I heard about a motorcycle victim without any ID at the scene. On the frontage road. That’s him down there?”

The officer nodded, frowning slightly. “And your interest?”

She didn’t answer the question right away. “Is he in trouble? Wants or warrants?”

“You a relative of him or something?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “Um . . . I think he might be a friend,” she said, glancing between the officer and the nurse sitting behind the desk, now looking at her with interest. She turned toward the nurse. “If you could at least describe him, I might be able to tell you whether I can identify him or not.”

“He belongs to a motorcycle gang,” Hooper said, a slight tone of disapproval evident in his voice. “And you’re saying you know him?”

“I might,” she said, swallowing. “If it’s . . . he’s in a motorcycle club now”—her voice caught on the word. She’d known about the distinction academically before, but now it seemed important. These people were writing Grady off, before they even knew him—“but he’s also a veteran. He served in Afghanistan with my husband. They were best friends—”

“You know members of the Steel Kings motorcycle gang?”

The disbelief in his voice was obvious. God, she was going to be the talk of the watercooler back at the precinct for sure now. “No, I don’t,” she said. She glanced down the hallway, trying to hide the annoyance and frustration in her voice. She just needed to know if it was Grady or not. If it wasn’t, then she’d leave. But if it was . . . “I know one of them, and it might not even be him. I just—”

“But you want to take a look, is that what you’re saying? That you might be able to identify him?”

“Yes, if it’s possible. Please, can you tell me if he’s been arrested? It’s probably not him, but—”

The officer frowned. “Not arrested. Yet. We were just waiting around for a bit to see if he’d wake up and tell us his name.”

Yeah, and she was Santa Claus.

The officer glanced toward the nurse, who shrugged. While she was well aware of confidentiality rules, especially since she was a CNA at a long-term care center, this was a gray area. How could they protect his identity if they didn’t know who he was? And if it was Grady and she identified him, they could check his medical records . . . from the army at least. But if she identified him, would she get him in trouble?

The officer gazed down at her for several moments, and then, slowly shaking his head, turned and led the way down the hallway. She could just imagine what he was thinking. What was a nice girl like her doing hanging around motorcycle club members? She wanted to explain, but it would take too much effort. Besides, the guy lying in the bed in that room probably wasn’t Grady. She’d already said too much. Maybe she shouldn’t have come at all. But if it was Grady, and he needed help . . .

“He’s still unconscious,” the officer explained as he headed down the hallway toward his partner, who was now gazing at both of them with obvious curiosity. He spoke to his partner.

“Shaughnessy, this . . .” He glanced down at Callie. “I know I’ve seen you around the station, but I don’t know your name.”

So much for anonymity. “Callie. Callie Barnes. I work part-time in dispatch.”

Shaughnessy looked at her, then at his partner, but thankfully, held back with any questions of his own. Hooper explained. “She wants to take a peek at the patient. Thinks she might know him.”

A lifted eyebrow from Shaughnessy followed a slight frown, but then he shrugged and opened the door far enough for Callie to get a look at the man lying in the bed. Her heart dropped, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh my God . . .” she gasped.

It was Grady! Her heart leapt into her throat, and a chill raced down her spine. He was right there, and lying so still. A rising and inexplicable sense of panic surged through her. Nausea rose in her throat. No! She couldn’t lose Grady, not Grady, too! She stared, wide-eyed, taking in the sight of him lying on the bed, arms outside of the sheet that was pulled up to his chest. She passed her gaze over the oximeter clipped to his right index finger, the IV inserted into his left arm, patches with wires attached to his chest leading to a monitor beside the bed that registered his heart rate, respiration, and blood pressure.

“You know him?” Officer Hooper asked, surprised.

“Yes, but I didn’t think . . . the odds . . .”

“What’s his name?”

She tugged her eyes away from Grady and glanced up at the officers, first Hooper and then Shaughnessy. Fuck, she might be getting Grady into trouble. She might have already done it. Callie had no idea why he’d ended up in hospital, or what his history with the police was. She mentally kicked herself. At the same time, as a police dispatcher, she was a sworn member of the Oklahoma Police Department and it was her duty . . . she sighed. Sometimes life really sucked.

“His name is Grady Corben.”

Hooper pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket and wrote down the name. “How do you know him, Ms. Barnes?”

“He and my husband have known each other since they enlisted in the army together.”

“He’s a vet, you said?”

Callie nodded.

“And your husband? We might need to talk to him. What’s his name?”

She pulled her gaze from Grady and glanced up at Shaughnessy, who’d addressed the question to her. “My husband is dead, killed in Afghanistan.” An awkward pause filled the room as the officers digested this.

“Sorry for your loss, Ms. Barnes,” Hooper said softly.

She looked up at him and realized he meant it, his expression somber and no longer judgmental. “Thank you . . . Grady . . . he was discharged about a year ago after several combat tours . . .” She swallowed and then stiffened her shoulders. “And that’s how I know that man lying in the bed.”

“We’re going to have to run him, you know that, don’t you? He rides with the Steel Kings.”

“I understand.” She did. They were just doing their duty, but she hoped she hadn’t just gotten Grady into a bunch of trouble. Maybe if she explained? “He was supposed to come by my house last night. I seem to have a secret admirer, a stalker, really—”

“A stalker?” Hooper interrupted. “Is it him?” he asked, tilting his head toward Grady, lying unmoving, pale and battered in the bed.

“No,” she protested. “He kind of watches over me from time to time, because he and my husband were best friends. He was trying to help me.” She noted the look of doubt on their faces, the slight frowns and almost-smirks. “I already reported my concerns to my supervisor,” she said, hoping that that would take some of the heat off Grady. “But I know as well as anyone that can’t get much help until I have an idea of who’s . . .” She cut off her rambling before she said something that just pissed them off. “Grady was taking it upon himself to watch my house, to make sure that nothing . . .” Their expressions hadn’t changed. She was wasting her breath trying to convince them that Grady wasn’t a bad guy. His membership with Steel Kings was all they needed to know. “Anyway, I heard his motorcycle on my street at about eight-thirty or so, and that’s the last I heard from him.”

The two police officers stood unmoving for several moments, glancing between Grady and her. Unless there was a warrant already out, they wouldn’t have cause to arrest him, but they’d definitely want to talk to him about the accident . . . it was then that she saw that Grady’s eyes were open, and though he displayed no emotion, the monitor beside the bed sounded an increase in his heartrate as he noted their presence by the door.

Without hesitation, she stepped into the room and approached his bed, for the first time getting a closer look at him. The left side of his face was scraped, ugly and red from road rash, small areas already beginning to scab over. A flash of anger surged through her. He was damned lucky he hadn’t cracked his skull open on the pavement. He should’ve been wearing a helmet—She stopped herself. She wasn’t his mother. Wasn’t his girlfriend. Wasn’t his wife . . . she gazed down and saw the slight bulge of the covers at his chest and realized that his ribs had been bandaged. Not standard practice, but some of the older docs still felt that they helped the patient breathe and the binding relieved some of the pain. They would take the binding off before he was discharged. She turned to the police officers and noticed the nurse standing in the doorway. “I’d like to see the doctor, please.”

The nurse looked at her, then at Grady, then the police officers. With a small shrug and a nod, she disappeared.

“Your name Grady Corben?” Officer Hooper asked, stepping on the other side of Grady’s bed opposite Callie. Shaughnessy remained by the door.

Grady looked at her, and she tried to keep her expression blank. He had nothing to worry about, did he? He then turned to the officer and offered a small nod.

“A guy on his way to work came across your accident scene,” Hooper explained, his tone unemotional and short. “Your bike was lying in the middle of the street, and you were found lying in a ditch. A forty-five was found on the other side of the road in the dirt. That yours?”

Without hesitation, Grady nodded. “Licensed and legal,” he said, his voice hoarse and scratchy.

Callie glanced at the water pitcher and plastic cup with a straw next to the bed. She wanted to offer him some water but hesitated to move.

“Wanna tell us what happened?”

He looked at Callie and she nodded. “I told the police that I reported my . . . admirer, to my supervisor, Grady. I know you were coming by last night, and I heard your bike on my street, told them that you were coming over to talk to me—”

“Ms. Barnes, please,” Officer Shaughnessy said, holding up his hand. “Let us get his statement first.”

“That’s the way it was,” Grady said. “I was coming by to talk to her. I saw a dark SUV pull up in front of her house along the curb. A guy stepped out, saw me, and took off. I followed.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No,” Grady said, his tone emotionless. He refused to make eye contact with anyone in the room, including her. “I followed him out to the frontage road. Then he started shooting at me. I returned fire, self-defense, and hit the tailgate, I think, and the left rear brake light cover. Then he pulled to a stop across the road. I went over his hood, and that’s all I remember.”

Officer Hooper nodded. “We found shell casings, from a forty-five and from a nine-millimeter at the scene. “And you don’t know who it was?”

“Just before I went over the hood, I got a look at his head. He was wearing a black ski mask. That was it.”

Both officers stared down at Grady for several moments, then Hooper nodded and left the room. Moments later, Shaughnessy also left the room. Callie didn’t have to be told that while they weren’t going to arrest Grady, at least not until they confirmed his story, that they weren’t going to do much about trying to find the guy who’d shot at him, either. He was a King. A motorcycle club member. She knew how it worked.

She stared down at Grady for several moments, moved closer to him, and placed her hand on his forearm. His skin felt warm. Just touching his arm, albeit innocently, in a gesture meant to imply support and commiseration, she felt sexual attraction. Desire swept upward along her spine, warming her belly, her breasts, and prompting a warm sensation in her cheeks. Her heart swelled with affection for Grady, but she also felt . . .

“I’m so sorry Grady, that you got hurt for my sake.” Her shoulders slumped with regret and frustration. “I’m worried about you . . . Sometimes I think that you have a death wish.” She locked eyes with him. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking as she eyed his stoic expression. “Do you, Grady?” He didn’t answer. “Because here’s the problem. I’ve already lost one man I loved more than anything in the world. There’s no way in hell I want to open myself up to that kind of pain again. Do you understand?”

He said nothing, though he slowly nodded. “You were lucky last night, Grady. Whoever chased you could’ve shot you, especially when you were down on the ground. He could’ve walked right up to you and put a bullet in your head.”

Again, Grady said nothing. Maybe he did have a death wish. Maybe that’s why he’d joined the Steel Kings, because he just didn’t care. But she had to. She couldn’t be with a man who didn’t want to live, one with a death wish. But if Grady needed help, needed her, how could she turn away from him? The answer was simple. She couldn’t. She was as hooked as he was, and neither of them would admit a damn thing.

“I’ll do my best to protect you, Callie,” he finally said.

“I believe you,” she said, tightening her grip on his arm. “But who’s going to protect you from yourself?”

“I’ll be all right. Promise. The guy last night . . . something’s going to happen, I know it, unless we do something about it. I need to stay with you until we catch him. David would want me to. I’ll do it for both of us. Maybe then . . . maybe then we can figure out what the hell we’re doing.”

It was the most she heard come out of Grady’s mouth in some time. He wouldn’t change overnight, and she didn’t really want him to. She just needed to know that deep down somewhere, he wanted to live, and that if he wanted her in his life, and that meant going slow, that she would expect him to hang onto life with the same sense of desperation as she did.

“I have a feeling that unless the police charge you with something . . .” She lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t have any warrants or anything out on you, do you?” He slowly shook his head, his eyes studying her. What the hell was he thinking? What did he see when he looked at her?

“After I get discharged, I’ll come by your house. We’ll talk, okay?”

She nodded, taking his hand in hers and squeezing. “Make sure you knock on the door this time, okay?”

He smiled and shifted his arm, intertwining their fingers. His eyes never broke from hers as he raised her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. That simple gesture sent flames of heat surging through her body. Guilt and desire warred with each other. With a sigh, she smiled down at him and then turned and left the room. She might as well get used to those conflicting feelings because neither was going to go away anytime soon. Nor was Grady. That much she was sure of. She just hoped her stalker would get the hint.