WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

A sour feeling twists in my gut. I'm an ER nurse. How often had I treated women who are the victims of “accidents” that only ever seem to happen when they were with a man who supposedly loved them.

I grind my teeth, a suspicious, bitter taste pooling in my mouth.

“Jonathan, I…” I sit up in bed and wince, my bones aching even though they’re not broken.

“You’re not going to call off the wedding, are you?” No more trembling lip. Real tears well in Jonathan's eyes. “I promise you it was an accident. Please don't call off the wedding. I love you. I love you so much.”

He collapses in my lap, crying, and my anger evaporates.

What was I thinking? Of course, it was an accident. Of course, Jonathan wouldn't push me down a set of stairs in a fit of anger.

This was me trying to sabotage myself again—just like I did with that biker when Jonathan asked for a pause.

I’ve finally made it. I’ve finally made it to the house in Brandywine. And I'm so close to getting my doctor husband.

I’m on the cusp of achieving everything I’ve ever wanted for my adult life. I can't let one argument, one little misunderstanding end all of that.

I didn't choose the dangerous biker in real life. I chose Jonathan. And that was the right choice. Like Sierra once said, the exact right move.

As Jonathan cries in my lap, I tamp down that suspicious feeling in my gut and choose him again.

“So is that biker I saw earlier one of your brother’s friends?” Sierra asks as we wait behind the church’s closed sanctuary doors for our cue to walk down the aisle.

For some reason, Billy Idol's voice has been snarling all day inside my head about how it's such a nice day for a white wedding. That song really isn’t romantic when you think about it. It kind of feels like he’s being sarcastic.

But the song comes to a complete stop when Sierra asks me about the biker.

My throat dries, and I turn to look at my best friend, who’s swapped out her acrylics for a tasteful pink gel manicure. Not because she wanted to, but because Trudy, my future mother-in-law, insisted that she wear her nails at an appropriate length and choose a color that matched the pale grey dress she picked out for my bridesmaid.

But all thoughts of my mother-in-law-to-be fly out of my head as I ask, “What…what biker?”

“I don't know,” Sierra answers. “That's why I'm asking you. I saw him at the church’s side entrance earlier when I was coming in, and, gurl. If I hadn’t been running late, I would've stopped to spit some game. You know how I be about them bad-boy types.”

My insides twist. For no reason, I'm sure. It couldn't be him. Could it?

Just in case, I say, “What did this…um…bad boy look like?”

“Rough—like he could throw down in bed!” Sierra answers instantly, as if she was just waiting for me to ask. “He had this scruffy beard, and he was tall and kind of thin—but you know, jacked. Like if shit went down, he’d know how to handle himself in a fight. He had on this leather jacket with a motorcycle club name on the back. I think it was something like—”

The church organ’s wail drowns out whatever she was about to say. Still, my heart beats a rapid tattoo inside my chest, and I feel faint. Why would he…no, it isn't him, Amira. It isn’t.

Then two attendants pull open the double doors to reveal a church we’ve filled with friends, family, and work associates—mostly Jonathan’s.

“Oooh, this is it!” Sierra squeals, getting into position in front of me.

Even though she would never have picked out such a “tasteful” dress for herself, she struts down the aisle as if she's wearing the bodycon dress she sported last month when she and a bunch of the other nurses took me to Atlantic City for my bachelorette weekend.

I follow gingerly, every nerve ending in my body on fire for reasons that have nothing to do with last night’s fall down the stairs.

It probably wasn't him. It was probably just some delivery person or somebody like that. There are plenty of bikers who aren't the one I can’t stop dreaming about.

Still, when it’s my turn to proceed down the aisle, I scan the church frantically, looking for any sign of him among all the guests beaming their approval at me.

He’s nowhere to be found.

I recognize nearly everyone standing in the pews, and all of them look happy for me. A few of my coworkers are already dabbing tears from their eyes as I walk past them in the heavy, white-beaded dress Trudy picked out for me.

They’re beaming and crying because I’m living the dream.

And of course, the biker I slept with for reasons I still haven't been able to fully explain to myself wouldn't be standing among the guests at my wedding.