Call 911. Now!” Tate Campbell couldn’t believe what she shouted at him, just before twisting around and running back out of his bar, letting the heavy door slam behind her. What the hell… **** Of course, he’d noticed her when she had come in. A petite woman dressed in a set of shapeless blue hospital scrubs and running shoes had no place in a noisy biker bar. His first thought was that she looked as out of place as a whore in church. He noticed her dark hair trailed down her back in a long loose braid. A lanyard thick with laminated ID tags hung around her neck. Oblivious to the lewd glances clocking her every step, she marched up to the bar like she owned the place, shoulders back, chin raised and her clear blue eyes meeting his in an icy stare. She’d tapped on the bar twice to get his attention—unnecessarily, as he was standing right in front of her—and shouted at him over the noisy band, currently doing a decent cover of Bob Seeger’s Night Moves. “Hi. Could you let me use the phone to call a tow truck?”
