The Biker's Private Nurse

Nicole's POV

Hospitals.

You’d think after a while they’d stop getting to me. They don’t.

The smell is something I can't get used to. That sharp, sour antiseptic that seeps into your clothes so deep you still smell it when you get home, or the endless beeping of machines, and definitely not the way footsteps echo down the halls like everyone’s rushing to put out a fire. Even working here feels like eyes are all over watching . Waiting for me to screw up.

This is not the life I thought I’d have after nursing school. I had this picture in my head, something steady, clean. A bright ward. Maybe pediatrics. Instead? I’m hopping from one shift to another, sending out application after application. Rejections stack up in my inbox like junk mail. Fifteen of them now. Or maybe more. I don’t even need to count anymore, the number just hangs there, taunting me.

“Nicole,” a voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

I glance up from the patient chart I’ve been updating. It’s Marcy’s there, the only person in this place who feels like….a friend, I guess.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

“I… I’m fine.”

“The supervisor wants you in her office. Now.”

My stomach churns. Did I make a mistake on a chart? Did I do something wrong? My hands tremble as I tuck the file under my arm and head down the hallway.

The supervisor’s office is on the third floor, tucked into a corner that’s far too quiet compared to how noisy it is below. I knock once before pushing the door open.

“Come in, Nicole,” Mrs. Henderson says, her tone sharp. She’s an older woman with gray hair and the kind of eyes that always make me feel like she can see every secret I’m hiding.

I step inside, heart pounding. “You wanted to see me?”

She gestures to the chair opposite her desk. “Sit.”

I struggle to sit down, clutching the patient file in my lap like it's the only thing keeping me steady.

Mrs. Henderson studies me for a moment, then sets down the paperwork in her hand. “You’ve been applying to hospitals across the city, haven’t you?”

How did she know? “Y-Yes, ma’am” I struggle to respond. “I just finished my nursing program and…I was hoping to find something full-time.”

“And yet, so far, no luck,” she says.

Her bluntness stings, but it’s true. More than fifteen rejections. I’ve lost count of the number of emails that begin with We regret to inform you…

I nod. “No luck yet.”

She leans back in her chair, folding her arms. “You’re a good nurse, Nicole. I see the way you handle patients here, even under pressure. That’s why I recommended you for something…unconventional.”

I blink, not sure if I heard her correctly. “Recommended me?”

“Yes.” She slides a sealed folder across the desk. “There’s a private position open, and the pay is” she pauses, almost as if she’s trying to decide whether to say it out loud. “substantial.”

The word substantial feels like a spark catching fire in my chest. My mind goes immediately to Mom. The hospital bills, to rent, to the debt piling up in the corner of my mind like dirty laundry I can’t wash away.

“What kind of position is it?” I ask carefully.

Mrs. Henderson shakes her head. “I wasn’t given many details. Only that it requires a live-in nurse. The client is…particular. The kind who values discretion above all else.”

I frown. “So I wouldn’t even know who I’d be working for?”

“Not until you agree to move forward. They’ll reach out to you themselves. That’s how these private contracts work. But let me warn you, Nicole, this isn’t just about medical skill. There are expectations.”

She looks at me with a hard look. “The Four P’s.”

I tilt my head, confused. “The Four P’s?”

“Professionalism. Patience. Privacy. Prohibition.” She ticks them off with her fingers. “You remain professional at all times, no matter what. Patience, because private clients can be…difficult. Privacy, because you may learn things you shouldn’t repeat. And prohibition meaning no personal involvement. At all.”

The warning lands heavy between us.

I swallow. “So I can’t get close to my client.”

“Exactly. This isn’t the kind of job where you set boundaries. If you accept, you’ll be stepping into a world where those rules are your lifeline or you could lose your job. Do you understand?”

I nod slowly, though my mind is spinning. Professionalism, patience, privacy, prohibition. A chant, almost. The way she says it makes it sound less like guidance and more like a commandment.

“Good,” Mrs. Henderson says. “If you’re interested, you should receive an email later. That’s where the invitation will come from. Confidentially.”

Something in her tone tells me she knows more than she’s letting on. My chest is racing with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

“Thank you,”

She dismisses me with a nod. “Now go finish your shift.”

The rest of my shift drags. My mind keeps replaying her words. Substantial pay, confidential, prohibition. What kind of job is this, exactly? And what kind of client needs rules this rigid?

By the time I clock out, I am already exhausted.

I don’t go straight home. Instead, I catch the bus across town to visit Mom.

These past few months have been really challenging for me….having to take on lots of shifts, just to take care of my mom who is suffering from end stage kidney disease.

My father, who should have been our support, died in a gang affiliated accident eight years ago, just after my sixteenth birthday. Since then, my mom's health has taken a hit, and I have been the sole provider.

Finally, I arrive at the nursing home. It isn’t glamorous, just a modest building with faded paint and a garden that needs trimming but it’s clean, and the staff are kind. I walk down the hall to Room 204, balancing the small bag of groceries I picked up on the way.

“Knock, knock,” I call softly as I push the door open.

Mom looks up from her bed, a tired smile spread across her pale face as she manages to sit up. “There’s my girl.”

“Hi, Mom.” I set the groceries on the dresser and lean down to hug her. She feels so light in my arms, like she’s fading piece by piece.

We talk for a while, mostly about work and a little bit of everything in between. She then asks about whether I’ve had any luck with full-time positions. I lie, telling her it’ll happen soon. I don’t want her worrying more than she already does.

The bus ride home is quiet, the city lights blurring past the windows as night settles in. I press my forehead against the cool glass, and fall asleep.

When I reach my apartment, I kick off my shoes, drop my bag on the couch, and head straight for my laptop. My hands are a little shaky as I open my email.

There it is.

An unread message, subject line: CONFIDENTIAL – Private Nursing Opportunity

My heart races.

I click it open.

Dear Miss Williams,

You have been recommended for a highly exclusive position. Should you accept, you will enter into a contract of utmost confidentiality. Details will be provided upon agreement. Compensation is significant. The decision must be made swiftly. Do you accept it?

Below the text are two buttons: Yes or No.

I stare at the screen, my throat dry. This is it. The door Mrs. Henderson hinted at. The lifeline I’ve been waiting for.

Do I press yes? Or do I walk away?