WAYLON Read online

  Also, my empty stomach starts cramping when I try to imagine what she means by “as bad.”

  But I keep on asking her questions as I climb out of my dress—mostly to distract myself from the raging dumpster fire my life has become. “So…is that your real name? Percy? I've never met anyone named Percy—woman or man. But I loved those Rick Riordan Percy Jackson books when I was a kid.”

  A bittersweet smile fleets across Percy's lips. “Me too. But my name isn’t Percy with a ‘c’ but Persy with an ‘s.’ It's Hades’ idea of a joke. You know, short for Persephone.”

  I nod as I pull on the scrub top. It’s easy to understand why he would have given her the nickname beyond the PROPERTY OF stuff. She might not be blonde or Greek, but she’s gorgeous as a goddess princess for sure. And despite the skanky outfit and back tattoo, she has an air of innocence—or at least the air of someone who used to be innocent.

  I give her another scan as I pull up the scrub pants. How long has she been with that beautiful underworld god? How long did it take him to dull the light in her brown eyes?

  “What’s your real name?” I ask her out loud.

  She shifts her eyes away from my concerned gaze. “My real name doesn't matter.”

  “It matters,” I say, reaching out for her hand and taking it in mine. “You matter.”

  No, I might not be in any position to help her, but I was still a nurse. And in my experience, people like Persy-short-for-Persephone needed to hear they were worth something from an outside source. “If you have a real name that you prefer, I want to use it.”

  Persy stares back at me, her eyes no longer so dull and lifeless. She clasps my hand and opens her mouth to speak.

  But another woman's voice interrupts before she can.

  “Hey, are you the one that came in on the back of Waylon's bike?”

  Persy immediately snaps her mouth closed, and I turn to see another Black woman with a plate of food in her hand, holding open the swinging door. She's very pretty with intelligent brown eyes. The kind of woman who somehow manages to look smart without opening her mouth. And that's an especially impressive feat, in this case, considering that she's only wearing cowboy boots and a teenie-weenie pair of denim cut-off shorts underneath her butt-grazing weave.

  “What are you doing in my scrubs?” she asks, raising her eyebrows over the plate of food.

  That question and her small perky breasts let me know that this must be the Doc Persy mentioned before. Like Persy, Waylon, and Hades, she has a southern accent.

  Doc looks to Persy, “The crochet top you made didn’t fit her?”

  “She didn’t even try it on,” Persy answers. The flat and cynical tone has returned to her voice.

  But I can’t keep the amazement out of mine as I ask, “You made that top and the one you’re wearing? Like, actually crocheted it?”

  Persy shrugs, “Yeah, it's something I do in my spare time. No big deal.”

  “No big deal?” Doc repeats, raising both eyebrows. “Then why do you make all those biker bunnies out there pay you forty bucks just to get on the waitlist to crochet them a top? If you’re giving them away for free now, I’ll take one.”

  “I’m not giving them away for free,” Persy answers. “Waylon said to bring her some clothes, and it was the only kind of top I had in the house.”

  “Oh,” Doc answers like Persy’s explanation makes total sense. Apparently, she was also in the Waylon Must Always Be Obeyed club.

  She flashes me a bright, toothy smile and raises the plate of food. “Anyway, I've got a stool reserved for you outside and a cheeseburger and some fries with your name on it. Waylon told me to get you some dinner and set you at the bar until he’s ready for you.”

  That sounds heavenly after the day I've had. I can’t even be mad that he basically sent her to fetch me like a child who needed picking up from daycare.

  And as uncomfortable as I am at the thought of wearing a scrub top without a bra in public, I eagerly follow her and the plate of food out the swinging door and back into the bar area where a Griffin Latham track about backcountry boys sleeping with women all over the world is playing overhead.

  I have a feeling I'll need a full stomach to figure out how to get out of this mess.

  Of course, I needed to run away from this place and Waylon as soon as possible. But to where?

  For all I knew, my old life in Delaware might be an even bigger shitshow.

  I needed to call Sierra and figure out how bad things got after I left. If the police were looking for me in connection with Waylon’s assault on Jonathan, there might even be a warrant out for my arrest.

  That thought sends chills through me as I follow Doc to the bar. And I feel lightheaded for reasons that have nothing to do with my empty stomach.

  This is why I figure I must be hallucinating when I see the man standing next to a single stool at the long bar’s otherwise empty short edge.

  He’s wearing a leather vest with the same Ruthless Reaper patch on the front as Waylon and Hades. However, he looks just like Griffin Latham, the trap country superstar currently half-crooning and half-rapping overhead.

  Surely, I must be mistaken.

  But when I reach the stool, he holds out his hand and says, “Hey, I’m Griff. Just had to meet the girl I heard actually made our prez crack a smile.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Griffin….

  Griffin Latham, one of the biggest crossover country music stars of the last decade, is smiling. At me! And holding out his hand. To me!

  “Oh my God, oh my God, you’re Griffin Latham!” I respond instead of shaking his hand.

  He grins down at me, his teeth sparkling and white underneath platinum blond hair. He has a face that could get him called pretty if not for his darker beard and all the tattoos crawling up his neck from under the white tee. He even has some ink underneath one of his eyes, but I’m too flabbergasted to make it out.

  I add one more, “Oh my God, you’re really, really Griffin Latham,” just in case he isn’t getting how shocked I am to see him here in this backcountry roadhouse of all places.

  “Yeah, I’m Griff,” he answers, crooking his head at me. “And you're the reason Fairgood couldn't make it out to my show.”

  “Fairgood?” I repeat, looking from side to side. I know Colin Fairgood's another big country superstar, but… “What do I have to do with Colin Fairgood not coming to your show?”

  Griff squints at me. “Waylon put you on the back of his bike, but he didn't tell you his last name?"

  Now it's my turn to squint. “His last name is Fairgood? Like Colin Fairgood? Are they, like, related?”

  “Are you serious?” Griff shakes his head at me. “They’re—”

  “Is that her?” another male voice yells out over the music.

  I look up to see three huge guys all dressed in the same leather-cut vests as the one Griffin Latham’s wearing over his T-shirt.

  They all have dark hair and wear dog tags over their white tees, but I don’t think they’re related. One of them has a long curly thick beard that makes his ethnicity hard to place. One of them is clean-shaven and tan verging on sunburnt. And the tallest one is pale as a vampire even though it’s August as if summer is a thing he’s never encountered in his life.

  He hangs back, his eyes scanning the room like he suspects someone could attack them any minute. Meanwhile, the bearded one gives me a curious glance while chewing on a toothpick, and the clean-shaven guy openly checks me out.

  I’m assuming he’s the one who asked if I were her.

  He doesn't give me a chance to answer, though—just looks me up and down and says, “So she’s the reason Viking bailed on your show and put us in charge. Whoo-wee, I see why he decided to go the extra five-hundred miles.”

  The bearded one takes a toothpick out of his mouth. “Me too. I didn’t know those scrubs we been wanting to take off Doc could fit somebody else so good.”

  Griffin Latham chuckles and croons a couple of bars of that old 90s song about being willing to walk five-hundred miles with perfect pitch.

  They’re all eyeing me but only talking to each other like I’m some kind of exotic item Waylon picked up on the road to Tennessee. I’m beginning to understand the true meaning of the word objectified.

  “Yup, this is her,” Griff tells the three new arrivals. The overhead music switches to a quieter song, so he doesn’t have to shout when he adds, “She don't talk much, but yeah, I can see why our Prez suddenly decided he had somewhere else he needed to be.”

  “I'm not talking much because none of you are letting me get a word in as you have a conversation about me like I'm not standing right here,” I tell them.

  The clean-shaven one grins. Like a hyena. “Feisty too. But I bet Viking don’t let you backtalk him like that.”

  “Oh, leave her alone,” Doc says from the short side of the bar where she’s set down my plate of food. “She's been on the back of Waylon’s bike for hours, and she's too tired and hungry to put up with your bullshit.”

  The clean-shaven one she turns his hyena grin on Doc. “You jealous we're paying attention to her? You’re not used to us not falling all over you as soon as we walk up to your bar, are you?”

  “No, I'm not jealous,” Doc answers. Her formally friendly tone has turned as corrosive as acid. “And believe me, you assuming that I'll get jealous because you're flirting with another Black girl like we’re interchangeable makes me want to take you up on your offer even less.”

  “So, you admit you were thinking about it a little bit before I fucked up and started flirting with another girl right in front of you,” he says, smooth as a lothario in a musical.

  The quiet guy with the beard smirks, but the glowering vampire steps forward and says, “
Enough. I told you to stop with her.”

  He’s talking to the clean-shaven guy, but his near-black eyes burn into Doc.

  As no-nonsense as Doc acted with Duncan, she immediately looks away from the vampire. And she crosses her arms over her chest as if she's as embarrassed as a normal woman would be to have been caught standing half-naked behind the bar.

  “Can I get you guys anything new?” she mumbles. “Or do you just want the usual?”

  “We’ll take the usual,” the brooding one answers. “But first, where's your uncle? We’ve got some business to talk about with him.”

  Doc shifts nervously, then seems to decide to answer, “Probably in his office watching the game.”

  The vampire flicks his dark eyes toward a door at the back of the roadhouse. And my mouth drops open when I see the whiteboard with the establishment's rules hanging above it.

  Instead of regular things like No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service, it says

  * * *

  1.No touching the girls behind the bar.

  2.No killing inside this establishment.

  3.$5K fine for killing inside the establishment.

  4.Don't piss off Waylon.

  5.No fighting inside the establishment.

  6.$5K fine for fighting inside the establishment.

  * * *

  I don’t know what’s more shocking. That the fine for fighting and killing are exactly the same, or that not pissing off Waylon is wedged in between the two rules as if it’s slightly less important than not killing and even more severe than a fistfight.

  “Doc,” the tall, brooding one says with a nod. Then he cranks his head toward the office door and walks away without another word to me or Griff.

  The bearded one immediately trails him. But Duncan gives Doc a lazy wink before following in their wake.

  I slide onto the stool and prepare to continue my conversation with Griffin Latham about why Waylon has the same last name as one of country music’s biggest stars.

  But he no longer seems interested in talking to me. He leans over the bar to ask Doc, “Hey, you heard from Red?”

  Doc unfolds her arms as if all her self-consciousness left her as soon as the vampire turned his back. “Nope.”

  Griffin Latham’s face tightens—with anger or frustration? I can’t quite tell. Maybe both. “You let me know if she comes in.”

  I doubt she'll be coming back in,” Doc answers. “She left in the middle of a shift without telling anybody why, and she never showed back up for work. In my experience, that's a sure sign of an employee that's not planning to return to our fair establishment.”

  I laugh at her smart-ass remark. But Griffin’s expression is solemn as a tombstone.

  “You let me know if she comes in,” he repeats. “You still got my cell?”

  Doc gives him a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sure do.”

  For a few seconds, he stares at her in a way that almost feels like an unspoken threat.

  But then he turns back to me, once again becoming a laid-back rock star. “Fairgood’s brought you into his world. You’re going to hear some stuff. People talk a lot of shit behind his back. But don't believe the rumors. He's good people.”

  “What rumors?” I ask, now wanting to know about that even more than his last name.

  Griffin just grins, then snags a topless waitress around the waist and says, “Hey, baby, how you doing?”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “You’re Griffin Latham.”

  Same as me.

  “Sure am,” he answers. And that’s the last thing I hear the country trap star say before he disappears into the crowd with her.

  I immediately swivel on the stool to ask Doc, “Griffin Latham is a Ruthless Reaper?”

  “I mean, yeah, he used to be one of those fools,” Doc answers. She plucks a fry off my plate. “The rumor is that his rich dad got sick of him wilding out and put him in charge of a music label. So now he's trying to walk the straight and narrow. But he still tours during the summer, and the Reapers act as his security force. Anyway, he always comes through when he has a show nearby.”

  “And how about this Red he was asking about? Who is she?”

  Doc snitches another fry off my plate. “Somebody who used to work here. But she made it out of this place, and she’s never coming back. He just refuses to accept that.”

  I eye Doc as I stuff a few of the fries in my mouth myself. They’re a little cold but hit my tongue like a long overdue, salty gift. And the cheeseburger did me the favor of staying totally warm and delicious. I gratefully accept the tall glass of Coke Doc sets in front of me in a beer stein and pretty much forget about all my questions as I inhale the first meal I've had since this morning.

  But after I house all the fries and most of the burger, my curiosity about her spikes again.

  “Are you trying to get out of here, too?” I ask.

  “Not trying,” Doc counters. “One more semester of med school, and I'm done with this place.”

  I raise my eyebrows just like she did when she discovered me wearing her scrubs. “So that's why they call you Doc. I'm a nurse in real life.”

  Doc squints at me. “I was born into this. But what's a nurse doing with Waylon of all people?”

  I decide to answer with the truth. “He was supposed to be out of my life forever, but then he basically crashed my wedding, beat up the guy I was going to marry, then blackmailed me into riding off on his motorcycle with him.”

  Doc regards me from behind the bar for a stunned second. But then nods and says, “That tracks. The Ruthless Reapers don't have a ton of morals to start with. Especially when it comes to women. But especially when it comes to women they want.”

  Her eyes drift toward the office door the three tall Reapers walked through earlier.

  I follow her gaze and ask, “Is that why you won't give any of those three guys who were flirting with you earlier the time of day?

  Doc’s lips curl into a rueful smile. “Not any of them, all of them. Every girl in here knows, Vengeance is a package deal.

  “Vengeance?” I repeat, not understanding.

  Doc rolls her eyes, “Yeah, that’s what everyone calls them. They’re the guys the Reapers send for debt collection and stuff like that. They don't have the best reputation.”

  I widen my eyes. “No wonder you turned them down. You're smart to stay away.”

  “Yeah, I’m definitely smarter than that. No question,” Doc agrees. But her eyes once again drift toward the door Vengeance disappeared behind.

  I’m not sure she quite believes everything she’s telling me. But she’s smart enough to at least pretend she’s not interested in what they’re offering. And way more important than that, the future doctor might be somebody who can help me get out of this mess.

  “Hey, listen,” I start to say. “I know this sounds crazy. But I left my phone and wallet behind in Delaware. Could you loan me…”

  “Hey, Brown Sugar, fifty bucks to show us your tits!”

  I swivel around on the stool to see two guys, one nearly as short as me and the other even taller than the guys Doc called Vengeance. They both have patches that read PROSPECT on their leather vests, and underneath that, an insignia with a coffin overlaid with a spray of flowers.

  So, not the same gang. But these motorcycle guys really seem to like the death theme.

  The tall guy rubs his hands together and licks his lips. And just in case I think he’s not looking at me like I’m a woman-shaped piece of steak, he says, “When do you start your upstairs shift, baby? We’re in the mood for some dark meat tonight.”

  “She doesn’t work here,” Doc informs them over my shoulder. “She’s not on the menu. So git now, boys. Go mess with someone too desperate not to reject you two dumb asses on sight.”

  Burn. But the two prospects stay right where they are, both of them leering down at me.

  “We just got cashed out from a big haul. We got money to pay you if you come with us upstairs. You got a man here?”

  “No, I don’t have a man here,” I answer, screwing up my face. “And I'm not a prostitute. I'm not going anywhere with you.”

  “Why not?” the short one asks. “You think you’re better than us?”