WAYLON Read online

  “Two hundred,” the tall one offers before I can answer that.

  “What? No!” I answer, even though I was about to ask to borrow a similar amount from Doc.

  “How about five large?” the big guy asks. He whips out five hundred bills and spreads them like a fan. “I bet that’ll change your mind.”

  Well, I suppose it’s nice to know there are levels you won’t stoop to even when you’re at rock bottom. The money is no contest for my dignity.

  “It won't,” I assure him.

  “Hey guys, just so you know, she came in here on the back of Waylon's bike,” Doc says behind me in the same tone of voice someone would use to say, “just so you know, you’re about to step into a pit of vipers.”

  “Who’s Waylon?” the short guy asks.

  “Yeah, we don't know no Waylon,” the big one says.

  Doc points to the sign. “I’d read rule number four if I were you.”

  “Well, you ain't us. Obviously,” the big one answers without bothering to look at the whiteboard.

  “And you’re behind the bar, so we’re not allowed to take you upstairs,” the short one whines like a little kid who’s not allowed to touch the candy behind the glass.

  “But she's out here, and she said it herself,” the big one continues as if they share the same lizard brain. “She don’t have a man here.”

  “That means she's free game,” the small one declares.

  Then he has the audacity to reach out and cup my tit over Doc’s scrub top.

  I gasp and draw my hand back to give him the slap he deserves.

  But before I can, Waylon appears out of nowhere.

  “The fuck you think you’re doing?” he asks the guy who squeezed my breast with fury blazing in his crystal blue eyes.

  But before the guy can answer, he grabs him by the back of his hair and smashes his face into the bar.

  CHAPTER 3

  One moment the small guy with the PROSPECT patch on his vest is laughing after squeezing one of my tits. And in the next moment, his head is being smashed into the bar—courtesy of Waylon's hand fisted in the back of his hair.

  The biker I haven’t seen since we walked into the roadhouse slams the smaller man's face down once—twice—three deliberate times.

  And when he draws the smaller prospect up a fourth time, his face is a mess of blood and broken teeth.

  “She’s mine,” Waylon tells him, his voice little more than a feral growl. “You shouldn’t have ever dared to touch her.”

  The prospect makes a sound that could either be a bloody cough or a death rattle.

  Then Waylon unfists his hand, releasing him as if their “conversation” is done.

  And the prospect collapses to the ground as soon as Waylon stops holding him up.

  I hope he's just unconscious. All the terrible possibilities, from brain damage to death, flash through my mind as I rush forward to help him.

  But Waylon catches my arm before I can drop down to my knees beside him.

  “Don't you even dare think about helping that fuck,” he growls in that feral animal way of his.

  “Are you crazy?” I say, trying to tear my wrist away from his vice grip. “He could die!”

  “He touched you,” Waylon answers, his expression flat with violence. As if that's a reasonable and final answer to my worries about the prospect’s possible death.

  I open my mouth to argue, but Waylon's eyes suddenly switchblade to something over my shoulder, and he reaches inside his jacket.

  What is he—

  A gunshot rings out before I can finish forming that question.

  Then the taller prospect joins his buddy on the bar’s concrete floor with a gun clenched in his hammy fist—he must have been about to draw it. Unlike the other guy, though, his eyes are popped wide open, and there’s a hole in the middle of his head surrounded by black burn residue.

  Waylon shot him….I dimly realize with the sound of the gun blast still reverberating in my ears.

  Waylon shot him point-blank in the face. Without blinking an eye, and with his hand still wrapped around my wrist.

  Two wads of one-hundred-dollar bills land then bounce off the big guy’s chest. I don’t see who threw them down, but somehow, I know it was Waylon. And somewhere in the horrified recesses of my mind, I also know the exact amount of money in each folded-up stack. Five thousand dollars. Enough to cover the fee for each body on the floor. Guns, knives, and five-thousand-dollar wads— those are the kinds of things Waylon carries in his jacket pockets.

  My stomach heaves.

  Before I can fully process what's just happened right before my eyes, Waylon pulls me away.

  His hand is manacled so tightly around my wrist. I have no choice but to stumble after him, my shorter legs barely able to keep up. Everything and everyone becomes a blur as he tugs me through the crowd.

  I don't realize there’s a stage in this place until Waylon pulls me up a short set of steps.

  When he stops us in the middle of the dais, I find myself standing above the crowd of bikers. They're not so raucous now. They all stare up at us, silent as a graveyard.

  Someone's even turned off the music—not out of respect for the man who was just killed in cold blood going by their rapt expressions. But because they know that Waylon’s about to talk.

  “Now listen here,” Waylon announces to the crowd underneath us. He raises my arm in the air, his hand gripping even tighter around my wrist.

  I’m a captured animal, being held up like a trophy for all to see as he says, “Let’s clear up any confusion. This one belongs to me. If you want to know what’ll happen if any of you try to touch what’s mine, go see those two fucktards by the bar—Nest keep them on display for the next hour so everybody can take a look.”

  I have no idea who this Nest is, but a voice with a Greek accent calls out, “Sure thing! This is no problem!” from somewhere in the vicinity of the bar as I goggle up at Waylon from under my arm.

  What the hell? Is he seriously claiming me on a public stage? Does he honestly believe he owns me now?

  A new panic sets in as I remember Persy’s words from before….and her PROPERTY OF tattoo. Just how long is he planning to keep me?

  You’d think that under the circumstances, Waylon would wait around to hear how the crowd responded to that declaration. But no…

  He pulls me back down the stairs before the room erupts in cheers and cat whistles. What kind of hell is this where people cheer the guy who just blatantly killed two men, then threaten to kill or severely beat anyone who touches the woman he’s treating like property?

  He pulls me up another set of stairs before I can even begin to come up with an answer to that question.

  These are taller, though, and lead to the roadhouse’s second floor. We crash into a bare-bones hotel room at the top of the steps.

  I barely have time to register the single bed and the doorless bathroom before he slams me up into the closest wall.

  He places a hand at either side of my head, bringing his body as close to mine as it can get without touching.

  But I can feel its heat, and my nose fills up with his distinct smell of leather and engine.

  I stare up at him, my heart beating like thunder. And my body…not quite knowing what to do.

  He killed a man! He killed a man in cold blood.

  But having him so close…every nerve in my body stands on edge. The same arousal that made me lose my mind in the church library clicks inside of me, like a gas stove sparking to light a flame.

  “I’m sorry that guy touched you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “That’s on me for not letting everybody know you belonged to me first thing first. A few of these prospects don’t know who I am. They have to be introduced.”

  That’s what he called an introduction?

  “You shouldn’t have….” My voice is shaking too much. I have to swallow. “You shouldn’t have killed him.”

  He scans my face with those crystal blue eyes. They’re not just burning—they’re crazed. And he doesn't try to explain himself or apologize for killing a man right in front of me. Just says, “I didn’t kill the guy who touched you. Yet. Second time today.”

  His words stop my heart.

  “Don’t,” I whisper. “You’ve done enough. I didn’t ask for that. I would never ask for that.”

  “Course you wouldn’t. You don’t get it,” he answers with that cocky smirk. Like me having basic morals is some kind of character flaw.

  He brings his face closer, his lips hovering over mine. Oh God, he's going to kiss me. He's going to kiss me after killing a man. Possibly take me against the wall again, like he did back at the church.

  Even worse, I don't know if I'm going to stop him. I’m horrified—bordering on traumatized. But desire swells inside of me, thick and dumb, and my body silently begs for the thing—for the man I shouldn’t want.

  But his lips just hover there. He doesn't bring them any closer.

  I don't realize he's waiting until he asks, “You going to kiss me again? Stop me from going back down there to put another bullet in the head of that pipsqueak who fucking touched you?”

  I swallow again, every single part of me mute with horror. My voice has stopped working. I can't feel my heart beating, and I know for damn sure I'm not breathing.

  His eyes blaze, challenging me, daring me.

  And when I just stand there, that cocky smirk metastasizes into a feral grin. “Not this time, huh?”

  “No…no, I’m not going to kiss you,” I finally manage to squeeze out. I remind both him and myself, “You just killed a man. And you’re threatening to do it again. Do you not see why that should make me totally disinterested in kissing you for any reason. Ever?”

  His smi
le fades, and a grim shadow falls over his face. And for some reason, I feel bad for rejecting him even though he’s the one who dragged me into this hellmouth, then showed me that he isn’t just one of these monsters—he’s their king.

  “This ain't how I wanted to start with you.” He pushes back and shakes his head. Like he’s disappointed. With me or himself? I can’t tell.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “What exactly do you think we’re doing here?”

  These are only two of the many questions I have for him.

  “Get some rest,” he commands, not answering either of them. “We’re leaving early tomorrow morning.”

  He says that, then he strides out the door he didn’t close before pushing me into a wall.

  But this time, he shuts it behind him. With a slam.

  I wait. Holding my breath, I make myself wait until his footsteps recede into the distance.

  And as soon as they do, I lunge for the door. To my horror, when I turn the knob, it stops almost immediately. It's locked!

  What kind of establishment has doors that lock from the outside?

  I yell and slam my hand into the door. “Hey! Hey! Somebody let me out!”

  As if in answer to my pleas, a single shot rings out from below.

  Then the music starts up again. This time even louder. The bass of a Colin Fairgood track shakes the floor. It’s one of the hip-hop crossover songs he did with Roxxy Roxx—one I actually liked. Before this moment.

  But Waylon’s just killed another man.

  And locked me inside this room.

  An ugly primal panic overwhelms me as I remember Melinda, the foster mother who locked me in the closet to teach me a lesson about lying after Ant got taken away—when I tried to explain to her what really happened so that she could tell the social worker to retrieve the innocent boy who’d done nothing wrong from Juvie.

  Dry swallowing, I run to the window.

  There's only a single dim light illuminating the ground outside, but it's far enough down that I can tell a drop would be painful. And even if that wasn’t the case, when I try to pull up the window to see if there’s any kind of ledge I can step out onto, it doesn’t budge in the slightest. It's locked too. This is a room designed to imprison.

  No! No! No!

  I run back to the door, and I don’t just yell this time. I scream—I scream for Waylon, for anybody to let me out. Scream and cry.

  It feels like my mind is cracking. Like, of all the things that happened after I said no to that pastor today, this is the consequence that will destroy me.

  But no one comes, and eventually, I pass out, too tired and emotional to go on like that.

  I awake to a soft knock the next morning and open my eyes to find myself lying right next to the door. It’s not dark anymore, but it’s not bright either. Dim rays of early morning sunlight shine through the room’s dusty window.

  “Wedding Dress Girl, you up?” a soft voice asks on the other side of the door. “Waylon says it’s time to go. He’s waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Persy?” I scramble to my feet. “Is that you?”

  Her voice sounds different than it did last night. Gentle and more tentative.

  A quiet scrape from below answers those questions, and when I look down, a piece of torn-off notepaper appears from underneath the door.

  It has one word written on it.

  Stephanie.

  CHAPTER 4

  I pick up the piece of paper Persy slid underneath the door with a single word written on it: Stephanie.

  “Is this…” I start to ask.

  But then, I snap my mouth close, thinking better of it. There might have been a reason she gave me this information quietly instead of in a conversation.

  “Is this regarding what we talked about last night?” I ask instead.

  “Yes, it is. You need to listen to your man,” she answers. “You need to learn how to obey him in all things. I don’t want you to be so upset the next time I see you. I want us to both be happy.”

  Her words are frightening, but…her voice sounds stilted—flat to the point of comedy.

  I read between the lines, translating her advice: Don't talk about this out loud in front of them. It will only get us both in trouble. This is a secret between just the two of us. But I trust you, and you can trust me. Maybe we can help each other get away from these guys.

  That translation brings a spark of joy to my miserable heart, and I can only hope she understands me the same way I'm understanding her when I answer, “Yes, you're right. I'll figure out how to be better with Waylon.”

  “What are you doing?” Heavy footsteps approach from outside the door, and the Louisiana-accented voice tells me it’s Hades—the other Reapers president from last night asking the question. The name at the bottom of that disgusting PROPERTY OF tattoo. “We sent you to fetch her, not chat.”

  “I'm sorry,” Persy—no, Stephanie immediately answers. “I was just giving her some advice about obeying Waylon, so that stuff like yesterday doesn't happen anymore. You heard her last night. She was really upset.”

  Hades doesn't answer her. But I can practically hear him staring her down in the thick silence. I imagine him scanning her face with those silver eyes of his and trying to figure out if she's lying to him.

  Then the knob turns without warning.

  I barely have time to stuff Stephanie's note in the front pocket of Doc's scrubs before the door opens to reveal Hades and the woman I should keep on calling Persy out loud.

  He's dressed in head-to-toe black. And she's just the opposite. Powder tangerine booty shorts and a creamsicle orange crochet top—sunshine showing as much skin as a woman can get away with without violating any indecency laws.

  After Hades opens the door, she carefully averts her eyes toward the floor, like a dog who’s been told to heel.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I say, vowing on the inside that I’ll do whatever it takes to help her get out of this toxic mess she’s in with Hades.

  Persy doesn't answer, just nods.

  And Hades eyes me up and down with a hard look before telling me, “Waylon's waiting for you outside.”

  He doesn’t look or appear anywhere near as friendly as he did last night.

  But I don't have any luggage to fetch. So, I edge past him with a murmured, “Bye” for Persy.

  When I reach the steps, though, the memory of what happened two days ago flashes across my mind. The tumbling down the stairs and waking up in a world of pain. On the morning I was supposed to get married.

  My mind feebly takes a stab at processing everything that's happened since I woke up yesterday morning. Tries and fails.

  So I’m pretty much a traumatized, confused mess as I walk down the stairs into the now quiet bar part of the roadhouse.

  Not to mention sore as hell.

  Too few hours of sleep on a hardwood floor was the worst thing I could've done after getting pushed down a set of stairs and punched by one guy—then roughly taken against the wall and forcibly placed on a motorcycle by another.

  “Man, you look like death warmed over!” a cheery voice calls out, interrupting my walk of pain.

  I look up to find Doc exactly where she stood last night behind the short end of the bar—just no longer topless. She’s dressed in a T-shirt with her long weave piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She holds up a to-go cup of coffee in one hand and something fisted inside the other.

  “Coffee and four ibuprofen to go,” she explains. “I know yesterday had to be rough—I figured you could use an extra dose.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, gratefully accepting the black gold and pills.

  She scans my face with those intelligent brown eyes.

  I don’t realize she’s examining me until she says, “It looks like a lot of the swelling has gone down from where that guy hit you. I gave Waylon an ice pack to put on it—sorry I didn’t have a chance to give it to you last night. I figured you should eat first. But that and the ibuprofen should still help. Maybe do a warm compress too when you get to where you’re going.”

  “Thank you,” I say again, even more grateful this time.

  But I’m surprised she knows so much about the situation. “Waylon told you what happened?”

  “Tracked me down as soon as you went in the back with Persy. His trigger finger’s always been itchy—hence Rule number 4. But I think part of last night was him being pissed that he left the guy who hit you alive. That isn't Waylon to let someone cross him. And you’re his woman, so if someone hits you….”