WAYLON: Angel and the Ruthless Reaper : Book 2 of the WAYLON Duet

CHAPTER 1 I come awake with the smell of leather in my nose and the growl of thunder in my ears. No…not thunder. My eyes pop open when I realize that I’m on the back of a motorcycle, zooming down a dark country road and holding on to someone… Waylon, the man I had only ever agreed to run away with in my dreams. But here I am, on the back of his bike. And this isn't a dream. I've never been on a motorcycle before today. So, there’s no way I would have been able to conjure up the sensation of speeding down an empty road at too many miles per hour. I’m either super sore or super stiff everywhere—my forearms, my inner thighs, that place between my shoulder blades that I can never reach by myself. My ass somehow feels like it’s on fire and completely numb at the same time. And the bike’s rumbling vibration only makes everything feel worse. How had I even managed to fall asleep on the back of this monster while still holding onto Waylon so tight? Even more important than that, why was I here? The answer to that last question comes back to me in a flash of chaotic memories…. Waylon pointing the gun at Jonathan. Both Jonathan and me begging him not to shoot. Waylon pulling back the Glock’s slide anyway. Me crying out, “Don't! Don't! I'll do anything. Please, don’t!” Waylon going still. Lowering the gun and saying, “Anything?” Me swallowing and nodding, too mute to speak. And him staring at me for the longest time before declaring, “All right then. We tried doing it your way. Now we're going to do it mine.” Him putting the gun away and holding out his hand. To me. I took his hand, I recall as the sleep falls away. Too afraid of what he would do if I refused. I followed him out of the church's side entrance, where he’d left his huge bike—a black and chrome monster with a Harley-Davidson attached to the side of its tank. It sat in a spot clearly labeled NO PARKING in huge yellow block letters. And it faced the highway as if it had known way before I did that it would be used as a getaway vehicle. I’d only just begun to wonder how I was supposed to climb onto the huge bike in my wedding dress when Waylon lifted me up and plopped me down on its raised backseat—not with any kind of gentlemanly intention, I sensed. It had simply been the easiest way to get my butt in the seat. He climbed on in front of me without a word. I figured out the hard, nearly falling off way that I should hold on tight to his waist as we roared away from the church like actors in a romantic comedy. But this isn’t a romantic comedy. Not in the slightest. We've been driving for hours and hours. Waylon has yet to say a word beyond a single grunted “bathroom” the one time we stopped to get gas. But I can only assume he wanted to put several states between us before the police came looking for the guy who beat Dr. America to a pulp before running off with his bride. What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? That question comes back with a vengeance, blaring inside my ears even louder than the engine as Waylon turns down a side road. We slow, then come to a stop outside… Actually, I’m not quite sure where the hell we are. I’d spotted a West Virginia sign the last time we stopped for gas. But I couldn’t tell you what state we were in now. “Why are we stopping here?” I ask. Waylon takes off his helmet and shakes out his rust-colored tiger hair. Then he holds his hand out for my helmet. After the last couple of gas-and-potty breaks, I know the routine. I take off my helmet and hand it to him, then brace myself carefully with a hand on each of his shoulders as he lifts me off the bike. But this time, I don’t think we're simply stopping for fuel and a bathroom. First of all, this isn't another gas station. I mean, it is a gas station. Technically. There are a few pumps with motorcycles lined up next to them. But otherwise, it appears to be mostly a two-story wood building with all the lights turned on and loud country music pouring out from inside. Some kind of biker bar, maybe? Several shiny motorcycles are parked in front, and their chrome finishes glint under the building’s lights. Roadhouse. The word, which I’ve only ever associated with road trip comedies, featuring hapless male characters who end up in the wrong place seems to fit this structure to a T. We left so fast, I was forced to abandon my purse with my phone and wallet inside the church. But even if I had my Samsung, I sense this isn’t the kind of place with Yelp reviews. I have to ask Waylon again, “Why are we stopping here?” Several bikers with heavy beards and even longer hair smoke outside. They’re all wearing leather vests over T-shirts like some kind of uniform. They’re laughing and having a good time. But Waylon’s face looks nothing but harsh and unforgiving underneath the shadowed mix of moon and bar light as he answers, “I’m hungry, and you need to change.” The inside of the roadhouse isn't any less ominous than the outside. The modern country music plays at a high volume that would make even the hottest Philly club say, “Come on, blasting music this loud is just ridiculous.” Everyone seems to be shouting at the top of their lungs. I only saw men outside, but inside, there are women everywhere I look. Most of them are White, but there are some Black, Brown, and Asian in the surprisingly multicultural mix. However, their presence doesn't make me feel less out of place. Every single woman inside the roadhouse is scantily clad with wavy tresses falling nearly down to their butt as if super long hair extensions for women are part of some unwritten dress code, along with the leather vests and tees for the guys. More shocking than their hair, though, is that only a few of them are wearing tops. Waitresses of all hues and ethnicities serve crates of beers and plates of hot wings, burgers, and fried chicken with their breasts hanging out. And the smell of rich food hangs thick in the air. So I guess that explains where the meal Waylon wants will be coming from, but I shout above the music to ask him, “How am I supposed to find something else to wear in here? Is there a clothing store I can’t see in this place?” For the first time since he appeared back in my life, Waylon gives me that cocky smile I got to know so well when he was handcuffed to my bed. “Something like that.” As if on cue, a gorgeous man with dark hair appears and says, “About time you got here, brother. I was about ready to give up on you and head out.” The gorgeous man isn’t wearing a leather vest like most of the other guys here. He has on a full jacket the same as Waylon with a patch with the word PRESIDENT scrolled across it in the same biker script. However, that’s where their similarities end. Waylon’s hair is the color of rust, and his blue eyes burn like dry ice. The gorgeous guy’s hair was ink black and curly in a way that put me in mind of immigrants who call their ancestral homes “the old country.” He regards Waylon from underneath a hooded silver gaze that manages to come off as all-knowing and bored at the same time. He speaks with a southern accent, but it isn’t hard and clipped like Waylon’s. His words come out unhurried and slow, like thick and sticky honey. I’ve only been to Louisiana once for a nurse’s bachelorette party in New Orleans. Still, I immediately place his accent as coming from that city where both spirits and tourists like to roam the streets—at least according to the guide of the ghost tour the bride-to-be made us go on with her. He and Waylon clasp hands and exchange a half hug, clapping each other once on the back. “You get what I asked for?” Waylon asks, giving not one excuse or apology for his apparent tardiness. As noisy as it is, his hard-as-nails voice cuts through the din as easily as a steak knife through butter. “You know me,” the beautiful man answers with a smooth smile. Unlike Waylon, he has to shout to be heard. “Anything for my brother up north.” His eyes stray to me in my now dingy white gown. “Did you forget to invite me to the wedding?" Waylon just shrugs and says, “That’s why I told you to bring some clothes.” “Yeah, I got you,” the beautiful man answers. “Percy, come here.” He snaps, and a slender woman steps forward. I was so mesmerized by the man, I hadn’t seen her standing slightly behind him. But she's just as beautiful as him, if not prettier. She has long wavy hair, toasted brown skin, and upturned almond-shaped eyes. She’s slender but not skinny. Her hips fill out a pair of cut-off shorts with the top button unfastened. And she wears what I suppose could be called a top, but it put me more in mind of the bikini. It was basically two long triangles of crocheted yarn tied around her neck and behind her back, just above her waistline. “Percy’s got some clothes for her,” the beautiful man says to Waylon. “Is it okay if she takes her in back to change?” “Yes, please,” I answer. “I really want out of the dress.” Neither the beautiful man nor the woman he calls Percy responds. They just look to Waylon, waiting for his answer as if I didn’t say anything. Waylon glances at me, then gives Percy a single nod. “Make sure you stay with her the whole time. Then drop her off with Doc.” Who’s Doc? And why is Waylon treating me like a child who has to be turned over to another adult for supervision? Waylon walks away with the guy who called him brother before I can inform him I don’t need a babysitter, just some clothes. He doesn’t even wait for Percy to answer in the affirmative. I’m reminded of that thing he told me when I hadn't even known him twenty-four hours. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed. And Percy appears to be on the same page as him. She turns around without a word and starts walking toward the back of the roadhouse, her hips swinging with a sultry sway. I guess she assumes I'll automatically follow like she automatically obeys. I do follow behind her. Partly out of curiosity and partly because I’d follow just about anyone at this point to get out of this wedding dress. I couldn’t feel more out of place. Everybody’s watching me as I walk by, and a few people even stop their conversations to turn and stare. This is like all those times I had to enter lunchrooms where I knew no one after transferring schools and foster families all rolled into one—with a wedding dress on top. Ugh! I rush to catch up with the beautiful woman leading the way. But I slow a little bit when I get a good look at the tattoo on Percy’s back. PROPERTY OF is written in huge Gothic black letters in an arc over her delicate shoulder blades. And the word HADES is stamped across her hourglass waist. So I guess that’s what the beautiful god of a man with a Louisiana accent is called. That tracks, I suppose. I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who looks more like a modern god of the underworld. “Did it hurt, getting such a large tattoo?” I shout over the music. “Not as bad as what he would've done if I didn't get it,” she shouts back. She also has a southern accent, but it’s not nearly as melodic as her apparent possessor’s. Her voice is cynical and a little flat—like a weary woman twice her age, which from the look of her might be even younger than me. She leads me through a swinging door into a much quieter back room with a small row of lockers. I'm assuming this is where the waitresses and bar staff change out of their street clothes before they go out onto the floor completely topless. Percy points an index finger covered in a matte black tuxedo acrylic nail toward a chair next to the lockers. “Those are for you.” A small pile of clothes sits on top of the chair. And I do mean small. I pick up a pair of athletic booty shorts and a top similar to Percy's. Sierra would’ve worn a bodycon dress to my wedding if Trudy had allowed it, and even she would've deemed this outfit too revealing. I know I should be more than grateful for any clothes that don’t weigh double-digit pounds, but I have to ask, “Do you have any tops that go below the belly button? “Hades doesn't allow me to wear anything like that,” she answers. “But I guess you can wear Doc's scrubs. She probably won't mind.” Percy opens a locker and pulls out a pair of blue scrubs just a few shades lighter than the ones I wear for my hospital job—the job that may or may not still be there when I extract myself from this situation and make it back to Delaware. I’m not even sure what this situation is exactly. Waylon commanded me to come with him, or he’d kill Jonathan, so I went. But what does he want from me? A few days of f*****g? Is he trying to take me to Iowa for more punishment? What should I be doing right now? Trying to find a phone? Trying to borrow some money? I’ll need both if I’m going to escape….whatever this situation is. My mind reels, trying to figure out exactly what I should be doing and feeling as I accept the scrubs from Percy with a grateful, “Thank you.” But then I realize I'm missing a key item to make this outfit all the way decent. My wedding dress had a bustier built-in—it’s one piece of practical value. But that meant that I didn't have a bra to wear underneath the scrub top. “I don't suppose this Doc also has a bra I could borrow?” “Yeah, she does, but I don't think it's going to fit.” Percy reaches into the locker and pulls out a bra that appears to be at least two or three cups sizes smaller than what I'd need. “How about you?” I asked, glancing down at her barely contained breasts behind their two triangles of yarn. “You and I seem about the same size. Please tell me Hades allows you to wear bras.” “Well, I can’t tell you that,” she answers. Her voice is a lifeless monotone. “But I can help you get out of that dress.” She comes over and undoes the fastenings on the back of my dress. Which I appreciate, but… I glance at her as she makes quick work of the pearl buttons, way more concerned about her than getting out of the dress now. You can take the nurse out of the ER, but you can’t make the nurse not hear all the red flags Percy’s dropping about her relationship with Hades. “Are you okay?” I whisper just in case there’s anybody else in this back room that I can’t see. “Do you need me to call somebody for you or get you help?” “What could you possibly do to help me?” Percy asks, not bothering to match my whisper. “You came in here with Waylon. Him and Hades are the Ruthless Reaper presidents.” “Yeah, but I’m not with him like that. I didn’t exactly come here of my own volition. And if you didn’t either, maybe we could help each other get out of this mess.” Percy undoes the zipper under the pearl buttons then steps back to look at me, her eyes less lifeless and more assessing. “Yeah, you definitely don't belong in this world.” “What gave it away,” I ask, throwing her a wry smile. “The wedding dress?” She lets out a little laugh, but it strikes me as a bit sad. And her next words don’t inspire me with much hope for my own situation. “Just take care of yourself. If Waylon’s got you, you’ll probably have it almost as bad as me. Those two are total psychos. You know that, right?” My mind crashes, like the bad EKG monitor we only use when the other ones are engaged. No, I didn’t actually know that. But I’m certainly beginning to figure it out the hard way. Fear and regret war inside my head as I digest Percy’s words. And she’s right. I'm in no position to help her. Everything hurts after that motorcycle ride. My eyes are grainy, and I can feel a tension headache building underneath my not nearly as long weave—which I’m sure must look a mess after being stuck underneath the helmet all day. 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.”