WAYLON: Angel and the Ruthless Reaper : Book 1 of the WAYLON Duet

CHAPTER 1 Payback ain’t a b***h. It’s a bastard. And that bastard’s me. People don’t get away with crossing me. Ever. Waylon said that to me once, his eyes glittering like blue diamonds inside his stone-cold face. And I believed him. Both then and now, as I ask for a room on the first floor at the nameless cash-only motel, I found within walking distance of the bus station. The guy behind the bulletproof glass answers, “Fifty bucks.” He’s got sallow skin and bloodshot eyes with huge puffs underneath. My nurse instinct immediately diagnoses him as a functioning alcoholic. I push two twenties and a ten under the barrier, and he slides me a single key with the number two taped over the top. No questions asked. No ID requested. No cheery “enjoy your stay!” as I walk to meet Stephanie outside. I’m glad I told her to wait there, hidden in the shadows at the bottom of the steps leading to the motel entrance’s swinging glass door. She’s already upset enough that we narrowly missed the bus to Vegas and won’t be able to catch the next one until four in the morning. I doubt the guy behind the desk would make her feel any better about stopping after being on the run for so many hours. I look for the door marked with a painted two as we make our way down the motel’s outer corridor. But Stephanie scans the darkness between us and the bus station like she’s afraid something will jump out of it and drag her back to hell. Or someone. That’s not an invalid fear. And the room’s even worse than the service at the front desk. We’ve gotten even less than what I paid for. Cobwebs in all the corners, grime on each wall, stains on every surface that I can’t begin—or want to guess about. A thick layer of dust coats the 80s era AC unit—which turns out not to even work when Stephanie risks a sneeze attack to switch it on. Maid service hasn’t been a thing here in quite a while. Maybe not ever. But at least the bathroom’s got a reachable window that slides up and can be wriggled out of in a worst-case scenario. “If they find us, we can escape out the bathroom window,” I tell Stephanie, trying to distract the both of us from the disgusting state of our temporary sanctuary. “Yeah, if the Reapers show up at the front door, we can run out the back. Like in the movies,” Stephanie agrees. “And hey—looks like they’ve got HBO.” She manages to make her southern-tinged voice as light as mine. But her attempt at a smile comes off as a little sickly. We spend the next few hours engaged in a silent agreement to pretend like we aren’t on the run from men who kill without blinking an eye. Bikers who know how to dispose of a body, so their victims don’t get found. Criminals who never get caught. People don’t get away with crossing me. Ever. The TV’s almost enough to drown out Waylon’s voice in my head. But I don’t feel comfortable enough to actually lay back and relax. Neither does Stephanie. We sit perched on the edge of the room’s bed as we watch Real Time with Bill Maher and a random episode of some TV show about a rich business family with rich business problems. We even cheer when a screen card announces that Insecure is up next. I’ve almost worked up the courage to use the “I don’t wanna know” stain-coated toilet when Stephanie issues a quiet, “Thank you.” When I was a nurse at an official hospital, I almost always answered gratitude with a cheery, “No problem.” Those two words would sound like a condescending lie in this situation, though. Stephanie and I both know how much I’ve risked to save her. People don’t get away with crossing me. Ever. I wrap an arm around her thin shoulders instead and answer, “Everything’s going to be alri—” The thunder of approaching motorcycles cuts off my reassurance. And my breath. Suddenly, sneaking out the window is no longer just a movie-inspired hypothetical. We dash toward the bathroom like small animals who’ve just heard a tiger roar. However, one peek out the filmy window let us know that half-plan had been foolish from the start. The three Reapers they collectively called Vengeance are now stationed on their motorcycles just a few meters away. Their approach wasn’t nearly as noisy as the rest of the gang’s. Scouts, I realize with a start. They were the ones sent out like ravens in leather jackets to hunt us down. They must have arrived earlier—and given the mostly silent hotel manager enough money to answer all of their questions about the woman Waylon wanted found. Ruthless Reapers in the front, and Ruthless Reapers in the back. We’re surrounded. The only thing that keeps me from cursing—or crying—is the abject fear on Stephanie’s face. “Closet,” I tell her, steering her to the room’s only hiding space. But she plasters her hand against the closet door after I push her in and try to close it behind her. “What about you?” I think she thought I’d join her inside—that we’d hide together from the incoming storm. But we have no one to turn to, and Steph only has me. A sacrifice has to be made for even the slimmest chance of saving her from the Reaper’s version of hell. I shake my head. “I’ll face them alone. Tell him we already split ways and that you caught a bus to Milwaukee.” Stephanie’s eyes flare at my last moment plan. “I can’t let you do that. Waylon is going to go crazy on you after what you did. He’ll—” She’s sweet, but… “We don’t have time to argue about this. It’s the only way.” I push at the door, and luckily, she’s too weak and thin to keep me from closing her into the closet alone. “Hide as far back in there as you can and be quiet. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.” “Okay,” she agrees, her voice small and shuddering with tears. But I see she gets the situation. People don’t get away with crossing me. Ever. Okay…okay…. I once again take a seat on the edge of the bed. On TV, Issa and Molly are laughing over something that just happened to them in their silly, sunshine-coated lives. It must be nice to live in L.A. without a motorcycle gang care in the world. I just wish— The crash of wood hitting the wall interrupts my wish before I can finish making it. I snap my eyes to the kicked-in door, and there stands Waylon. I jump to my feet and reel back, shudders running along my spine as weakness claims my knees. I want to act calm—not give him the satisfaction of seeing how scared I am now that he’s caught up to me. But my heart screeches and derails like an out-of-control train at the sight of him standing in the doorway, his crystal-blue eyes blazing. Viking. That’s what the other Reapers sometimes called him, even though Iowa is nowhere near the sea. I never asked him why. But I get it now without a word of explanation. He takes another step forward to loom over me, his face as hard as stone. Then he asks, “What did I tell you about crossing me?”