WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

His words slice through me. But I try not to show how hurt I am. I level out my voice to make my final point. “So, you admit it. You’re a liar.”

“Yeah, I’m a liar.” He flicks his eyes back up to me, two icy lakes in a face carved out of stone. “I’m a devil born. Ask anybody about it, and they’ll tell you that truth about me.”

I nod. Believing him. Believing he’s a devil above all things. My chest aches with all the new entries for my “Should’ve Known” list.

“But I wasn’t lying about wanting to be with you,” he says, dipping his head to level his eyes with mine. “What we have, angel…that ain’t a lie.”

I stare blankly at him. Why would he call me that after admitting he’s the devil? Doesn’t he know that people who are trying to be good have no business messing around with people who only want to do bad?

“Oh yeah?” my brother asks Waylon, reminding me he and Pequeño are still here. “If you’re so in love with my sister, prove it. Call back all those cartels and take back what you said about me and mine.”

The fire in Waylon’s eyes flickers like Ant threw a pail of water over his big declaration of…whatever crazy thing he thinks we are.

“That’s separate,” he tells me, his voice switching to hard and final. He doesn’t even glance over at Ant; he just keeps his eyes on me. “The Reyes underestimated me. They hit me when I was at my most weak and vulnerable. Like you said, I’d be dead if not for you. I can’t let him get away with that. But like I said, this ain’t about them. It’s about us. I want to be with you. And I know you want to be with me too. Don’t deny it.”

The high school counselor’s words ring in my ears.

Jonathan’s words ring in my ears.

That question I’ve been asking myself all week….What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? That question blares in my ears—too loud for me to ignore any longer.

Then over all of that, Waylon asks, “So how ‘bout it? Will you come home with me to Iowa?”

CHAPTER 17

The following August

“So how about it? Will you come with me to Iowa?”

I stare up at the tall, dangerous criminal with a gun in each hand, asking me these impossible questions.

What he’s suggesting—that I leave with him, leave behind Jonathan and my life in Delaware…the things he’s asking me to do are so wrong.

But I don’t want to be right. I want to be with a man who makes me feel things I never have before, who makes me want to do things I never considered. I want to be dirty. I want to be wrong. With him.

Throwing all my goals out the window, I answer with my heart. “Yes.”

Waylon audibly inhales, his chest caving as if he’s been shot again. This time in the heart.

Then a huge smile spreads across his face, filled with tender disbelief.

“Yes?” he repeats like he’s afraid he didn’t hear me right.

His surprise is a gift. One I’ll treasure forever.

“Yes,” I confirm with tears in my eyes.

He drops the guns. And miraculously, they don't go off before he envelops me in a crushing hug.

At first, it feels good…like coming home. But then it begins to hurt.

My whole body radiates with pain.

“Waylon, let me go. You're hurting me.”

“I’m not the one hurting you,” he answers. “Otherwise, you wouldn't be having this dream.”

What?

“Mimi.… Mimi, wake up.”

Someone is shaking me. Waylon?

No. Suddenly, the mismatched guns have returned to his hands, and he’s standing about three or four feet away from me. Just far enough that I can't reach him when I hold out my arms.

I open my mouth to say his name. But nothing comes out.

And, his face becomes hard—harder than I've ever seen it. “Time for me to get back to Iowa and for you to return to the life you wanted, angel.”

I said yes, but he’s going to Iowa without me? The blood freezes in my veins, and my heart shatters.

“No, don't go,” I beg. And for some reason, I apologize. “I'm sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so sorry too. And don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

The promise is exactly what I want to hear. But the voice making them isn’t Waylon’s.

No, Waylon just stands there, frozen in time. So close. But too far away to touch.

I jerk awake. A dream. It was only a dream. The same one I’ve been having since last September when I didn’t take Waylon up on his invitation to run away with him to Iowa.

Of course, I told him no. I also threatened to call the police if he didn’t take himself and the guns he’d been pointing at my brother and Pequeño out of my apartment.