WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

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.