“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.”
CHAPTER 22
Griffin….
Griffin Latham, one of the biggest crossover country music stars of the last decade, is smiling. At me! And holding out his hand. To me!
“Oh my God, oh my God, you’re Griffin Latham!” I respond instead of shaking his hand.
He grins down at me, his teeth sparkling and white underneath platinum blond hair. He has a face that could get him called pretty if not for his darker beard and all the tattoos crawling up his neck from under the white tee. He even has some ink underneath one of his eyes, but I’m too flabbergasted to make it out.
I add one more, “Oh my God, you’re really, really Griffin Latham,” just in case he isn’t getting how shocked I am to see him here in this backcountry roadhouse of all places.
“Yeah, I’m Griff,” he answers, crooking his head at me. “And you're the reason Fairgood couldn't make it out to my show.”
“Fairgood?” I repeat, looking from side to side. I know Colin Fairgood's another big country superstar, but… “What do I have to do with Colin Fairgood not coming to your show?”
Griff squints at me. “Waylon put you on the back of his bike, but he didn't tell you his last name?"
Now it's my turn to squint. “His last name is Fairgood? Like Colin Fairgood? Are they, like, related?”
“Are you serious?” Griff shakes his head at me. “They’re—”
“Is that her?” another male voice yells out over the music.
I look up to see three huge guys all dressed in the same leather-cut vests as the one Griffin Latham’s wearing over his T-shirt.