WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

They all have dark hair and wear dog tags over their white tees, but I don’t think they’re related. One of them has a long curly thick beard that makes his ethnicity hard to place. One of them is clean-shaven and tan verging on sunburnt. And the tallest one is pale as a vampire even though it’s August as if summer is a thing he’s never encountered in his life.

He hangs back, his eyes scanning the room like he suspects someone could attack them any minute. Meanwhile, the bearded one gives me a curious glance while chewing on a toothpick, and the clean-shaven guy openly checks me out.

I’m assuming he’s the one who asked if I were her.

He doesn't give me a chance to answer, though—just looks me up and down and says, “So she’s the reason Viking bailed on your show and put us in charge. Whoo-wee, I see why he decided to go the extra five-hundred miles.”

The bearded one takes a toothpick out of his mouth. “Me too. I didn’t know those scrubs we been wanting to take off Doc could fit somebody else so good.”

Griffin Latham chuckles and croons a couple of bars of that old 90s song about being willing to walk five-hundred miles with perfect pitch.

They’re all eyeing me but only talking to each other like I’m some kind of exotic item Waylon picked up on the road to Tennessee. I’m beginning to understand the true meaning of the word objectified.

“Yup, this is her,” Griff tells the three new arrivals. The overhead music switches to a quieter song, so he doesn’t have to shout when he adds, “She don't talk much, but yeah, I can see why our Prez suddenly decided he had somewhere else he needed to be.”

“I'm not talking much because none of you are letting me get a word in as you have a conversation about me like I'm not standing right here,” I tell them.

The clean-shaven one grins. Like a hyena. “Feisty too. But I bet Viking don’t let you backtalk him like that.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Doc says from the short side of the bar where she’s set down my plate of food. “She's been on the back of Waylon’s bike for hours, and she's too tired and hungry to put up with your bullshit.”

The clean-shaven one she turns his hyena grin on Doc. “You jealous we're paying attention to her? You’re not used to us not falling all over you as soon as we walk up to your bar, are you?”

“No, I'm not jealous,” Doc answers. Her formally friendly tone has turned as corrosive as acid. “And believe me, you assuming that I'll get jealous because you're flirting with another black girl like where interchangeable makes me want to take you up on your offer even less.”

“So, you admit you were thinking about it a little bit before I fucked up and started flirting with another girl right in front of you,” he says, smooth as a lothario in a musical.

The quiet guy with the beard smirks, but the glowering vampire steps forward and says, “Enough. I told you to stop with her.”

He’s talking to the clean-shaven guy, but his near-black eyes burn into Doc.

As no-nonsense as Doc acted with Duncan, she immediately looks away from the vampire. And she crosses her arms over her chest as if she's as embarrassed as a normal woman would be to have been caught standing half-naked behind the bar.

“Can I get you guys anything new?” she mumbles. “Or do you just want the usual?”

“We’ll take the usual,” the brooding one answers. “But first, where's your uncle? We’ve got some business to talk about with him.”

Doc shifts nervously, then seems to decide to answer, “Probably in his office watching the game.”

The vampire flicks his dark eyes toward a door at the back of the roadhouse. And my mouth drops open when I see the whiteboard with the establishment's rules hanging above it.

Instead of regular things like No Shirts, No Shoes, No Service, it says

No touching the girls behind the bar.

No killing inside this establishment.

$5K fine for killing inside the establishment.

Don't piss off Waylon.

No fighting inside the establishment.

$5K fine for fighting inside the establishment.

I don’t know what’s more shocking. That the fine for fighting and killing are exactly the same, or that not pissing off Waylon is wedged in between the two rules as if it’s slightly less important than not killing and even more severe than a fistfight.

“Doc,” the tall, brooding one says with a nod. Then he cranks his head toward the office door and walks away without another word to me or Griff.

The bearded one immediately trails him. But Duncan gives Doc a lazy wink before following in their wake.

I slide onto the stool and prepare to continue my conversation with Griffin Latham about why Waylon has the same last name as one of country music’s biggest stars.