WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

“Hey, listen,” I start to say. “I know this sounds crazy. But I left my phone and wallet behind in Delaware. Could you loan me…”

“Hey, Brown Sugar, fifty bucks to show us your tits!”

I swivel around on the stool to see two guys, one nearly as short as me and the other even taller than the guys Doc called Vengeance. They both have patches that read PROSPECT on their leather vests, and underneath that, an insignia with a coffin overlaid with a spray of flowers.

So, not the same gang. But these motorcycle guys really seem to like the death theme.

The tall guy rubs his hands together and licks his lips. And just in case I think he’s not looking at me like I’m a woman-shaped piece of steak, he says, “When do you start your upstairs shift, baby? We’re in the mood for some dark meat tonight.”

“She doesn’t work here,” Doc informs them over my shoulder. “She’s not on the menu. So git now, boys. Go mess with someone too desperate not to reject you two dumb asses on sight.”

Burn. But the two prospects stay right where they are, both of them leering down at me.

“We just got cashed out from a big haul. We got money to pay you if you come with us upstairs. You got a man here?”

“No, I don’t have a man here,” I answer, screwing up my face. “And I'm not a prostitute. I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“Why not?” the short one asks. “You think you’re better than us?”

“Two hundred,” the tall one offers before I can answer that.

“What? No!” I answer, even though I was about to ask to borrow a similar amount from Doc.

“How about five large?” the big guy asks. He whips out five hundred bills and spreads them like a fan. “I bet that’ll change your mind.”

Well, I suppose it’s nice to know there are levels you won’t stoop to even when you’re at rock bottom. The money is no contest for my dignity.

“It won't,” I assure him.

“Hey guys, just so you know, she came in here on the back of Waylon's bike,” Doc says behind me in the same tone of voice someone would use to say, “just so you know, you’re about to step into a pit of vipers.”

“Who’s Waylon?” the short guy asks.

“Yeah, we don't know no Waylon,” the big one says.

Doc points to the sign. “I’d read rule number four if I were you.”

“Well, you ain't us. Obviously,” the big one answers without bothering to look at the whiteboard.

“And you’re behind the bar, so we’re not allowed to take you upstairs,” the short one whines like a little kid who’s not allowed to touch the candy behind the glass.

“But she's out here, and she said it herself,” the big one continues as if they share the same lizard brain. “She don’t have a man here.”

“That means she's free game,” the small one declares.

Then he has the audacity to reach out and cup my tit over Doc’s scrub top.

I gasp and draw my hand back to give him the slap he deserves.

But before I can, Waylon appears out of nowhere.

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” he asks the guy who squeezed my breast with fury blazing in his crystal blue eyes.

But before the guy can answer, he grabs him by the back of his hair and smashes his face into the bar.

CHAPTER 23

One moment the small guy with the PROSPECT patch on his vest is laughing after squeezing one of my tits. And in the next moment, his head is being smashed into the bar—courtesy of Waylon's hand fisted in the back of his hair.

The biker I haven’t seen since we walked into the roadhouse slams the smaller man's face down once—twice—three deliberate times.

And when he draws the smaller prospect up a fourth time, his face is a mess of blood and broken teeth.

“She’s mine,” Waylon tells him, his voice little more than a feral growl. “You shouldn’t have ever dared to touch her.”

The prospect makes a sound that could either be a bloody cough or a death rattle.

Then Waylon unfists his hand, releasing him as if their “conversation” is done.

And the prospect collapses to the ground as soon as Waylon stops holding him up.

I hope he's just unconscious. All the terrible possibilities, from brain damage to death, flash through my mind as I rush forward to help him.

But Waylon catches my arm before I can drop down to my knees beside him.

“Don't you even dare think about helping that fuck,” he growls in that feral animal way of his.

“Are you crazy?” I say, trying to tear my wrist away from his vice grip. “He could die!”

“He touched you,” Waylon answers, his expression flat with violence. As if that's a reasonable and final answer to my worries about the prospect’s possible death.