WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

“All she needs is a bed,” Waylon repeats.

He throws the older woman an irritated look. But he doesn’t even glance my way before jogging down the steps without so much as a goodbye.

The little old lady doesn’t seem too surprised by his behavior. She just opens the door to her home wider and says, “I've got a nice fresh bed all made up for you, isn’t that nice? Crazytown whispered in my ear this morning that I should make up a bed because maybe I was gonna have a visitor. He's always telling me things like that. Still watching over me. Even from the other side.”

The inside of her home is just as pleasant and inviting as the outside. Peak little old lady— sofa covered in a flowered fabric, blonde-wood dining table with a lazy susan on it dividing the space between the half-kitchen and the half-dining room. She even has figurines lining the windowsill as if to say, “I really am just a sweet little old woman. You don't have anything to worry about from me, Amira.”

As strange as this whole situation is, I feel myself relaxing for the first time since I woke up two days ago.

“Can I make you anything?” she asks. “Coffee? Tea? Got the Brita all filled up if you want a glass of water."

I smile at her kind offer, and some more of the tension from my argument with Waylon flows out of me. “I guess I'll take a glass of water. Thank you…”

I trail off, realizing I don't know her name. “Um, sorry Waylon didn’t introduce me. I’m Amira. What should I call you?”

“Oh, you can call me Meemaw,” she answers, bustling over to the refrigerator. “Just like Waylon.”

I widen my eyes. “Your Waylon's grandmother?"

“Oh, I was never blessed with children or grands related by blood.” Meemaw shakes her head regretfully over the glass of water she’s pouring. “So I'm everybody's Meemaw. That's what we all decided when we set up the new town—by the way, there’s another bathroom off that upstairs bedroom. The boys plumbed it special for me. You can take a nice hot shower before you go to bed if you’re wanting one.”

Bless her heart. She was basically saying I stink without outright declaring that. But I just about weep when the warm water hits my overtired body a few minutes later. There wasn't another pain killer in the world that could compare with a nice hot shower after two days on the road.

And when I come back into the room, wrapped in a towel, I find a cup of tea waiting for me as if Meemaw knew I’d be ready for one after I finally got clean.

So this is Waylon’s idea of the hard way? I wonder what he was thinking in bringing me here as I sip on the cup of hot tea I didn't know I needed. Meemaw’s guest room is honestly the only place in this unnamed Iowa town I would’ve felt comfortable resting in after the last two days.

And it just might be the perfect place to gather my thoughts and figure out a way out of the situation. One thing is for sure, there’s no way in hell I should have ever considered—even for a few heated moments—doing things the so-called “easy way” with Waylon.

You’d think I'd have trouble falling asleep in the house of a woman I only met an hour ago, no matter how nice she seems. But I’m out after I pull the covers over my clean body and lay my head on the pillow. And, I don't wake up until the next day when I open my eyes to the side of morning sunshine pouring through a sparkling clean window and the smell of bacon cooking downstairs.

Meemaw could keep her potato and tuna fish casserole, but bacon I can do! I jump out of bed, excited to start the day with a good breakfast.

Unfortunately, I don’t have anything to wear, though. Even if the scrubs Doc loaned me weren’t dirty, they’ve mysteriously disappeared from where I left them on the floor last night.

There are a few clothing items in the dresser drawers, but the jeans are all men's sizes—too big in the waist and way too long. One of the tops works, though. I opt for a baggy Griffin Latham concert tee with SECURITY written across the back. It’s long enough to fall to my knees like a t-shirt dress. So, I don't feel too self-conscious when I walk down the stairs toward the smell of Meemaw’s bacon.

At least I don't feel too self-conscious before reaching the front room.

Meemaw is at the stove frying bacon all right, but a guest is sitting at her half-dining room table.

Waylon.

He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans and looking more handsome than anyone should after two days on the road. Like he got an even better night of sleep than me.