WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

I guess people don’t feel they need one when it comes to Waylon. He wants me to stay, so she stalled me when I asked for her help, then immediately told him what I was trying to do. Probably without a second thought.

Instead of eating lunch or dinner, I strip naked and wash nearly everything I’m wearing—a tee with the Peter Pan collar and a pair of jeggings. I run the shirt's armpits and the crotch of my borrowed panties under the spigot in the bathroom sink. Then I hang them out the window to dry for most of the day. And when I go to bed, I hide them underneath all the T-shirts, just in case Meemaw figures out how to get in here.

I refuse to let my one decent outfit get taken from me like everything else.

Meemaw’s probably expecting me to stay locked in my room forever. But I make my way downstairs toward the smell of another fragrant breakfast the next morning.

I find her in the kitchen again. And Waylon’s sitting at the table as if we’re all in some sort of videogame that completely reset when I lost.

“There you are!” Meemaw calls out as soon as I emerge from the short hallway. “I was just telling Waylon about how you didn't eat anything last night. I was beginning to worry you had plans to starve yourself.”

No more nice girl act for me. Meemaw had proven she was no better than Waylon yesterday. Worse, actually. She was one of those foster parents who pretended to be nice, acted like they wanted to help you but betrayed you in the end.

I ignore her completely and walk straight over to Waylon.

“I need money to buy myself something to eat at the general store.”

Waylon shifts his gaze to Meemaw, who immediately responds with, “I'm making Belgian waffles for your breakfast date right now. You don’t have to go to the store. Just give me a few minutes.”

I keep my eyes on Waylon and repeat, “I need money to buy myself something to eat. Are you going to give it to me? Or do I have to submit by doing something horrible like sucking your dick just so I won’t starve?”

Meemaw gasps behind me. “I would never let you starve!” she sputters.

But Waylon simply holds my gaze with those two icy lakes he calls eyes.

After a few beats, he pulls out one of those five thousand dollars bundles and gives me the top one-hundred-dollar bill. “You can keep the change.”

The only polite thing to say here would be, “Thank you.”

But I'm done being polite.

I snatch the bill from his hand and head out, ignoring Meemaw’s protests about how breakfast is nearly made.

“I can't believe she's going to get something junky at the general store when I'm making her a homemade meal,” she says to Waylon, her voice laced through with exasperation.

“She grew up hard without anybody she could trust,” Waylon explains, his voice flat, like he’s just giving information. “You were right to text me, but it's going to take her a while to forgive you for that.”

His words make me pause in the doorway. He’s right. That's exactly how I feel—betrayed like in my foster days. I mean, just all kinds of triggered.

I don't know what's more disturbing…

That Waylon is here and making excuses for me after everything he did to me—what he’s still doing to me by keeping me here.

Or that he can read me so well.

CHAPTER 30

Charlie, the barrel-chested older man who runs the general store, frowns at the pile of groceries I place beside his register, then back up at me.

“Is Meemaw all right?” he asks. “I thought she was making you and Waylon Belgian waffles for your breakfast date this morning. Lucinda came in here special yesterday for bacon.”

Wow. Does everybody in this start-up town know everybody’s business?

“I decided not to play their little game anymore,” I answer between clenched teeth. “Can you just ring me up?”

Charlie snaps a brown paper bag open and begins to put my stuff inside it. But he gives my perishable items the stink eye: fruit, a ton of frozen dinners, bagels, and some cream cheese I scored from the store’s large but single refrigerator.

“Bagels!” he spits out like I’ve included rat poison in the collection of things I plan to eat. “I don’t know why you’re eating these cut-rate things. That woman makes the best Belgian waffles in Iowa. Used to be a time when me and the other guys would get into fights over who would get her on Saturdays for maid service, just because we knew she'd be making us Belgian waffles if we asked her nice. Also, she was a fucking spark plug in bed. Crazytown Sr. eventually won that fight permanently when she let him move in. Lucky bastard. I wouldn’t have minded dying between those sweet thighs.”