WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

I glance from side to side. Edit my original question. Does everyone in this start-up town know everyone else’s business and spill all the tea? That was way, way more information than I wanted to know about Meemaw. Or Charlie.

“Just ring me up, please.” I bring out the one-hundred-dollar bill Waylon gave me. “How much do I owe you?”

Charlie sets the bag full of my stuff on the counter but waves his hand at me when I push forward the bill. “Your money’s no good here—or anywhere else in town, you'll be finding. Waylon doesn't get charged for nothing, and you’re Waylon’s woman.

“I am not his woman,” I insist, thrusting the dollar toward him again.

Charlie just slides the bag forward. “Well, if Waylon tells me that, I’ll believe you. Till then, I'm not charging you a dime. So you can either take this bag or leave it here and eat those Belgian waffles Meemaw made for you—from scratch, by the way. Who turns down Belgian waffles made from scratch?”

I sigh and take the bag. Maybe I won with Waylon this morning, but this feels like another defeat.

“And hey, while you're here, could you take a look at these dark spots,” Charlie says, holding out his right hand. “You think it's cancer? The internet says it might be cancer.”

Oh, the good old, needlessly scary internet. The bane of every medical professional’s existence.

Despite my irritation, I give the hand he's holding out a quick inspection. “They look like run-of-the-mill liver spots to me. Common with older age and usually nothing to worry about."

“That's what I figured,” he says with a thoughtful frown. “But why are they on one hand, instead of both of them if I’m not dying like the Internet said?”

I smile. “Nature isn't exactly balanced when it comes to these things. Sometimes, it just does what it wants with one body part and not the other. But if you're really worried about it, you should get it checked out by a primary care doctor who can refer you to a dermatologist. When’s the last time you had a physical, anyway? Preventative methods are still the best medicine. How far away is the closest town? If you let me use the phone, maybe I could call over somewhere and set you up an appointment.”

I sneak that “closest town” question in, hoping he won’t notice it buried in with all the others.

But despite the liver spots, Charlie’s mind is still as sharp as a tack. He thins his lips. “We’re not supposed to tell you that. Waylon doesn't want you to get any ideas about trying to walk out of here. Especially after he had to burn all those things the women gathered up for you yesterday.”

All concern I was feeling for the older man’s peace of mind instantly evaporates. “He didn't have to burn anything. He chose to take all of my things and set them on fire.”

Charlie just sucks his teeth and brings his hand back behind his register. “Well, anyway, thanks for looking at my hand, Dr. Amira.”

“I'm not a doctor….”

But Lucinda comes rushing into the store before I can explain the difference between a nurse practitioner and a doctor.

“Is it true?” she asks me.

“Heya, Luci!” Charlie greets with a friendly wave. “Those diapers and other baby things you ordered special came in—got them for you right here behind the counter.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Charlie,” Lucinda takes a moment to say—before turning right back to me and asking again, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” I ask.

“Crazytown is over at the medical trailer with a bunch of other guys clearing it out. They’re saying Waylon told Dr. Johnny he can’t live here anymore because of how he treated you yesterday. So now you're the new town doctor. Is it true?”

“What? No?” I answer. “This is the first I’m hearing about any of this.”

Lucinda's face falls. “Oh, that's too bad. I was kind of hoping you could give me that checkup like you were talking about yesterday. You know, when you said it was really, really important that I get one?”

Okay, sigh. Fine.

No, I’m not a doctor. But I am a nurse, and in the end, I just can’t bring myself to deny a heavily pregnant woman who’s had zero prenatal care a checkup.

We make our way over to the medical trailer, and to my relief, Lucinda was right. Johnny—who I refuse to call a doctor of any kind—is nowhere to be seen. And a dumpster sits next to the trailer, filled to the brim with what I can only assume was all his crap.

Without all of the former occupant’s stuff in it, the trailer’s actually quite large—not ideal for long-term use. But it has enough room to conduct exams and more medical supplies than I would've guessed at when it was full of Johnny’s clutter.