WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

And now here she is again, working another “I told you so” into our conversation disguised as a monthly check-up.

“You know, Meemaw, as much as I value preventive care, people are only supposed to have check-ups once a year. Twice at most. Especially if they’re fit as a fiddle like you.”

“The only reason I bring it up is because you and Waylon have been doing so good together,” Meemaw continues as if she didn’t hear a word I said. “I know you didn’t believe it was going to work out when he first brought you here….”

“Threatened and blackmailed me, then refused to let me leave,” I edit.

Though I shouldn’t have bothered. Of course, Meemaw keeps going like a train that won’t stop. “But look at you now. I was just saying to Maybelline the other day while she was doing my hair that you two are getting on like one of those interracial romance movies they’re always playing on Netflix at Christmas—except with more fucking—way, way more fucking. You two have been going at it like rabbits ever since he moved you into that house.”

Meemaw shakes her head like she just can’t believe it. “I mean, there were those handcuffs and rope Lucinda found when she cleaned your house last September. And Crazytown was telling me the other day that Waylon takes a break at work at least twice a week to ‘go see you for lunch.’”

My cheeks burn as she puts air quotes around “go see you at lunch.”

I’ve gotten a lot better about not caring so much about what people think of me or having to be perfect. But living in Angel Pond has taken some adjustment.

The culture here makes the Wilmington St. Joseph ER seem like a stuffy library. There’s not a lot of judgment, considering that most of the men are involved in criminal activities, and most of the women started off at the compound as either sex workers or groupies. But there’s also zero discretion. So the one time I forgot to pre-clean for Lucinda before heading off to work at my clinic behind the house, the story of what she found in our bedroom spread like wildfire around town.

“Is there a point to all these observations?” I ask, picking up her manilla file to mark her down for another clean check-up.

Meemaw cranes her head as I walk over to the filing cabinets Waylon got me last month to drop in her folder.

“It’s just you two are having lots and lots of sex, but Charlie says Waylon’s still picking up boxes of condoms. I know Waylon doesn’t trust you enough to let you have things like a phone or a car. And even as sexed-up and happy as you two are these days, that has to be frustrating for you. So, I was thinking maybe if you stopped using condoms and had a baby, he’d trust you to stay. I mean, how long can you two go on like this?”

There were so many disturbing things to pick out of that statement. Charlie’s IDGAF behavior around customer confidentiality, for one. Meemaw’s apparent belief that the best thing you can do to get a man to trust you is throw a baby at him, for two. But the most disturbing thing of all is that Meemaw pretty much nailed my current situation on the head.

I submitted.

And Waylon was right. That did turn out to be the easier way.

Everything stabilized for us from there, and over the last few months, we’ve grown closer and closer, with—okay, Meemaw was right about that too—tons and tons of sex.

I know where we are now—on several acres of land about two hours away from Cedar Rapids. Amazon doesn’t deliver out here, but Waylon’s gone to what everyone here refers to as “the big town” a couple of times with a list of things I want or need for myself and the clinic. He’s gone there, but so far, he hasn’t trusted me to come with him. Or anywhere outside of Angel Pond.

He also still doesn’t trust me with a phone or laptop—even though I could use both for the clinic. Unlike Johnny, I have to run all my prescriptions through the general store. And though Charlie always gets me exactly what I ask for, I don’t love not knowing who he’s sourcing from.

I have drawers full of casual clothes, and Waylon even got me scrubs and a couple of white coats with my name stitched across them. But I didn’t pick any of it out.

I like my patients and the new friends I’ve made here in Angel Pond. I like being exactly who I am without judgment each and every day.

But I haven’t spoken to Sierra in three months. Even if Jonathan told everyone I ran off with some guy, she has to be concerned. I also worry about where I left things with Ant, especially now that I’ve had my big breakthrough.