Waylon (Ruthless MC 2)

“Well, I can’t tell you that,” she answers. Her voice is a lifeless monotone. “But I can help you get out of that dress.”

She comes over and undoes the fastenings on the back of my dress.

Which I appreciate, but…

I glance at her as she makes quick work of the pearl buttons, way more concerned about her than getting out of the dress now. You can take the nurse out of the ER, but you can’t make the nurse not hear all the red flags Percy’s dropping about her relationship with Hades.

“Are you okay?” I whisper just in case there’s anybody else in this back room that I can’t see. “Do you need me to call somebody for you or get you help?”

“What could you possibly do to help me?” Percy asks, not bothering to match my whisper. “You came in here with Waylon. Him and Hades are the Ruthless Reaper presidents.”

“Yeah, but I’m not with him like that. I didn’t exactly come here of my own volition. And if you didn’t either, maybe we could help each other get out of this mess.”

Percy undoes the zipper under the pearl buttons then steps back to look at me, her eyes less lifeless and more assessing.

“Yeah, you definitely don't belong in this world.”

“What gave it away,” I ask, throwing her a wry smile. “The wedding dress?”

She lets out a little laugh, but it strikes me as a bit sad. And her next words don’t inspire me with much hope for my own situation.

“Just take care of yourself. If Waylon’s got you, you’ll probably have it almost as bad as me. Those two are total psychos. You know that, right?”

My mind crashes, like the bad EKG monitor we only use when the other ones are engaged. No, I didn’t actually know that. But I’m certainly beginning to figure it out the hard way. Fear and regret war inside my head as I digest Percy’s words.

And she’s right. I'm in no position to help her. Everything hurts after that motorcycle ride. My eyes are grainy, and I can feel a tension headache building underneath my not nearly as long weave—which I’m sure must look a mess after being stuck underneath the helmet all day.

Also, my empty stomach starts cramping when I try to imagine what she means by “as bad.”

But I keep on asking her questions as I climb out of my dress—mostly to distract myself from the raging dumpster fire my life has become. “So…is that your real name? Percy? I've never met anyone named Percy—woman or man. But I loved those Rick Riordan Percy Jackson books when I was a kid.”

A bittersweet smile fleets across Percy's lips. “Me too. But my name isn’t Percy with a ‘c’ but Persy with an ‘s.’ It's Hades’ idea of a joke. You know, short for Persephone.”

I nod as I pull on the scrub top. It’s easy to understand why he would have given her the nickname beyond the PROPERTY OF stuff. She might not be blonde or Greek, but she’s gorgeous as a goddess princess for sure. And despite the skanky outfit and back tattoo, she has an air of innocence—or at least the air of someone who used to be innocent.

I give her another scan as I pull up the scrub pants. How long has she been with that beautiful underworld god? How long did it take him to dull the light in her brown eyes?

“What’s your real name?” I ask her out loud.

She shifts her eyes away from my concerned gaze. “My real name doesn't matter.”

“It matters,” I say, reaching out for her hand and taking it in mine. “You matter.”

No, I might not be in any position to help her, but I was still a nurse. And in my experience, people like Persy-short-for-Persephone needed to hear they were worth something from an outside source. “If you have a real name that you prefer, I want to use it.”

Persy stares back at me, her eyes no longer so dull and lifeless. She clasps my hand and opens her mouth to speak.

But another woman's voice interrupts before she can.

“Hey, are you the one that came in on the back of Waylon's bike?”

Persy immediately snaps her mouth closed, and I turn to see another Black woman with a plate of food in her hand, holding open the swinging door. She's very pretty with intelligent brown eyes. The kind of woman who somehow manages to look smart without opening her mouth. And that's an especially impressive feat, in this case, considering that she's only wearing cowboy boots and a teenie-weenie pair of denim cut-off shorts underneath her butt-grazing weave.

“What are you doing in my scrubs?” she asks, raising her eyebrows over the plate of food.

That question and her small perky breasts let me know that this must be the Doc Persy mentioned before. Like Persy, Waylon, and Hades, she has a southern accent.