“Thank you,” I say again, even more grateful this time.
But I’m surprised she knows so much about the situation. “Waylon told you what happened?”
“Tracked me down as soon as you went in the back with Persy. His trigger finger’s always been itchy—hence Rule number 4. But I think part of last night was him being pissed that he left the guy who hit you alive. That isn't Waylon to let someone cross him. And you’re his woman, so if someone hits you….”
Her words put a new filter on my conversation with Waylon before he locked me in that room. The way his eyes kept scanning my face….had that also been about the bruises and swelling?
My heart flips and flops, not quite knowing what to do as my chest fills up with all sorts of feelings I shouldn’t be having.
Persy’s right. He’s a total psycho. Last night proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt.
But a weirdly warm, protected feeling flows through me before I remind myself and Doc out loud, “For a price. He left Jonathan alive for a very steep price. And I’m not his woman.”
“Got it.” Doc rolls her eyes and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’ve never dated any of them, but I know a few of those Reapers will stake a claim even after you’ve told them no way in hell. Several times….”
She scowls in a way that makes me think she’s talking about a very specific example.
And it occurs to me that maybe she can help me out with more than coffee, over-the-counter painkillers, and an ice pack for my face. “Could I ask you one more favor?”
“Sure,” Doc answers. Her voice remains cheery enough, but she glances over my shoulder.
And when I look in that direction, Hades is watching me from the bottom of the stairs. Not possessively like Waylon. But I can tell he's definitely monitoring the situation in Waylon's stead.
Nothing I’ve seen since arriving here would lead me to believe that Doc would be able to help me with Hades watching us like a dark shadow.
So instead of asking her for the money and guidance I’d need to get out of this place, I shove all four pills into my mouth and wash them down with a big gulp of coffee. The scald of the hot liquid is just another piece of pain to throw on the pile.
“Thank you,” I tell Doc again.
She flashes another smile. But it’s a lot more brittle than the ones that came before it.
It’s a long, painful walk for me across the empty bar space. Every knotted muscle in my body cramps with dread at the prospect of having to spend several more hours holding onto Waylon for dear life on the back of his monster bike.
This is why my heart soars when I find him parked right outside the roadhouse in a black Ford F-150 pick-up truck with the bike we rode in on strapped to the back.
“Figured this’d be more your speed for the second half of the trip,” he says, leaning out the driver’s side window. His voice is gruff, but his expression is strangely gentle in the morning light.
Tears of gratitude prick my eyes. At first, I’m so relieved. But then, I remember everything that happened yesterday.
Gratitude has no place here.
And as if to confirm that conclusion, Waylon’s expression hardens again as he commands, “Get in the truck.”
I climb into the passenger side and pull the seatbelt across me. “Where are we going?”
Silence.
And there's no display screen like in Jonathan's Mercedes. No robotic voice chiming about how many hours to go until we reach our destination.
The lack of technological direction doesn’t seem to matter, though. Waylon puts the truck in drive and surges forward down the roadhouse’s private road without so much as pulling out his phone.
He might not be telling me where we’re headed. But apparently, he knows how to get there by heart.
CHAPTER 5
Where we're going turns out to be another place without signage and located down a private road in a heavily wooded area. Except, in this case, it's in Iowa.
And this time, when we turn down the side road, there’s not a single roadhouse at the end of it, but an entire town.
Okay, not a town exactly. More like a giant dirt-shaped plus sign with trailers in each quadrant.
At least, I think it’s mostly trailers. Only a few structures have lights turned on at their front doors. I can only assume the other hulking shadows are also RVs.
But the trailer Waylon stops in front of at the very top of the dirt plus sign doesn’t have a helpful light attached to its front. If not for the illumination of the truck’s headlights, I wouldn't know it was even more run-down than most of the other ones we passed. It’s the kind of RV you see in old 90s films, featuring a ragtag gang of underdogs on a road trip mission to complete some sort of goal.