Waylon (Ruthless MC 2)

Meemaw just shrugs. “It's his town. That means he can talk to us whatever way he wants.”

I look to the side. “That's not how most towns work.”

“Well, that’s exactly how Waylon Fairgood’s town works,” Meemaw answers with a little laugh. “And believe me, it’s worth taking a few orders with everything we’re getting.”

Before I can reply, a knock sounds on the door—a lot gentler than the one Waylon woke her up with last night.

“Oh, that’s probably Lucinda with your clothes.”

Meemaw crosses the short distance from her bedroom to open the door. “Lucinda! How are you this morning?”

“Oh, I'm good,” a cheery voice answers. She has a thick accent—but not southern. And not exactly Mexican, Puerto Rican, or any of the Caribbean-based ones that often come through the E.R. Maybe she hails from somewhere in South America?

“I passed Waylon on the way over here,” she says. “How did the breakfast date go?”

Wait, did the entire town know about our date?

“Oh, well, they got the eating part right,” Meemaw answers. “I suppose it’s not for me to comment on all the rest. But his woman’s here sitting at the kitchen table if you want to come in and meet her.”

Meemaw opens the door wider, and a Latina woman with her hair pulled back in a long ponytail comes waddling in. She's a teeny-little thing—probably no more than five feet tall, but she has a big box balanced on top of a nearly as big belly.

I jump up from the table and rush forward to take the box out of her hands.

“Thank you!” she says with a sweet smile. “Those are just a few things the other girls and me put together for you. Meemaw told us on the text chain that Waylon dropped you off without any clothes except for the ones on your back. A pair of scrubs? Did Waylon bring you here straight from work?”

I crook my head and squint as I open the box. She knows where I work? Or maybe she just assumed it because of what I arrived in their trailer park town wearing.

“Thank you so much for this,” I say either way. I’m too relieved about what I find inside the box to ask too many questions. There’s underwear and even a few sports bras that look like they’ll fit me. “I didn’t mind the scrubs at all. But I appreciate having something clean to wear while I figure out how to wash them.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” Meemaw assures me. “I already put them in with my things. I’ll take them over to the laundry building right now while you’re at your new job. And, Lucinda, after you show her the way to work, can you get some bacon for me from Charlie? That’s what Waylon wants for his and Amira’s breakfast date tomorrow. I was thinking of making some Belgian waffles to go along with it. Maybe I’ll top them with strawberries and whipped cream.”

“Ooh, that sounds romantic and delicious,” Lucinda says, rolling the “r” on romantic. “And you know, they say strawberries are supposed to be an aphrodisiac.”

Okay, this line of conversation needs to stop now.

“It’s not a date,” I insist to the both of them. “And, Meemaw, you’ve already done so much for me. You don’t have to buy bacon or make anything special or wash my scrubs. If you show me where the laundry building is, I can do a load myself when I return from—”

I cut off, realizing I’ve missed a critical detail. “Wait, what do you mean, my new job?”

CHAPTER 8

“So, is it true you actually made Waylon smile?” Lucinda asks as we walk along the left side of the dirt plus sign. Apparently, the “medical trailer” where I’ll be working is on the west side of the woods between the Ruthless Reapers compound on the north side and the trailer park town on its south.

Now that I can see the unnamed town in broad daylight, it's actually pretty cute and not ominous at all. It looks a lot like a small neighborhood, except instead of brick storefronts, like in Wilmington, there are large double wides with signs for a general store and the laundry where Meemaw must have headed to earlier to wash our clothes. Also, instead of regular people, the residents I see are primarily young women with pregnancy bellies like Lucinda or older ladies with lots of tattoos.

Many of the women turn and openly stare at me as I walk through the town. Because I'm a newcomer? Or because I'm African-American? I'm not sure.

If the women are any indication, the Ruthless Reapers seem to be a club made up of mostly Whites and Latinos. And I’m sure at least a few of them have to be like Waylon, a mix of both.

Anyway, everyone, white and brown, is living in a mobile home. There are a few other semi-wide modular ones like Meemaw’s. But most of them are on wheels, which makes me wonder about the nature of this town. How long has it been around? And what are they going to do in the winter? A few RVs are pop-ups—I can’t see those being livable come December.