Waylon (Ruthless MC 2)

“But I thought you were supposed to be the town’s new nurse,” Meemaw replies, setting my scrubs aside with a confused smile. “That's what Waylon said.

“I’m not, and I’m not supposed to be here,” I answer, my voice quavering. “It doesn't matter what Waylon said.”

I take Meemaw’s hands in mine. “Lucinda said you are kind and that you helped her out when she really needed it. So I need you to help me right now, too. Tell me where I am. I will sneak out of here in the dead of night and walk for as long as it takes to get anywhere that’s not here. But I need to know which way to go. I also need money. I will pay you back when I return to Delaware and can access my bank account. I promise you that on my soul. But I need you to loan me some money so that I can escape from this place.”

Meemaw looks at me, her eyes large with shock. But then she simply asks, “How much do you need? Is five hundred enough? And don’t you even think about sneaking out of here during the night. I can cash a check at Charlie’s and borrow his car to drive you myself. But five hundred is his limit for cashing checks.”

She actually sounds apologetic that she can’t give me more.

Relief makes my eyes well up with tears. “Five hundred dollars is more than enough, I think. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No need to thank me. This small town of ours might be new, but this is a place where we help each other out so that everybody can live their best life,” Meemaw answers, grabbing her purse. “Just give me twenty minutes or so to get there and get back, okay? You can make yourself a sandwich while I’m gone.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, nearly overcome with gratitude.

After she’s gone, I do exactly as she suggested. I grab some bread and lunch meat from the refrigerator and make myself a couple of sandwiches. Then I find a little roll-on suitcase and throw in my scrubs along with all the things Lucinda brought over. I probably won’t be able to get on a plane without any ID. I might need a few changes of clothes for a long bus trip.

The door opens behind me just as I'm closing up the suitcase.

Now it’s my turn to say, “That was faster than I expected!”

I stand up and ask, “Is it okay if I borrow your suitcase? I promise to send it back when I get to—”

I cut off when I turn around to see the person standing at the door.

Not Meemaw.

Waylon.

He stands there in only a pair of camo pants and boots. He’s shirtless and sweaty like he was hard at work somewhere else before he came over here.

His hair is tied back, which makes his face seem even more furious when he asks, “You really thought I or anybody here was going to let you leave?”

CHAPTER 9

Waylon.

Waylon is here glowering down at me instead of nice Meemaw, who must have betrayed me and told him I was trying to leave.

My heart is a frantic beat inside my chest. I thought I was so close to getting out of here. But now, all that hope is dying like the light in Stephanie’s eyes.

Still, I dare to answer his question, “You really thought I wasn’t going to try to leave? I have a life in Delaware. A job I need to try to get back. You can’t keep me here!”

He looks at me for a hot, angry beat—then surges forward.

This time I’m not as brave as when I returned to the apartment and found him out of his handcuffs. He was angry then, but he’s a different kind of furious now. I cringe and brace when he comes right at me.

But he doesn’t grab me. He grabs the suitcase I just packed. Grabs it and heads toward the modular house’s sliding back door, his heavy boots clomping across the laminate floor.

“What are you doing?” I demand, following in his wake.

Instead of answering, he stomps outside with the suitcase.

“What are you doing?” I demand again, jogging through the sliding glass door he opened into what turns out to be a shared backyard.

Four other trailer homes are circled around it, and there's a fire pit in the middle of the green with a grill. I can imagine people meeting out here with beers, barbecuing, roasting marshmallows on sticks fetched from the nearby woods, and having a good time.

Not today. Shadows peak out at us from behind the other trailers’ glass doors—nosy neighbors who want to see what’s going on but somehow know better than coming out here.

Probably because of the look on Waylon’s face, furious and crazed.

I mean, I wouldn’t be out here if he didn’t have the suitcase.