Waylon (Ruthless MC 2)

Despite my irritation, I give the hand he's holding out a quick inspection. “They look like run-of-the-mill liver spots to me. Common with older age and usually nothing to worry about."

“That's what I figured,” he says with a thoughtful frown. “But why are they on one hand, instead of both of them if I’m not dying like the Internet said?”

I smile. “Nature isn't exactly balanced when it comes to these things. Sometimes, it just does what it wants with one body part and not the other. But if you're really worried about it, you should get it checked out by a primary care doctor who can refer you to a dermatologist. When’s the last time you had a physical, anyway? Preventative methods are still the best medicine. How far away is the closest town? If you let me use the phone, maybe I could call over somewhere and set you up an appointment.”

I sneak that “closest town” question in, hoping he won’t notice it buried in with all the others.

But despite the liver spots, Charlie’s mind is still as sharp as a tack. He thins his lips. “We’re not supposed to tell you that. Waylon doesn't want you to get any ideas about trying to walk out of here. Especially after he had to burn all those things the women gathered up for you yesterday.”

All concern I was feeling for the older man’s peace of mind instantly evaporates. “He didn't have to burn anything. He chose to take all of my things and set them on fire.”

Charlie just sucks his teeth and brings his hand back behind his register. “Well, anyway, thanks for looking at my hand, Dr. Amira.”

“I'm not a doctor….”

But Lucinda comes rushing into the store before I can explain the difference between a nurse practitioner and a doctor.

“Is it true?” she asks me.

“Heya, Luci!” Charlie greets with a friendly wave. “Those diapers and other baby things you ordered special came in—got them for you right here behind the counter.”

“Oh, thank you so much, Charlie,” Lucinda takes a moment to say—before turning right back to me and asking again, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” I ask.

“Crazytown is over at the medical trailer with a bunch of other guys clearing it out. They’re saying Waylon told Dr. Johnny he can’t live here anymore because of how he treated you yesterday. So now you're the new town doctor. Is it true?”

“What? No?” I answer. “This is the first I’m hearing about any of this.”

Lucinda's face falls. “Oh, that's too bad. I was kind of hoping you could give me that checkup like you were talking about yesterday. You know, when you said it was really, really important that I get one?”

Okay, sigh. Fine.

No, I’m not a doctor. But I am a nurse, and in the end, I just can’t bring myself to deny a heavily pregnant woman who’s had zero prenatal care a checkup.

We make our way over to the medical trailer, and to my relief, Lucinda was right. Johnny—who I refuse to call a doctor of any kind—is nowhere to be seen. And a dumpster sits next to the trailer, filled to the brim with what I can only assume was all his crap.

Without all of the former occupant’s stuff in it, the trailer’s actually quite large—not ideal for long-term use. But it has enough room to conduct exams and more medical supplies than I would've guessed at when it was full of Johnny’s clutter.

“Though, it could still do with a thorough cleaning,” I point out to Lucinda. “You know, for whoever Waylon finds to take Johnny’s place.”

“The club maids aren’t coming through until next Saturday,” she says, her tone apologetic. “But after the exam, I can go get some cleaning supplies and have this place sparkling like Meemaw’s.”

“Okay, I’ll take you up on that. But you have to let me do all the cleaning,” I insist. Not because I’m planning to stay, but because I don’t have anything else to do. Cleaning will occupy me for the rest of the day after I’m done with Lucinda’s exam.

I do an old-school pre-ultrasound prenatal exam. Take some measurements, check her dilation and blood pressure. Ask her a few questions about how often the baby kicks.

The good news is that Lucinda seems relatively healthy. The bad news is that I'm pretty sure Johnny’s eyeball diagnosis was off.

“Judging on how strong the heartbeat is and how much the baby’s kicking, I think it's more like you’re eight months along,” I tell Lucinda as I take off the gloves I was grateful to find in one of the filing cabinets.

Lucinda’s eyes widen, and she rubs both hands over her distended belly. “If you’re right, I could be having this baby any day.”

“Exactly. So you’ll need to take it easy and get as much rest as you can. No more offering to clean out whole trailers,” I tell her with a chastising smile. “Do you have support in place for after the baby comes?”