Waylon (Ruthless MC 2)

I give her one of the Z-packs in Johnny’s left behind medicine crate and ignore her just like I ignore all the other coupled-up old ladies who’ve told me the same thing.

But at least she does hair and pays me with some desperately needed hair products. She even offers to swing by to handle my weave in a couple of weeks when she’s feeling better, and after “you come to your senses and move in with Waylon.”

I’m grateful for the offer, even if I have no plans to move in with Waylon or fall into his bed like so many of the old ladies seem to think I should.

Quite a few of the actual old lady visitors insist on telling me that Meemaw’s upset that I’m upset.

“You really shouldn’t hold what she did against her,” a taller older lady tells me while I’m listening to a wheeze she’s worried about with the stethoscope Johnny left behind. “You don't cross Waylon, you know. Not ever. That man’s crazier than both Crazytown’s put together. Everybody but Dr. Johnny knows that—and believe me, he probably would’ve been a lot nicer to you if he hadn’t been half-drunk. You can't blame her for taking Waylon’s side, knowing him like we do.”

I mean, I totally can blame her for that. But I have to admit, my heart is starting to soften toward the little old lady.

She looks so sad every time I make myself my own breakfast and lunch before going to the medical trailer in the morning. And Waylon, perhaps getting the message the first couple of times I walked right past him out the door, has stopped coming over for the breakfast date I never agreed to have with him in the first place. I think she might miss daily company and cooking for somebody else.

But I can’t bring myself to let her make me dinner when we get home from my temporary job like I’m not still pissed off.

Luckily, a few patients feel so guilty about not paying me that they bring over casseroles. That means I have dinner for days.

Casseroles aren’t half-bad, actually. Not bad at all. They come in an endless range of starch and meat combinations. And they're also weirdly comforting. I can see why they're a staple of the Midwest.

Plus, I can easily heat up as much of my payment casseroles as I want to eat in the microwave and take it back to my room where I watch TV by myself instead of having to listen to Meemaw try to make excuses for herself.

Over a week passes by in our uneasy cohabitation, which I mostly avoid with work.

But eventually, I notice that I’m running low on antiseptic wipes and have to stop everything to get more from the store.

“We don't have any of those in stock,” Charlie tells me. “Dr. Johnny used to pick up his own supplies when he went into the city or get them delivered.”

“Well, I’m not allowed to go into the city. And I don’t have access to any delivery services. Can you order some for me?” I ask. “I’m also going to need latex gloves, bandages, and some cotton swabs.”

Charlie raises his eyes to the side as if I’ve given him a complicated math problem to solve. “That sounds like a pretty big purchase.”

"And?"

He winces. “You’ll have to get Waylon to sign off on everything before I can put it in. It’s Saturday, so he might still be in his trailer.”

So that’s how I come to find myself returning to the place I refused to enter ten days ago.

I’m irritated that Charlie won’t just put in an order, considering this town is supposed to be some kind of utopia and having a well-supplied medical center benefits everyone. But people are waiting back at the medical trailer for me, and I won’t be able to do my job for long without wipes. So instead of going back and forth with the general store owner, I grit my teeth and walk toward Waylon’s trailer at the top of the dirt plus sign.

I mean, I can do this. Right?

Sure, the last time I was at his trailer, things got so heated between us, I actually considered giving into his crazy demands. But I haven't seen Waylon in a week. Only heard about him from other people. Constantly. Like he’s an unseen god, affecting everything we do.

Or the devil.

Either way, the attraction I felt before shouldn’t be an issue—especially considering how pissed off I still am about him setting my clothes on fire. I mean, I’ve been wearing the same outfit for several days straight.

And besides, it isn’t like we will be alone together. I’ll just stand outside his trailer and ask him to text Charlie or whatever to clear my much-needed purchase for his town.

With that thought in mind, I knock on his trailer door.