Waylon (Ruthless MC 2)

Easy like that.

“I’m going to miss you,” I realize out loud the first Friday in November, the evening before he’s due to leave out on a three-day trip.

He doesn’t leave town often anymore. Since the beginning of the construction project, he’s been training a few of the compound-side Reapers to take on what he calls the high-level devil shit. Vengeance stops by the house a lot. Their club names are actually Hyena, Vampire, and Desert Eagle—D.E. for short. And not going to lie, I feel incredibly proud of myself for semi-guessing two out of three.

But every once in a while, Waylon himself has to attend an in-person meeting with people he usually refers to by their state and crime affiliation. Like, “Rhode Island Triad,” or “North Carolina Mafia,” or “Texas Cartel.”

Usually, he takes me straight to the bedroom as soon as he gets back. I already know from previous experience that I’ll be going into the clinic sleepy and sore on Tuesday morning because he’ll keep me up all night when he returns home on Monday.

But that Friday night, I discover the weird ache of missing someone terribly even before they’re gone.

“I’m going to miss you, too, angel,” he tells me in an instant like he was just waiting for me to say it first. “Already putting together a lesson plan to punish you for turning me into a weak-ass bitch who can’t be without his woman for too long.”

I laugh. Then I ache in my chest. Then for some reason, we just hold each other all night instead of having frenzied sex like we did the last few times he went on an overnight trip.

I walk him out to his bike and hug him some more. And he lets me cling to him, even though he’s told me on more than one occasion, he’s an impatient, grumpy fuck.

Not this morning. He lets me hold on to him as long as I want, and he doesn’t let go until I do.

“Did I ever say I told you so for how things worked out with Waylon?” Meemaw asks me at her November check-up the Monday he’s due back—in the same tone of voice people use to ask if they forgot something truly important.

I guess Waylon’s lessons on how to be myself must’ve really set in—I don’t even resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, Meemaw, you’ve told me. Several times.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop Meemaw from recounting her part in the story one more ‘gin.

“Oh, you were so heated with me. But can you imagine me just letting you run off when I knew what Waylon had planned for you?” She splays a hand across the breasts she let me know were implants at her first check-up.

That had taken place back in August when she showed up at the medical trailer with a housewarming casserole in her first round of I told you so’s.

And it had pretty much been an I Told You So tour ever since Waylon moved into the yellow dream house with me—with Meemaw recasting herself in our story as the saintly Cupid and me as a bumbling fool.

I use that terminology because that’s how she phrased it during her big speech at the grand opening party for her inn. “Why I practically had to chase her down with an arrow! But I made sure she stuck around!”

“Meemaw,” Waylon intoned from the back of the room with his arm strung around my shoulders and his voice full of dire warning.

And I asked, “What does Waylon and me have to do with the opening of your inn?”

“I’m just pointing out that I am extremely good at bringing people together! Thank goodness you gave me this inn to run!” Meemaw answered to a round of cheers and laughter.

And now here she is again, working another “I told you so” into our conversation disguised as a monthly check-up.

“You know, Meemaw, as much as I value preventive care, people are only supposed to have check-ups once a year. Twice at most. Especially if they’re fit as a fiddle like you.”

“The only reason I bring it up is because you and Waylon have been doing so good together,” Meemaw continues as if she didn’t hear a word I said. “I know you didn’t believe it was going to work out when he first brought you here….”

“Threatened and blackmailed me, then refused to let me leave,” I edit.

Though I shouldn’t have bothered. Of course, Meemaw keeps going like a train that won’t stop. “But look at you now. I was just saying to Maybelline the other day while she was doing my hair that you two are getting on like one of those interracial romance movies they’re always playing on Netflix at Christmas—except with more fucking—way, way more fucking. You two have been going at it like rabbits ever since he moved you into that house.”