They all have dark hair and wear dog tags over their white tees, but I don’t think they’re related. One of them has a long curly thick beard that makes his ethnicity hard to place. One of them is clean-shaven and tan verging on sunburnt. And the tallest one is pale as a vampire even though it’s August as if summer is a thing he’s never encountered in his life.

He hangs back, his eyes scanning the room like he suspects someone could attack them any minute. Meanwhile, the bearded one gives me a curious glance while chewing on a toothpick, and the clean-shaven guy openly checks me out.

I’m assuming he’s the one who asked if I were her.

He doesn't give me a chance to answer, though—just looks me up and down and says, “So she’s the reason Viking bailed on your show and put us in charge. Whoo-wee, I see why he decided to go the extra five-hundred miles.”

The bearded one takes a toothpick out of his mouth. “Me too. I didn’t know those scrubs we been wanting to take off Doc could fit somebody else so good.”

Griffin Latham chuckles and croons a couple of bars of that old 90s song about being willing to walk five-hundred miles with perfect pitch.

They’re all eyeing me but only talking to each other like I’m some kind of exotic item Waylon picked up on the road to Tennessee. I’m beginning to understand the true meaning of the word objectified.

“Yup, this is her,” Griff tells the three new arrivals. The overhead music switches to a quieter song, so he doesn’t have to shout when he adds, “She don't talk much, but yeah, I can see why our Prez suddenly decided he had somewhere else he needed to be.”

“I'm not talking much because none of you are letting me get a word in as you have a conversation about me like I'm not standing right here,” I tell them.

The clean-shaven one grins. Like a hyena. “Feisty too. But I bet Viking don’t let you backtalk him like that.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Doc says from the short side of the bar where she’s set down my plate of food. “She's been on the back of Waylon’s bike for hours, and she's too tired and hungry to put up with your bullshit.”

The clean-shaven one she turns his hyena grin on Doc. “You jealous we're paying attention to her? You’re not used to us not falling all over you as soon as we walk up to your bar, are you?”

“No, I'm not jealous,” Doc answers. Her formally friendly tone has turned as corrosive as acid. “And believe me, you assuming that I'll get jealous because you're flirting with another Black girl like we’re interchangeable makes me want to take you up on your offer even less.”