But this isn’t a romantic comedy. Not in the slightest. We've been driving for hours and hours. Waylon has yet to say a word beyond a single grunted “bathroom” the one time we stopped to get gas. But I can only assume he wanted to put several states between us before the police came looking for the guy who beat Dr. America to a pulp before running off with his bride.

What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?

That question comes back with a vengeance, blaring inside my ears even louder than the engine as Waylon turns down a side road.

We slow, then come to a stop outside…

Actually, I’m not quite sure where the hell we are. I’d spotted a West Virginia sign the last time we stopped for gas. But I couldn’t tell you what state we were in now.

“Why are we stopping here?” I ask.

Waylon takes off his helmet and shakes out his rust-colored tiger hair. Then he holds his hand out for my helmet.

After the last couple of gas-and-potty breaks, I know the routine. I take off my helmet and hand it to him, then brace myself carefully with a hand on each of his shoulders as he lifts me off the bike.

But this time, I don’t think we're simply stopping for fuel and a bathroom.

First of all, this isn't another gas station. I mean, it is a gas station. Technically.

There are a few pumps with motorcycles lined up next to them. But otherwise, it appears to be mostly a two-story wood building with all the lights turned on and loud country music pouring out from inside.

Some kind of biker bar, maybe? Several shiny motorcycles are parked in front, and their chrome finishes glint under the building’s lights.

Roadhouse. The word, which I’ve only ever associated with road trip comedies, featuring hapless male characters who end up in the wrong place seems to fit this structure to a T.

We left so fast, I was forced to abandon my purse with my phone and wallet inside the church. But even if I had my Samsung, I sense this isn’t the kind of place with Yelp reviews.

I have to ask Waylon again, “Why are we stopping here?”

Several bikers with heavy beards and even longer hair smoke outside. They’re all wearing leather vests over T-shirts like some kind of uniform.

They’re laughing and having a good time. But Waylon’s face looks nothing but harsh and unforgiving underneath the shadowed mix of moon and bar light as he answers, “I’m hungry, and you need to change.”

The inside of the roadhouse isn't any less ominous than the outside.