The modern country music plays at a high volume that would make even the hottest Philly club say, “Come on, blasting music this loud is just ridiculous.” Everyone seems to be shouting at the top of their lungs.

I only saw men outside, but inside, there are women everywhere I look. Most of them are White, but there are some Black, Brown, and Asian in the surprisingly multicultural mix.

However, their presence doesn't make me feel less out of place. Every single woman inside the roadhouse is scantily clad with wavy tresses falling nearly down to their butt as if super long hair extensions for women are part of some unwritten dress code, along with the leather vests and tees for the guys.

More shocking than their hair, though, is that only a few of them are wearing tops. Waitresses of all hues and ethnicities serve crates of beers and plates of hot wings, burgers, and fried chicken with their breasts hanging out. And the smell of rich food hangs thick in the air.

So I guess that explains where the meal Waylon wants will be coming from, but I shout above the music to ask him, “How am I supposed to find something else to wear in here? Is there a clothing store I can’t see in this place?”

For the first time since he appeared back in my life, Waylon gives me that cocky smile I got to know so well when he was handcuffed to my bed. “Something like that.”

As if on cue, a gorgeous man with dark hair appears and says, “About time you got here, brother. I was about ready to give up on you and head out.”

The gorgeous man isn’t wearing a leather vest like most of the other guys here. He has on a full jacket the same as Waylon with a patch with the word PRESIDENT scrolled across it in the same biker script.

However, that’s where their similarities end. Waylon’s hair is the color of rust, and his blue eyes burn like dry ice. The gorgeous guy’s hair was ink black and curly in a way that put me in mind of immigrants who call their ancestral homes “the old country.” He regards Waylon from underneath a hooded silver gaze that manages to come off as all-knowing and bored at the same time.

He speaks with a southern accent, but it isn’t hard and clipped like Waylon’s. His words come out unhurried and slow, like thick and sticky honey. I’ve only been to Louisiana once for a nurse’s bachelorette party in New Orleans. Still, I immediately place his accent as coming from that city where both spirits and tourists like to roam the streets—at least according to the guide of the ghost tour the bride-to-be made us go on with her.

He and Waylon clasp hands and exchange a half hug, clapping each other once on the back.