Persy immediately snaps her mouth closed, and I turn to see another Black woman with a plate of food in her hand, holding open the swinging door. She's very pretty with intelligent brown eyes. The kind of woman who somehow manages to look smart without opening her mouth. And that's an especially impressive feat, in this case, considering that she's only wearing cowboy boots and a teenie-weenie pair of denim cut-off shorts underneath her butt-grazing weave.

“What are you doing in my scrubs?” she asks, raising her eyebrows over the plate of food.

That question and her small perky breasts let me know that this must be the Doc Persy mentioned before. Like Persy, Waylon, and Hades, she has a southern accent.

Doc looks to Persy, “The crochet top you made didn’t fit her?”

“She didn’t even try it on,” Persy answers. The flat and cynical tone has returned to her voice.

But I can’t keep the amazement out of mine as I ask, “You made that top and the one you’re wearing? Like, actually crocheted it?”

Persy shrugs, “Yeah, it's something I do in my spare time. No big deal.”

“No big deal?” Doc repeats, raising both eyebrows. “Then why do you make all those biker bunnies out there pay you forty bucks just to get on the waitlist to crochet them a top? If you’re giving them away for free now, I’ll take one.”

“I’m not giving them away for free,” Persy answers. “Waylon said to bring her some clothes, and it was the only kind of top I had in the house.”

“Oh,” Doc answers like Persy’s explanation makes total sense. Apparently, she was also in the Waylon Must Always Be Obeyed club.

She flashes me a bright, toothy smile and raises the plate of food. “Anyway, I've got a stool reserved for you outside and a cheeseburger and some fries with your name on it. Waylon told me to get you some dinner and set you at the bar until he’s ready for you.”

That sounds heavenly after the day I've had. I can’t even be mad that he basically sent her to fetch me like a child who needed picking up from daycare.

And as uncomfortable as I am at the thought of wearing a scrub top without a bra in public, I eagerly follow her and the plate of food out the swinging door and back into the bar area where a Griffin Latham track about backcountry boys sleeping with women all over the world is playing overhead.

I have a feeling I'll need a full stomach to figure out how to get out of this mess.

Of course, I needed to run away from this place and Waylon as soon as possible. But to where?

For all I knew, my old life in Delaware might be an even bigger shitshow.