Page 1 of Halfway to Hell
Prologue
The bar was hopping.Monday kept the beer flowing and the conversation easy, weaving through the crowd like she’d been born behind the tap. She knew how to handle nights like this. Years spent working in some of the roughest bars across the country had given her thick skin and faster hands. She moved with practiced ease, dodging elbows, slinging drinks, and reading the room like a well-worn playbook.
As a bartender at Laced, Monday knew better than linger too long in any one conversation. The longer you stayed, the more likely someone got the wrong idea. Alcohol had a way of making people bold—not just the men, but the women too. Especially here. Something about being inside a strip club made them drop their inhibitions as if they were stepping into a doctor’s office. Like it was safe. Like it was sterile.
Monday hated to be the one to break it to them: what happened at Laced didn’t always stay at Laced. This wasn’t Vegas.
Monday felt safe working at Laced. If anyone stepped out of line, one of the guys would handle it—quick, quiet, and without hesitation. There were perks to having full-patched members ofan MC as your bosses. Boundaries weren’t just expected—they were enforced.
Monday watched a couple of girls flirting with a few of the club brothers. She couldn’t tell who was playing who, but someone was bound to end up on the losing side of that game. Girls who didn’t work at Laced rarely understood how things ran. And the guys? They’d let things go as far as the girls were willing to take them.
Pouring a round of lemon drop shots, Monday listened to the chaos behind her—members of a wedding party shouting at the strippers, waving singles in the air like bait. She passed the shots across the bar and took the credit card offered without missing a beat. Quick swipe. Smooth transaction. When one of the girls reached for the receipt to sign, Monday offered a helpful tip.
“If you want the bride-to-be to get a lap dance, you might want to flash bigger bills.”
She knew the working girls would make their way over eventually—singles or not—but Monday never minded giving things a little nudge. If she could help the dancers earn a little more, all the better.
The phone behind the bar rang and rang. Monday placed a round of drinks on the serving tray, then snatched up the receiver.
“Laced.”
“Yes, this is Officer Lloyd. I’m looking for Monday Mornin.”
Her stomach tightened. Monday ran through the mental catalogue of bad decisions and shady connections she’d collectedover the years. Nothing jumped out as ‘cop-worthy’. Still, having an officer call her directly made her uneasy.
“This is she.”
“Do you have a sister named Sunday?”
Her breath caught. A chill crept up her spine, settling in her chest. This wasn’t about her. This was about Sunday. Her baby sister. They weren’t close—not in the way people imagined sisters should be—but blood was still blood. And the sudden grip of fear hit hard.
“What did that fucker do to my little sister?”
“We’re not sure who you’re referring to, but your sister was found by motorists—walking down the highway, naked, covered in dirt, and very confused.”
Monday’s hand started to shake. She gripped the edge of the bar to keep herself steady.
Officer Daniel Lloyd had seen his share of hell—first in the service, then on the streets. But even hardened experience hadn’t prepared him for the sight of Sunday Mornin: scraped up, caked in grime, dazed, and broken in ways a hospital report could barely summarize. Dirt. Debris. Seminal fluid.
He had two little girls of his own. He’d seen evil—but this hit different.
“What aren’t you saying, Officer?”
“It appears she was drugged and raped. We’re waiting for the full test results, but I’m telling you—she was dosed with something. I’d bet my career on it.”
Monday couldn’t breathe. Her lungs locked up like her ribs were closing in.
This couldn’t be happening. Not to Sunday.
Sunday was the smart one—the one who kept her head down and her ass out of trouble. It had to be that jackass she was living with.
Working in strip clubs, Monday understood risk. You dealt with drunks, creeps, and men who didn’t understand the word no. It shouldn’t happen—not to anyone—but deep down, everyone in that world knew it could. You worked in barrooms and backrooms long enough; something always came for you.
“Where is she now?”
“She was admitted to St. Joseph’s,” Officer Lloyd said. “But she left. Against medical advice. My guess? She’s scared her attackers will come looking.”
“Dalton Smith is the asshole you should be looking at.” Monday didn’t even hesitate. She’d bet her life he was behind what happened to Sunday. She’d met him once—and that had been more than enough. Something about him had crawled under her skin like a bad rash. She’d even warned her baby sister not to move to Sudbury, told her flat-out to rethink the whole damn decision.
