Page 11 of Halfway to Hell
Looking out over the night skyline, he thought about Monday—missing her sister, scared for her. If he wanted to get home to his, he had to get Sunday to her first.
Chapter Four
From the threadbareclothes on her back to the plastic-covered seat beneath her, Sunday was drowning in disappointment. She was disappointed in herself. She was also terrified sitting there alone, waiting for a perfect stranger. And rightly so. She knew her ex-boyfriend and his friends were out there, hunting her down. Especially after she had named them as the men who’d hurt her.
What had happened to her should never happen to anyone. Somewhere deep inside, she’d believed she was untouchable, that nothing so terrible could ever happen to her. How naïve she had been.
If only she’d been smarter, stronger. If only she hadn’t let herself believe Dalton’s lies. But that wasn’t the truth—no, it was that she had wanted to be loved so desperately that she chose to believe them. A person can only be beaten so many times before learning a lesson. She had tried leaving. More than once. But each time Dalton found her, he dragged her back to his house like a prize to be won along with a punishment to be administered.
Eventually, Dalton had had enough. He decided to teach her a lesson she would never forget. Or at least, the parts she could still remember.
Watching customers come and go, Sunday sat stiffly, silently praying the man her sister had sent would hurry up.
“Honey, you can’t just sit here without ordering something,” an older woman said, looming over her with a sour look.
Sunday glanced up, eyes tired. “I’ll take a decaf coffee.”
The waitress narrowed her eyes. “Are you planning to drink a whole pot?”
Sunday bristled, not in the mood for trouble. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I’ll have to brew a fresh pot of decaf just for you,” the woman snapped, voice sharp as a whip.
“Isn’t that your job?” Sunday shot back, matching the glare with a hard stare of her own.
Watching the waitress walk away, mumbling under her breath, Sunday’s gaze drifted out the window beside the booth in front of hers. The view improved as a Harley rumbled into a parking spot. The man who swung off was older, with a rugged handsomeness—not the kind that makes you catch your breath the kind who would definitely turn heads when he walked into a room.
He looked like the kind of guy who’d rescue a girl in trouble.
Sunday’s eyes dropped back to the clear plastic-coated menu. The smell of food cooking made her stomach growl. She unfolded the small wad of cash in her hand that totaled aboutninety dollars. If she ate light, maybe she could keep the cost down.
Scanning the menu, she searched for something affordable, then she set it aside, and plucked a napkin from the silver dispenser and tried to wipe the sticky residue off her fingers. Glancing around, she wondered if anyone had cleaned these menus since the place first opened.
The little bell above the door jingled, and Sunday’s head snapped up in panic.
The biker stepped inside, scanning the tiny restaurant with calm, steady eyes. When his gaze locked onto hers, Sunday wanted nothing more than to disappear by crawling under the table and vanishing. But still, she held her stare.
If she hadn’t seen him get off the bike, she never would have pegged him as a biker. He looked more like a guy who played guitar in a weekend band, or maybe someone who worked at a department store. The dark blue button-down shirt he wore gave him a clean-cut, almost ordinary vibe that didn’t quite fit the rough edges of the Harley outside.
Sunday’s attention flicked away from the man as the waitress returned, setting down her coffee cup with a little more force than necessary.
“You ready to order?” the woman asked, clearly still annoyed.
Before Sunday could answer, the biker slid into the booth across from her.
“Can I get a decaf coffee, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and easy.
Sunday nearly laughed at the way the waitress jumped at the sound of his voice.
“I just made a fresh pot, sugar,” she said, suddenly all smiles.
“Perfect,” he replied, tossing her a wink that sent her sauntering off, much less sour than before.
Sunday rubbed her arm absently, her nerves creeping back in. She dropped her gaze to the coffee cup, then let her hands settle in her lap.
“Sunday Mornin’?” the man asked gently.
Her eyes lifted, guarded. “Who’s asking?”
