Page 27 of Halfway to Hell
“Why didn’t we check the forecast before we left North Bay?” Eros asked, shouting over the rain, more curious than annoyed.
“I was ready to get in the wind,” Texas replied.
Sunday didn’t complain when Texas told her to get back on the bike. She was going wherever he was.
Her sneakers were soaked through, her clothes clinging like a second skin. A hot shower sounded like heaven.
Gripping the bitch bar behind her, Sunday nearly slid off the seat when Texas hit a hidden pothole, swallowed by the rising water on the road. Instinct took over, she grabbed the back of his jacket and wrapped her arms tight around his waist.
Crossing the road was more treacherous than it should have been. The bike slipped, skidded, and sloshed over the rain-slicked two-lane before finally pulling into the motel lot. A narrow unloading space gave just enough room for them to coast in.
Texas killed the engine, boots planted in the puddles.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” he said over his shoulder.
Sunday nodded and stayed right where she was—sitting on a wet seat, her even wetter ass now cold and miserable. The rain showed no signs of letting up, and the wind cut straight through her soaked clothes.
When Texas came back out, he tossed a room key to Eros, then swung a leg over the bike and started it up again.
“We’ve got to pull around to the other side,” he said.
Of course they did. Sunday held back a sigh as they eased back into the downpour.
Back into the driving rain they went, tires splashing through deepening puddles as they circled the motel.
Even though it was only across the parking lot, Sunday felt like she was being pelted with a thousand icy needles. Riding on the back of a bike in weather like this—ill-prepared and soaked to the bone—sucked big damn balls.
Texas and Eros backed their bikes into the spaces in front of the two motel rooms. Texas tapped Sunday’s leg and handed her the key so she could go inside.
She slid off the bike and rushed toward the door, while Texas shut down the engine and stayed where he was, letting the cold rain soak him through.
Not everyone liked being rained on.
Texas did.
Helovedit.
He closed his eyes, the pounding of water on his shoulders pulling him into a memory—back at the orchard, walking therows of trees while a gentle rain soaked the ground, the scent of wet leaves and soil thick in the air.
For a moment, the chaos faded.
Then a clap of thunder split the sky above, sharp and jarring.
Texas opened his eyes, the memory shattered—ruined by motherfucking nature.
Texas swung off the bike and unstrapped the S.A.C., hauling the luggage under one arm as he made his way to the room. He noticed Eros had vanished quicker than expected. For being an Indian, the man sure didn’t care much for being one with nature.
Shaking his head, Texas stepped inside and shut the door behind him, then stopped short. Across the room, the bathroom mirror reflected perfectly into the vanity mirror above the sink.
There stood Sunday—naked, waiting for the shower to heat up. He froze. The bag slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dullthud.
The sound was enough. Sunday looked up and, without a word, closed the bathroom door the rest of the way.
Texas was already having trouble with how close Sunday had gotten and now he knew what was beneath those baggy clothes she always wore. And it wasn’t half bad.
When Sunday stepped out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, she could hear Texas talking on the phone. Not wanting to interrupt, she moved quietly through the room and climbed onto the bed closest to the wall.
His back was to her, so she just sat there, trying not to listen—but hearing every word anyway.
