Page 5 of Halfway to Hell
He wished he could stay another week. Long enough to catch the drag races that ran right through town. Nowthatwas something he didn’t want to miss.
According to Jeremy—the bartender at the Irish pub—it wasn’tdragraces with cars like Texas had originally thought.
Nope.
It was literal drag races: full-grown men in wigs, makeup, and dresses sprinting across town in high heels, all the way over the bridge to Penn State and back. The visual alone was enough to make Texas chuckle, the kind of deep, quiet laugh that rumbled in his chest.
He could still picture the bartender leaning over the bar, deadpan as hell, saying,“It’s tradition.”
Texas had to admit—he kind of loved this place.
The sharp buzz of his phone cut through the moment, breaking the silence and dragging him out of his amusement. He reached across the bed and picked it up, not recognizing the number.
“Yeah,” he answered.
A pause. Then a woman’s voice—steady, but frayed at the edges.
“Is this Texas?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Monday Mornin. Vicious gave me your number.”
At the mention of Vicious, Texas sat up a little straighter, his easy mood cooling into something more focused.
“All right,” he said, voice steady now. “How can I help you, Monday?”
“My sister…” Monday began, her voice steady but urgent. She told him everything—the shelter, the threats, even the details she’d gotten from Officer Lloyd during her second call. She didn’t hold back.
On the other end of the line, all she could hear was Texas’s steady breathing.
Finally, she swallowed the lump in her throat and asked, “Will you help us?”
Texas’s jaw tightened. To say he loathed fuckers like this Dalton guy was an understatement. Swinging his feet off the bed, he pulled on his worn-out cowboy boots with quiet determination.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “I can help. What’s your sister’s name?”
“Sunday. Sunday Mornin’.”
Monday could almost picture the flicker of a smile on his face. People always reacted the same way when they heard their names. And when you add their older sister into the mix? The jokes never stopped.
“Please don’t laugh. It’s Mornin but without the g,” Monday said quickly, “and no, we’re not strippers.”
“I don’t care about any of that, Monday,” Texas said, voice low and sharp. He pushed himself up from the bed and crossed the room to the antique dresser. The cracked mirror reflected a fractured version of him—distorted, worn, like the situation he was stepping into.
“What I need to know is where Sunday was the last time you talked to her. Send me a current photo, every detail you have.”
He tapped the worn wood with a knuckle, eyes darkening.
“And what’s the asshole’s address? The one who did this to your sister.”
“I don’t have it.” She paused. “I can get it for you. I’ll call you when I have?—.”
Texas stopped her from rambling. “Just text it to me.”
“When will you be in Sudbury?” Monday asked, her voice tight with worry.
“I’m leaving now. It’ll take me about eighteen hours to get there. Is this a good number for you?”
