Page 66 of Halfway to Hell
“Should I call her Grandma?” she asked hesitantly.
Texas chuckled. “Sorry, sweetheart. The older grandkids already chose Mom’s grandma name—it's mémère.”
“I like that,” Sunday said, a smile tugging at her lips.
Texas felt a calm settle over him for the first time in hours.
She was okay.
The baby was okay.
They were okay.
Reaching for his phone, he dialed his parents, asking if they could bring dinner up to the hospital. When his dad answered, Texas heard laughter and what sounded like a party in the background.
“Dad, what’s going on there?” Texas asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Some of your friends are here,” Pierre said, tapping his beer bottle against a large man’s. “We’re celebrating the birth of your son.”
Texas blinked, confused. The only friends his parents really knew were Kennedy and Cree. “What friends?”
“Well, let me see if I have the names right,” Pierre began, trying to recall. “Seller. Tricious. Slayer. Toker. Cremlock. Oh, and Tuck.”
Texas groaned inwardly.Do you mean Teller, Vicious, Player, Joker, Hemlock, and Truck?He fought the urge to correct his dad out loud. “Please be joking.”
The last thing he needed was his club brothers inadvertently outing his biker lifestyle to his folks.
Did his parents even know he rode with them? Sort of. They thought it was a riding club—not an outlaw MC. Texas ran a hand over his face. This was going to be interesting.
“Maybe,” Pierre said with a shrug. “I’m not too worried about them. Now, the pretty ladies with them—well, I got their names right. Sway and Charlie.”
Texas cringed at the mispronunciations. “Dad? Is anyone else there I should know about?” he asked cautiously.
“Kennedy, Cree, and another Indian named Etos,” Pierre answered casually.
Texas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Eros, Dad.Eros.And, uh, we don’t say ‘Indian.’”
There was a pause, then a chuckle. “Sorry, Nakota,” Pierre said, correcting himself.
Texas couldn’t help but smile. Despite the chaos and confusion, this was family. Texas stared at Sunday, shaking his head in disbelief. Covering the phone, he whispered, “My parents are having a little celebration with our friends.”
Sunday laughed softly. The image of his dad already hammered, surrounded by a row of roaring Harleys parked in the front yard, was too much.
Texas could just picture the neighbors driving by, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and wondering how it all started.
“Hang on, Texas,” Pierre’s voice came through, chuckling. “Your mom wants to talk to you. You’re in so much trouble.”
Texas braced himself as the phone was handed off. He could only imagine what the Royal Bastards had been telling his family. The bigger question was: who brought them to his parents’ doorstep? And why?
“Ange,” his mom said, her voice laced with humor as she spoke his name.
“Yes, Mom,” Texas replied.
“You should have told us about your little friends.”
There wasn’t anything “little” about the Bastards. Hearing the humor in his mom’s voice, Texas cut to the chase, “Are you drinking?”
“No. Now, your father … he’s drinking with your friends. They’re sweet boys. The ladies are delightful and in the kitchen with me. How’s Sunday and the baby?”
