Halfway to Hell (RBMC Montreal, CA. Holiday #2)

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 of an 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 collected over 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.

“Miss Mornin,” Officer Lloyd said, his tone measured, “if you hear from Sunday, please let her know—we can keep her safe. All she has to do is call us. We’ll come get her.”

Yeah, because you’ve done such a stellar job so far.

“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll call me,” Monday said, her voice tight as she hung up the phone.

But the second she dropped the receiver, her heart felt like it was about to rip through her chest. She was freaking out. Sunday didn’t have a damn cell phone—she always used Dalton’s whenever she called to check in.

Which meant if she’d run… she was on her own.

Monday looked out at the packed bar. Music pulsed. Glasses clinked. The club girls laughed in the background. Business as usual.

But nothing about tonight felt usual.

She couldn’t leave—not yet. She didn’t know where her sister was. And until she did, she was stuck here. Waiting. Worrying. Burning with the urge to hunt Dalton Smith down and end him herself.

“Hey babe, can I get a beer?”

“Yeah,” Monday replied, barely glancing up.

Trying to recover from the phone call her body moved on autopilot. Muscle memory keeping the drinks flowing while her brain stayed locked on Sunday.

Somehow, she managed to keep it together long enough to finish her shift. Barely.

By the end of the night, she was wrecked—mentally drained and running on fumes. Every time the bar phone rang, her heart jumped. She stopped whatever she was doing to answer it herself. Just in case.

But Sunday never called.

And now Monday was more than just anxious—she was spiraling. She tried to tell herself there was no reason to expect anything different. They didn’t rely on each other, hadn’t for years. Seeing one another once, maybe twice a year, was their version of normal.

But that didn’t matter now. None of it did.

She was terrified for her sister. And worse—she had no idea where to even start looking.

“Monday.”

The deep voice behind her made her jump. She grabbed the edge of the counter to steady herself before turning.

“Vicious. How can I help you?”

His gaze was steady. Unblinking. “Who called?” He’d kept an eye on the pretty bartender most of the night. She’d gotten a call that had rattled her. Now, it was time for her to talk.

She blinked, stalling, her mind scrambling through the dozens of calls that had come in tonight. “It was someone asking how late we’re open,” she said, nodding toward the phone.

“No.” His voice dropped, firmer now, “The call you got earlier. The one that’s had you distracted all evening.”

Damn it.

She thought she’d masked it well. Thought she’d kept her head down, kept it business as usual. Clearly not well enough.

Monday didn’t like dragging her family problems into work. Especially not here. Not in front of the club. But the truth was, she needed help. Real help.

Even if she drove to Sudbury tonight, she had no clue where Sunday was. And if Dalton had her—if that piece of shit was hiding her or worse—what the hell could Monday even do alone?

“I need some help,” she admitted, her voice low.

Vicious nodded once, no hesitation. “Come sit down and talk to me.”

She didn’t know Vicious well, not personally. But over the past few years, she’d watched him change. The man who used to black out drunk and stir chaos in every room had settled down. Got married. Shifted from party animal to something closer to a leader. A boss.

Monday stepped out from behind the bar and made her way over, sliding into the seat across from him.

In ten minutes flat, she laid it all out—every detail she had. From the phone call to Sunday’s ex to the dread twisting in her gut.

“I need someone to find my sister,” she said quietly. “And bring her back here.”

Vicious leaned back, drumming his fingers on the table in thought.

Then he reached into his wallet. There was one brother who came to mind.

Texas. He had the right skill set—tracker, fighter, stone-cold when necessary.

If anyone could find Sunday and make sure Dalton got what was coming to him, it was Texas.

Vicious slid a card across the table.

“Call this man. He’s a brother. Tell him I sent you.”

Monday reached for the card, but Vicious placed his large hand gently over hers before she could pull away.

“He’ll take care of everything.”

She nodded, throat tight, and watched as Vicious stood and turned for the door.

“I don’t have a lot of money,” she said, almost apologetically.

Vicious met her eyes. Those stormy gray ones held too much worry for one night.

“Family doesn’t pay,” he said. “And don’t mistake it, Monday—you are family. We take care of our own.”

Monday watched him walk away, her fingers brushing the business card left on the table. She picked it up, pulled out her phone, and dialed the number. But before the call even rang, she hung up.

What could she say? She didn’t have any leads. Didn’t even know where Sunday was.

She slid the card into her back pocket, resolve settling like a slow burn. She’d make the call when she had something to go on—something real to tell Texas.