Chapter 1
Chapter One
The lights remained dim as the final customer toddled out of the bar, leaving Monday with the sobering task of cleaning up. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and spilled liquor—one of the many downsides of bartending she could never get used to.
She was dragging a mop toward the back when the phone rang.
“Laced.”
“Monday.”
The voice on the other end made her freeze. Tears welled in her eyes at the sound of her sister. No matter how long they’d been estranged, part of her had never stopped hoping they’d speak again. “Where are you?”
The past twenty-four hours had been hell—hoping—praying, Sunday would call her.
“I’m at a shelter,” Sunday said quietly. “But I can’t stay long.”
Monday pictured her—small, tired, surrounded by strangers in a too-bright room with nowhere else to go. She could hear voices in the background, the shuffle of footsteps, the hum of hard lives lived out in public.
“They make everyone leave in the morning after breakfast,” Sunday added, glancing around the room at the cots filled with sleeping bodies. Most of them were addicts. Lost souls. Survivors.
“I’ve been waiting for this call,” Monday whispered. “But where, Sunday? Where are you?”
“I’m still in Sudbury.”
“Sunday, listen to me,” Monday said, forcing calm into her voice. “You need to get to a bus station so I can buy you a ticket. I’ll get you home.”
“That’s not safe,” Sunday said, her voice trembling. “Dalton and his friends are probably looking for me. If I go to a bus station, they’ll find me.”
Monday pressed a hand to her forehead, heart pounding. She didn’t own a car—working out of town meant she was always borrowing or renting. The earliest she could get a vehicle would be in the morning, once the rental places opened. That was hours away.
“Okay,” she breathed. “Stay at the shelter tonight. Do you have enough money to call me back?”
“Yes.”
Monday could hear it —the fear wound tight around every syllable her sister spoke. Pain, too. Exhaustion. It tore her apart.
“All right. I’m going to call a friend. His name is Texas. He’s solid. I trust him with my life, and you can, too. He’ll come find you.”
She paused, throat tight.
“I love you, Sunday. Stay put until he gets there.”
“I love you, too,” Sunday’s voice broke on the words. She glanced around, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, strangers mumbled in their sleep, the distant clatter of someone moving around in the communal bathroom.
If Sunday had anyone else in her life, anyone at all, she wouldn’t have made the call. But she didn’t. Only Monday.
“Sunday,” Monday said, phone pressed tight to her ear. “Can you get to a hotel or motel? Somewhere I can book a room with my card over the phone?”
Sunday hesitated, eyes scanning the unfamiliar shelter walls. “Maybe,” she said. “But not many places let someone else pay over the phone. Not from what I’ve seen.”
“Try tomorrow. Please.” Monday could feel her nerves fraying. “Until then, stay hidden.”
She prayed Vicious’s contact would answer, that the man he swore could help would get to Sunday before Dalton did.
“I’ll call in the morning,” Sunday said quietly. Then the line went dead.
She slipped the phone back on the holder and looked around the dim, crowded space. Her gut told her not to stay the night. Sunday didn’t trust anyone—not with the kind of people Dalton sent after her. She needed to disappear.
The bar buzzed with the usual end-of-night cleanup—chairs scraping across the floor, glasses clinking in the sink, the low hum of tired voices. Monday moved through it like a ghost, heart still thudding from the call.
Everyone was busy. No one noticed her slip into the office and quietly close the door.
She pulled out her phone, staring down at the number she’d saved the day before. She’d punched it in once before; but hadn’t made the call. Back then, she had nothing to say—no location, no proof Sunday had even made it out of Sudbury.
Now she did. Her thumb hovered over the dial icon. The hesitation made her feel like shit.
She should’ve called sooner. She should’ve done more. But sometimes, digging into the past felt like ripping open wounds she wasn’t ready to bleed from again. Still, Sunday was her sister. And now that she knew where she was—heard her voice—there were no more excuses.
Monday hit the call button and pressed the phone to her ear, praying Texas would pick up. She needed him to help her.
Texas stretched out on the queen-sized antique bed, staring at the ceiling.
The floral comforter and ruffled bed skirt were a hell of a contrast to the .
45 he’d dropped on the nightstand. The gas fireplace flickered in the corner.
Nice touch. Too bad the water pressure in the shower sucked worse than his last blind date.
Maybe later he’d fill up the oversized garden tub and take a damn swim, just to say he did.
Through the thin walls and narrow staircase, he could hear guests coming and going downstairs. Footsteps on hardwood. Luggage wheels bumping over rugs. A door slammed. Someone laughed too loud.
The old place had charm, sure, but it wasn’t built for privacy. He didn’t mind. Peace was peace, even if it came wrapped in lace curtains and flower-scented hand soap.
He was in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, on business, talking with local orchard owners and checking out the market for imported apples from Canada.
Nothing urgent, just part of the seasonal grind.
His family owned a working orchard and cider mill in the North Country, tucked in the hills above Montreal.
Between the restaurant, the gift shop, and the fall tourist crowd, the place stayed busy enough to justify the long hours.
Still, the road wore on a man.
Dropping his arm across his eyes, Texas let the weight of the day pull him down.
He'd earned a nap. The mattress wasn’t half bad, and the fire made the room feel like a postcard.
He let the muffled sounds of the inn lull him—footsteps creaking on the stairs, a door closing, wind brushing against the windowpanes.
The early spring weather had made for a damn good day on his sled, and Texas had every intention of squeezing in one more ride before tracking down a place for dinner.
The town of New London surprised him. For a place so small, it had a hell of a variety when it came to restaurants.
He’d spent the afternoon wandering the streets, checking out the shops and soaking in the odd charm of it all.
When folks told him the town was unique, they hadn’t done it justice.
Where else could you find a fetish shop with mannequins decked out in full bondage gear right next to a renovated church turned white-linen restaurant that served Cajun food and pumped live jazz through vintage speakers?
It was strange, sure—but in the kind of way that made you want to stick around and see what else the place had up its sleeve.
He wished he could stay another week. Long enough to catch the drag races that ran right through town. Now that was something he didn’t want to miss.
According to Jeremy—the bartender at the Irish pub—it wasn’t drag races 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?”
“Yes. You can reach me here or at Laced.”
So, she worked for the chapter. It explained why Vicious had given her his number.
“I’ll call when I get close to Sudbury. And hey, when you hear from Sunday, send me a text. I’ll stop and call you.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Texas.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t even gotten to her.”
“Thank you for trying.”
“You’re welcome. I’d tell you not to worry—”
Monday cut him off, voice firm but honest, “But I will.”
Hanging up, Texas stared into the cracked mirror, the distorted reflection staring back at him like a warning.
He slipped on the shoulder holster, then picked up the Sig and Glock, sliding each gun carefully into place.
Buckling the rig snug around his midsection, he reached for the boot knives resting on the dresser.
Sitting down, he pulled his pant legs up and slid his boots on, adjusting the hems for a clean fit.
Standing, he paced the room slowly, checking for anything he might’ve missed. Satisfied, he grabbed his worn leather jacket and slid it on, the familiar weight settling across his shoulders. At the foot bench, he snatched his small duffel bag, ready for the road.
Time was short for Monday’s sister. He swallowed the sour taste of cutting his trip short and pushed it down. Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.