Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Texas sat at the bar inside the diner attached to the motel, a cold beer sweating in front of him. His phone lay just out of reach, silent and still. His mood was dark, thick with frustration as his thoughts circled around both Mornin girls.
Finally, he reached for the phone and unlocked it. His thumb hovered over Monday’s number before he pressed call. The line rang once, twice… then her raspy voice cracked through the speaker.
“Why,” Texas demanded, voice low and sharp, “is money more important to you than being there for Sunday?”
He gripped the phone so tight his knuckles blanched white.
There was a pause. Her voice returned, colder this time, stripped of the emotion it once held. “I love my sister,” she said flatly, “but if she needs more than a couch to crash on and a few hundred bucks for groceries, she’s shit out of luck.”
Texas stared down at the beer in front of him, disbelief crashing in. “Are you fucking kidding me? She’s been through hell. She needs you.”
“Listen, Texas,” Monday said, her voice steadier now, but still cold, “I appreciate you grabbing her and getting her safely to Montreal. But we aren’t like most families. I don’t know how to be that for Sunday. In our family, it’s always been every person for themselves.”
“Unbelievable.”
“She’ll heal—mentally, emotionally, physically. We’ve all had our shit, and we’ve all gotten over it.”
“So, what you’re really saying is you don’t fucking care.”
“I care. In my own way. Is my heart breaking for her? Yeah. Was I terrified she’d end up dead in some ditch or worse sold to some damn sex trafficker? Hell, yes. But now I know she’s safe. And she’ll stay that way in Montreal.”
“Don’t spend all that money in one place, Monday,” Texas muttered through gritted teeth.
“Dude, if I’d known you’d be such a bitch about this, I’d have asked for someone else’s damn number.”
“Fuck you,” he growled, then slammed the phone down on the bar.
Texas stared at it for a long moment, the urge to strangle Monday burning hot inside him. Maybe Vicious too—for giving her his number in the first place.
“Texas, brother, what’s got you in such a mood?”
Eros’s voice cut through the din, pulling Texas’s gaze from the wall of liquor lined up behind the bar. He glanced at his brother, then back to the bottles, weighing his next move.
Texas signaled the bartender, wordless but clear—he wanted a bottle and two shot glasses.
“Nope,” Eros said with a shake of his head, cutting off the bartender. “Two shots will suffice.”
“If you don’t wanna drink with me, Nakota, then go away.”
Eros crossed his arms on the bar, leaning in just enough so Texas couldn’t miss his words.
“You’ve been in a mood since this morning.
If it’s about the girl, then deal with it and move on.
If it’s something else, tell me. Then we can fix it so you can get past it?
Either way, you can’t drown yourself in a bottle when you’re on the job. ”
Tossing back the shot, Texas slammed his glass down and closed out his tab without a word to Eros. The brother was right, it wouldn’t do anyone any good for him to pour himself into a bottle. It had been years since he’d gone that route, and he wasn’t about to start again.
After Lisa died, he’d been drunk more than sober. Months spent holed up in their house, drowning in grief and whiskey. He’d even carved her name into his chest—raw, desperate, a mark of love and loss.
When he finally got sober, he covered the scar with a bleeding heart tattoo. A love like theirs was hard to get over.
Glancing up, Texas caught the news playing on the TV, a photo of Dalton flickering on the screen.
“Can you turn that up, please?” he asked the bartender.
Texas settled back as the newscaster’s voice filled the room.
“A home invasion left the homeowner severely injured,” the reporter began. “The victim, Dalton Cromer, was attacked inside his own home by an unknown assailant.”
Police Officer Lloyd of the Sudbury Police Department appeared on screen next, his expression grim. “Mr. Cromer was blindfolded, gagged, and bound during the assault,” he said. “In addition to these restraints, the attacker mutilated the young man’s genitals.”
The newscaster continued, “Authorities believe this was a targeted attack linked to local drug dealers with whom Cromer had recent dealings.”
Eros waited until the bartender turned the volume down and walked away before speaking. “So… that’s what you were doing in Sudbury.”
Texas didn’t look up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nakota.”
Eros smirked, his voice low and steady, “does she know what you did to her attacker?”
Texas’s jaw tightened. Eros might not recieve outright admissions, but he knew exactly the kind of torture Texas was capable of. Texas chose to ignore the sharp stare Eros leveled at him. Instead, he shifted gears. “Grab us a table while I go get Sunday. She’s probably starving by now.”
Sliding off his stool, Texas headed toward the exit.
Catching a break in the weather, he moved quickly back to the hotel room, silently hoping Sunday hadn’t thrown a glass at his head in his absence. Patting his pockets, frustration hit him—he hadn’t grabbed the room key when he stormed out.
He knocked gently on the door, then shoved his hands back into his pockets and waited.
Sunday heard the knock and moved toward the door. Pulling back the curtain, she saw Texas standing there. Unlocking the door, she stepped aside to let him in.
Needing to apologize, she reached out and touched his hand gently, silently begging him to see her without anger.
When his eyes met hers, something unspoken stirred inside her.
Before she could think better of it, she stepped into his larger frame, rising onto her tiptoes to press a tentative kiss to his lips.
She caught the flicker of shock in his eyes and instantly knew she’d messed up again.
“What’re you doing?”
“Sorry, I was...” she began, voice trembling.
Texas took her hand and led her over to the bed. “Please, sit down.”
As she lowered herself onto the edge, he heard her inhale, ready to apologize again, but he cut her off before the words came.
“Sunday, I want …” Texas hesitated, searching for the right words. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her again. All he’d wanted was to get her to Montreal, to keep her safe. That. Was. It. “I need you to accept my apology. Your sister pissed me off, and I … well, I lashed out at you.”
She shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “It’s fine, Texas. Monday’s good at pissing people off.”
“No. It’s not fine. I’m a grown man. I should be able to handle myself better than that.”
Was that what he’d been doing—testing her? Sunday wondered, remembering the look of abject horror on Texas’s face moments before. Maybe he wanted to see if he thought of her as anything more than a pathetic little girl.
Disappointed in herself for being foolish, Sunday settled into silence, listening as Texas spoke.
She resolved to be as little trouble as possible until he got her safely to Montreal.
“About you trying to kiss me,” Texas said, breaking the quiet. She tuned in more closely, heart tightening.
“I’m flattered you’d want to kiss me,” he admitted quietly, “but the truth is, I’m much too old for you.”
Texas hated being a hypocrite. He had no problem thinking about younger women—he just didn’t date. Hell, he barely even screwed around.
“What I mean is...”
But why was he stumbling over his words? This shouldn’t be this damn hard. It was Sunday’s big, soft blue eyes and the way she looked at him that unsettled him, made him lose his footing.
“You’re still recovering from what happened to you,” he said quietly. “The last thing you need is someone like me hurting you.”
Sunday nodded, careful not to say the wrong thing.
She’d never really considered that Texas might not want to stick around after Montreal.
Maybe she was caught up in some kind of hero worship—or whatever it was called—but her heart still felt heavy thinking about what tomorrow might bring.
Would she ever see or hear from him again?
“Eros is grabbing us a table at the restaurant. You hungry?” Texas asked.
Clearing her throat, Sunday shook her head. “I’m really tired. Would you mind bringing me something back when you come?”
“Not at all. It’s barbecue.”
“Just a grilled cheese sandwich will be fine. If they have it.”
“Sunday.”
“Texas,” she interrupted softly, “I’m fine. You’re absolutely right. I’ve been through a traumatic event, and I’m just struggling to find my footing. That’s all. I shouldn’t have done that. It was out of line. It won’t happen again.”
“We’re good?” he asked, though something behind her eyes told him they weren’t.
He wasn’t sure how to navigate this with her. Outside of his family, the only thing he’d ever truly lived for was helping relocate battered women and children. But he’d never had one get under his skin like Sunday was doing, and he was fucking it up completely.
Even if his words were true, they weren’t how he honestly felt.
“Maybe take a hot bath and relax,” he said, rising and heading for the door.
“Don’t forget your key,” Sunday called softly. “Just in case I fall asleep. I might not be able to get to the door.”
When the door closed behind him, Texas felt the ground shift beneath his feet as if he’d lost some fragile footing with her. Glancing down, he tapped the room key against his thigh, wondering how badly his words had hurt her.
Leaning back against the door, he didn’t like the feelings stirring inside him. His gaze dropped to the faded line around his ring finger. He rubbed the spot with his thumb, still able to feel the ghost of the gold band that had rested there for eighteen years.
The memory of the dream crashed back hard. Closing his eyes, he saw the image of his wife blur, then morph into Sunday’s face.
“Shit!” he snapped, shoving away from the door.