Elizabeth Barone

3 mental health books that saved my life

Maybe it’s a bit dramatic to say these books saved my life, but they kinda did. They gave me invaluable tools to cope with my complex PTSD while I’ve been unable to get back into therapy. I still believe that everyone can benefit from therapy, but unfortunately not everyone has access to it. If that’s the case for you, I hope these books will help.

Taming Your Outer Child / Susan Anderson

This book started it all for me. Anderson’s methods might seem a bit silly at first, but once I got past that, I learned how to separate my various selves, communicate better with myself from my highest self, and unpack my self-sabotaging behaviors. Once I finished the book, I no longer felt any need to write letters to my Inner or Outer Child, but now I occasionally write letters to and from my adult self. The self-communication skills that you’ll gain from this are so worth it; a lot of us trauma survivors have no idea what our wants, needs, or drivers are, and this book cleverly shows you how to figure that out.

Check it Out

Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents / Lindsay C. Gibson, PsyD

In my parents’ defense, they were literal teenagers when they had me. So I mean absolutely no disrespect. I love my parents and I know they love me and did their best, and yet I had a lot to unpack in adulthood, a lot of behaviors I picked up as a way to cope with not only my childhood but also multiple traumas that occurred. This book helped me see things from a whole new perspective, and gave me tools I desperately needed to shape the adult I wanted to become. I’ve been operating from a place of trauma-based fear, and this book helped me both see the areas in which I’m emotionally immature and how to reparent myself. It’s less about blaming your dysfunctional parents/family for all your problems, and more about stepping into yourself and healing.

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How to Do the Work / Dr. Nicole LePera

How to Do the Work felt like the natural next step. I actually had it quite a while before I even started “Emotionally Immature.” They say that books come to you when you need them most, and I’ve found that to be so true. Maybe it was the universe guiding me, or maybe deep down I just knew I needed to ease into all this shadow work. It sure isn’t easy, facing yourself! Dr. LePera AKA The Holistic Psychologist on Instagram gently guides you through the process, while sharing her personal story as well as her clients’ stories. This book helped me build upon the things I learned from the other two, plus gave me some new insights.

Check it Out

I don’t think you necessarily have to read and work through all three of these books or in this exact order; you can start with whichever speaks to you most and go from there.

I hope these books help you! Please let me know if you try them. And if you have any mental health books you found helpful, please share them!

Photo by sydney Rae on Unsplash

I survived five years without the most important person in my life

Today makes five years since my Noni died. My grandmother was the absolute love of my life, my best friend, and I was devastated when we lost her in 2019. So much so, sometimes I wonder if it triggered my major lupus flare that began just a few months later. Her death was a major blow to my family and at the time, I had no idea how any of us would go on without her.

Noni was a constant presence in my life and my biggest support. We were both on chemo at the same time for different reasons, and compared notes on side effects and how at least we didn’t have to shave our legs. Of all my friends and family, she was the only one who understood how devastating it is to be chronically ill. She got my dark humor and I never had to sugarcoat things for her.

But before that, she was like a second mother to me. My parents had me just as they both turned 18. They were babies themselves, but loved me (and later my sister) enough to ask for help. (Not easy for teenagers to do!) The three of us lived with my grandparents and, when I was just a few weeks old, I went to the lake with Noni and Popi for the first time. We were inseparable in the years that followed. When I started my publishing career, she was my biggest fan and most constant reader.

Losing her blew me apart in ways I’m still putting together. I grew up without a lot of money but with a lot of love, and much of that is because of Noni. For the first few years without her, I kind of just fumbled through, suddenly doused in darkness. It didn’t help that a major lupus flare started, followed by the pandemic. Life seemed to pull no punches, and time after time I found myself in situations where I wished Noni was here. She always listened to me, never telling me what to do, letting me find my own way with her unwavering support. Her love felt incredible—everyone who knew her knows what it was like, the kind of love that carries you through decades long after she’s gone. I have been loved, and I have been loved well.

Realizing that was how I survived.

Now I sing to my niece the way Noni sang with me when I was little. I cook food and pack away extra for people like she did. I smile at strangers because the love that I hold in me from her is too big not to share. I’m building a beautiful little life that I’m proud of the same way my grandparents did.

Doing these things is how I’ll survive the next five.

Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

Part 5: “I Think We’re Alone Now” | River Reapers MC Summer Miniseries

Our motorcycles are the only two in the otherwise empty parking lot. He could kill me out here and nobody would know. I touch the gun in its holster under my jacket, check the knife sheathed in my boot.

I’m as prepared as I can get.

Author’s Note

You asked for more Olivia and Cliff, very very nicely, so here it is! This miniseries runs for 12 weeks (and you don’t need to have read the books to follow along). So grab a snack and drink, kick back, and enjoy.

Catch Up: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Part 5: “I Think We’re Alone Now”

Olivia

My day drags, even though I spend most of it organizing the club’s big barbecue. I have our treasurer Mark Venmo me funds so I can book catering and entertainment, then my latest social work case walks into my office.

It’s another missing mother.

“I don’t have any updates, sorry,” I tell my client. What I don’t tell him is how his case made the dark shadows under my eyes even darker. There isn’t a concealer or any amount of sleep that could erase the stain it’s left on my soul.

In response, he shrinks into his hoodie, pulling the hood up over pastel pink hair.

“Bryce,” I say gently.

He lifts his head, blue eyes underlined with red.

“I promised you we’d get answers, and we will.” Even as I say it, it feels flimsy. Fake. I’m waiting for a text from Pru to confirm her band can play the barbecue, while my foster son sits across from me with swollen, haunted eyes.

The door swings open and Esther’s little sister Cierra slips into my office. She fits into the same chair as Bryce, their bodies entwining to make it work. Her small hand disappears into his. With her doe eyes and his baby blues watching me, I struggle not to fidget in my seat. Their gazes aren’t accusing but they aren’t exactly brimming with faith, either.

I’ve let them both down.

I’ve let down my whole club.

I turn, pressing keys on my computer like it’ll rewrite the script. When I look back at the chairs, both teens are gone.

I’m almost relieved.

The clock strikes five and there’s nothing else to do but face Ravage. Since I rode into work today, I ride over to The Wet Mermaid.

Even though I’ve known Ravage my whole life, I hesitate outside. Our bikes are the only two in the otherwise empty parking lot. He could kill me out here and nobody would know. I touch the gun in its holster under my jacket, check the knife sheathed in my boot.

I’m as prepared as I can get.

I find Ravage sitting at the bar, an expensive-sounding bottle of a liquor brand I’ve never heard of in front of him, with two shot glasses. He holds one up to the dim light, as if inspecting it for flies. The amber liquid sloshes in the glass.

“What are you drinking?” I ask, taking the stool beside him.

“What are we drinking,” he corrects, pouring me a few fingers. As the glass fills, I smell whiskey. He passes it to me, we clink, and drink in silence.

I wait.

“I remember when you were born,” he says finally. “You were the first club baby since Cliff, so all the guys were excited. Should’ve seen it. The maternity waiting room full of a bunch of bikers. Smelled like a distillery.” He chuckles. “We had to take turns in your mother’s room. To meet you,” he explains, pouring for both of us.

Again we tap glasses, again I wait.

“You were so small. Looked even littler nestled in all this leather. Even though you were Mercy’s, I knew from the moment I held you that I’d die for you.” His smile is warm contrast to the ice and grit of his voice.

I don’t know why I doubted him, this man who’s always had my back. Often when I didn’t even know it. He never asked for anything in return, never demanded thanks. Yet I couldn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt.

I bow my head in shame.

“I know you, Olivia,” he says in a low rasp. “I know you won’t let this go until you get answers. The question is, will you like what you hear?”

I lift my gaze to his, finding icy blue eyes appraising me. “Tell me.”

Lifting a finger, he pours another round. Clink, drink, slam, the sound echoing through the empty room.

“Where is everyone?” I ask. Even Cliff isn’t here yet, which is odd since we’re on similar schedules.

“I was Tommie’s mother’s boyfriend,” Ravage begins, and I forget how alone we are.

“Tell me. Tell me everything,” I say, and he does. When he finishes, I pour us both a shot.

I’ve never needed it more.

“You understand, now, why you need to let this go?” he asks, eyeing me.

I can’t even speak, so I nod.

I don’t know how I’ll face anyone after this, least of all myself.

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Photo by Aleksandr Popov

Part 4: “Wasn’t He Married?” | River Reapers MC Summer Miniseries

“Everyone cleared out like they were all guilty,” I told Lucy. “What else did Stixx say? He was there, too.” I don’t mean to sound accusing, but it’s just all so weird.

Author’s Note

Catch Up: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Part 4: “Isn’t He Married?”

Olivia

I can’t believe it’s Ravage. I can’t believe he kicked everyone out and then just took off before anyone could say anything. I can’t believe they all just left. Cliff and I stand in the abandoned conference room, the scent of sex still in the air, droplets of his release drying on the old wooden table.

He gives me a cocky grin. “We should probably clean that up.”

I drag a finger through it, licking it with a smack of my lips. “All done.”

The stare he gives me is heated, sending a zing straight to where I’m already wet. That’s the thing about Cliff. I’m always ready for him.

“We should probably get going,” I say with a sigh. I don’t know where everyone else went, let alone Tommie. The whole day has this dreamlike, hazy quality to it, moments slipping through my fingers.

The doors swing open and Lucy strides in, my niece babbling away on her hip. Tiny Bunny with her chubby cheeks and twin devil horns—her hair is getting so long but isn’t quite long enough for actual ponytails. She reaches for Cliff and he scoops her up, Lucy laughing even as her daughter clings to a handful of her red hair.

“What brings you here?” I ask. She’s never been to The Wet Mermaid, aside from that time I threw her baby shower here. She gave me so much shit for that.

“I need you to watch her, Auntie.” She gives me hopeful big sister eyes, then looks back at her toddler. “I’ve got a date,” she says in a low voice.

Cliff and I exchange a look before I turn back to my adoptive sister.

“Of course,” I tell her. “When do you need me?”

“Tonight.” She bats lashes at me, and I laugh. “Pretty please.”

“You got it,” Cliff replies, and Lucy squeezes us both in a group hug that should be awkward but instead warms me to my toes. She kisses Bunny’s chubby cheek and skips off.

“I guess we’re on baby duty,” I say, Cliff’s eyes meeting mine. It hits us both at the same time. “We both ride. How are we gonna get her home?”

With the baby—who’s looking less and less like a baby every day, toddling around on more and more solid legs—fed and fast asleep for the night, I snuggle into Cliff’s arms on the couch, a movie playing in front of us on the flat screen. Except neither of us are watching.

Cliff’s hand skates back and forth on my belly, a comforting more than sexual motion, his arms wrapped tight around me. It’s my very own weighted blanket.

“Anything?” I ask, nodding to our phones on the coffee table.

“No,” he says into my hair—the answer I already knew.

When we walked onto the floor back at the clubhouse, the place was empty, stools up on the tables and bar, the place mopped and shut down for the night. The Mermaid never closed, not truly. When it wasn’t open for business, it served as our private venue for whatever we needed. I held Bunny close as we walked through, meeting our Uber in the employees-only parking lot out back. Only when we were safely locked in Lucy’s condo did I exhale.

Her key slides into the lock in the front door and Cliff’s hand stills. “Hey,” Lucy calls as she comes into the living room. “Ooh, OG Dune.” She perches on the arm of the couch.

“More like Snooze,” I say through a yawn.

“I’ll put some coffee on,” she says, “because I found out some shit.”

That perks me up.

“What shit?” I follow her into the kitchen, leaving Cliff lounging on the couch.

“You too,” she calls to him, and a moment later he joins us. She busies herself with the French press, keeping me on pins and needles until she turns to us, biting her lip. “Um. So, I have a confession to make.”

“We already know you’ve been banging Stixx, honey,” I tell her.

Cliff nearly spits out his coffee.

Her shocked green eyes bounce between us. “You knew?!”

“So what’d ya find out?” I press.

Recovering, she sinks into the chair next to me. “Well, Stixx says that it’s entirely possible that Ravage dated Tommie’s mom.”

“How would he know?” I ask.

“We’re almost the same age,” Cliff adds. “Stixx wasn’t even a member back then.”

Lucy waves a hand. “Right, but here’s the thing. Ravage and Shannon weren’t married back then, either.”

I’ve never had a stable family system, not until the River Reapers and Ravage and Shannon. Those two have always been a unit, so it’s a bit jarring to hear that my father figure wasn’t always faithful. I shake my head.

“I’m sorry, Livvie,” Lucy says, reaching for my hand. She knows how much I look up to them; her parents weren’t exactly the best role models, what with all their drugs and neglect.

“That’d be why he took off,” Cliff says with a pained sigh, one that scrapes up through his chest, escaping past his lips. “I just can’t see him killing a woman.”

“Everyone cleared out like they were all guilty,” I told Lucy. “What else did Stixx say? He was there, too.” I don’t mean to sound accusing, but it’s just all so weird. It was as if they’d never been there in the first place.

She shrugs. “We didn’t really talk about it much.”

“C’mon, Luce, really?” Cliff prods. “You were out all night…” His voice trails off as he gets it.

“Sorry, cousin.” My sister lifts her coffee mug in a salute. “I’ve got to shower and get ready for work.”

“Work?” I repeat, but when I glance out the window, I see the sky lightening, hear birds calling to each other softly as their day begins. “Wait, I need one, too.” But she’s already upstairs, and a second later the pipes clang. I cast a long look at Cliff.

“Don’t look at me.” He holds up his hands.

“You’re the one who wanted to watch that long-ass movie.”

The grin that spreads across his face is both mischievous and adorable, not at all remorseful. “I got to spend the whole night with you.” He pulls me into him, dipping me back for a kiss. When he lets me go all too soon, I pout. “I’ve got work, too, and so do you.” He smacks my ass lightly. “Better go kick Lucy out before she uses all the hot water.”

He’s not wrong, so I hurry upstairs, but even as I make light threats for custody of the shower, I’m dreading seeing Ravage later.

How will I look him in the eye, knowing he might’ve been the one to kill Tommie’s mother?

To be continued…

Read Part 5

Photo by Alfonso Scarpa on Unsplash

“Take Me to Church” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 3

Olivia’s hand slips into mine and pulls my palm to her, up under her shirt. “I just want to forget, for a bit,” she says.

There’s nothing else to say. I close my fingers around her breast, the softness of it light in my hand, giving it just the right pressure she likes. Her hands clasp my face, my beard brushing against her fingers. It’s getting long, longer than I’ve ever let it get. Not counting prison.

Author’s Note

‼️ This week’s episode is NSFW. Read at your own risk! ‼️

Catch Up: Part 1 | Part 2

Part 3: “Take Me to Church”

Cliff

Around the table, my brothers—the other members of the MC—stare blankly at Olivia.

“What’d you say her name was?” Beer Can asks, the crow’s feet at his eyes more pronounced as he squints at her.

Olivia’s lips part, then close. “I… She didn’t say.”

Skid scoffs. “You dragged us all out here for a woman whose name you didn’t even get? What is this?” he asks Ravage.

Olivia bites her lip.

I rush to defend her, even though I’ve got nothing. “Tommie said she’d recognize the boyfriend if she saw him, right?” When Olivia nods, I surge forward. “So then let’s have her over, see if she recognizes anyone.”

“That’s if this isn’t total bullshit,” Skid says. “Are we really gonna waste club time on some slag from the streets?”

Olivia bristles at the term, shoulders tightening. Her eyes narrow at Skid. “Wanna try that again?”

“You heard me,” he snarls. “Slag.”

She shoves her seat back, his hits the wall as he rises, and I slam him back against the sheetrock.

“Watch your manners,” I growl, my arm pressed against his throat.

He snarls in response.

“That’s enough, Red Dog,” Ravage says, and I release him immediately.

For now.

He lifts a scarred arm, his mottled hand rubbing at his throat, eyeing me with hateful blues.

“I found newspaper articles about it,” Vaughn says from behind his battered laptop. “Her name was Liane Paige.”

Mark shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Not for me, either,” Beer Can says.

“How ‘bout you, Skid?” I ask.

“This is bullshit, Prez,” he says to Ravage. “Are we really going off the whims of a little girl and some slag?” He stares straight at Olivia when he says it. I reach for the collar of his shirt, but Ravage yanks me back.

“Enough. Olivia, you’ve got a barbecue to plan.” He bangs the gavel, dismissing us.

No one moves.

“Did I stutter?” His ice blue eyes appraise us.

Vaughn shuts his laptop. “Someone’s cranky,” he mutters as he stands.

“Hold it,” Olivia says.

I know that look on her face. The one that says she knows better, even if just a smidge. The one that says, “Gotcha.” I know that look because it’s almost the same one she gave me that first night.

Almost.

That night, the corners of her mouth curled up just a bit, with just the slightest hint of mischief, her eyelids heavy. Then she broke into someone’s station wagon and pulled me in behind her, losing clothes as we slid into the back.

The look she’s giving Ravage now has none of the lust. Instead there’s that fire in her eyes that I’ve come to love.

And fear.

Just a little.

“Come on in,” she calls through the closed double doors, doors that club legend says came from an actual local church. They’re old and wood and heavy, so they could’ve.

A woman slips inside, the same woman from the other day.

“We don’t allow outsiders,” Mercy says, his voice warm but tinged with warning. Don’t push it, he seems to be telling his daughter. But of course she won’t listen to him. Not with the strain between them. He turns to Skid and Ravage. “She’ll go. No harm—”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Olivia says, clasping Tommie’s hand. “Do you recognize anyone?”

Tommie lowers her sunglasses, staring from face to face. She skips right over Vaughn, does a double take at me.

I clench my fists under the table so no one sees. It’s what I thought. Bastard must’ve been her mother’s boyfriend. That’s why Ravage didn’t want to do this. Once again, he was protecting my father.

Dead since I went away to prison a lifetime ago, yet he’s still calling all the shots.

I’m sick of cleaning up Bastard’s messes. I’m tired of drying little girls’ tears. Tommie’s too old for his tastes but he still ruined her life. He took her mother.

Yet one more thing I’ll never forgive him for.

Tommie lifts a hand, points a finger. I follow its direction, positive I’ll see myself at the other end of it.

Him. He looks just like his father. He’s the one. That’s what she’ll say any second now.

But when I see who she’s pointing at, my chest spasms like the wind’s been knocked out of me.

Judging by the looks on everyone else’s faces, we’re all just as shocked.

Alone in the room we held Church, I lift Olivia onto the table. “That was hot,” I say, kissing her neck. “The way you had Tommie outside, waiting for the right moment.” My lips move against her skin, kissing up to her chin.

She wraps her legs around my waist. “I can’t believe it, though,” she says. “The mom’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” I touch my forehead to hers, each of us leaning against the other. We breathe in and out, cells recovering after the shock.

Olivia’s hand slips into mine and pulls my palm to her, up under her shirt. “I just want to forget, for a bit,” she says.

There’s nothing else to say. I close my fingers around her breast, the softness of it light in my hand, giving it just the right pressure she likes. Her hands clasp my face, my beard brushing against her fingers. It’s getting long, longer than I’ve ever let it get. Not counting prison.

Her soft lips push mine open, and I forget those hellish years, forget the last thirty minutes. I hitch her skirt up to her waist, push aside her lacy thong, finding her soaked. She nods, emphatic, unbuckling my belt, freeing me. Her fingers squeeze the base of my cock, rolling over the head, notching me to her. Then I push in, sweetly slow, the hot wetness of her sucking me in an inch at a time. She’s quicksand and I’m drowning in her, buried to the hilt, breathing in her oxygen.

She lies back so I can hit it deep, my head reaching the end of her. When I withdraw, my shaft is coated in her. I run a finger along her leaking lips, soaking the pad of it in creamy desire. I bring my fingers to my lips, but she grabs my wrist, sucking me into her mouth, tasting herself.

I come hard, shooting into her, rolling my hips against her in an attempt to bring her with me.

“Come on me while you fuck me with your fingers,” she says, all doe eyes as she lifts her tiny tank, exposing her belly. I shoot onto her, white pearls dotting her skin even as I thrust two fingers into her, pinching her clit while I fuck her. She matches my pace, grinding hard against me, crying out as she squeezes her eyes shut. I feel her clench around my fingers, her thighs shaking, her body going limp.

I grin, feeling proud of myself as she slumps back onto the table, droplets soaking into the wood.

Ravage would kill us if he knew what we just did, but fuck him.

Olivia’s eyes meet mine, her thoughts seeming to sync with mine. She sighs, and I help her sit up. “What do we do now?” she asks, and I know she’s not talking about the mess on the table.

She’s talking about Tommie, Tommie’s mother Liane, and the mysterious boyfriend—Ravage.

To Be Continued…

Read Part 4

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

Butcher & Blackbird puts the “cream” in ice cream, and the romance in dark romance

The tears in Sloane’s eyes shift and shine as they gather at her lash line. “I am not unlovable.” She jabs her bloody finger in my direction, punctuating every word. “I am very fucking lovable.”

Again and again, certain books come to me when I need them most. I’m a survivor of sexual assault. I couldn’t even start processing the things that were done to me until a different traumatic event occurred in 2015 and my therapist diagnosed me with complex PTSD. The other day, I ran into one of my abusers (almost literally), and it sent me into a bit of a spiral. I processed it over a few days, going through all sorts of emotions. Then I needed a distraction—a safe distraction.

This is why trigger warnings are so important. I get that for some readers, a list of TWs can look like spoilers and, for others, triggers are more like tropes, in that they purposely look for books featuring specific triggers—reading certain triggers can help some survivors process traumatic events. For some survivors, though, those lists are lifelines.

I’ve long struggled to find my place in dark romance, as both a reader and writer. I’ve read romances marketed as lighthearted rom-coms that opened with graphic rape scenes or contained disturbing plot twists that you’d need therapy for IRL. These triggers can be so validating in some readers’ healing journeys, while detrimental to others. This is why I believe trigger warnings are necessary; readers who don’t need them can ignore them, and readers who do need them can utilize them.

I can’t tell author Brynne Weaver how much I appreciate her not only having a content warnings section on her website, but also for writing spicy romance that is always consensual. For me, this is imperative whether I’m reading dark or light romance. I’m super cautious about the books I read, and having an extensive list of CWs helped me decide to give Butcher & Blackbird a shot. (So did this blog post and this Amazon review.)

I’m seeing a trend that’s fascinating me. [In some dark romances] we get strong, vulnerable, and resilient women who take the abuses and transgressions of life and channel them to move on and become these [badass] warrior women who fight for the voiceless victimized who cannot speak [nor] stand for themselves. While viewed by many as just smut, these types of books have the potential to do incredible collective trauma healing work surround women’s issues of SA, assault, and violence. So read all the smut you love, because you may be healing the traumas of yourself, your community, and your ancestors!
Amazon reader

(I really want to talk more about how healing dark romance is, but this is supposed to be a review, so I’ll stay on topic!)

So I went in, cautiously, eyes wide open for the two TWs I might have an issue with due to my own history, poised to skip or put the book aside altogether, if need be. I didn’t have to do either of those things.

Butcher & Blackbird is funny. I was chuckling just reading the excerpt (Chapter 1). Weaver is flawless in her balance of dark subjects with perfectly timed humor and well-written gore. I’ve read a lot of dark romances that lean heavily on shock value but with very little substance, and with more smut than romance; they’d be more appropriately filed in horror. Butcher & Blackbird isn’t like that. There’s heart and warmth to it. There’s real romance—actual swoony moments that had me forgetting about the bodies that needed hiding. Moments that had me tearily “Aw”- and “Oh”-ing out loud the same I would if I were reading cute small town romance. Just with lobotomies.

I point to the not-so-good doctor, whose blood trickles down his face in drying streaks. “Left eye hole. Always a little gouge-y.”

Maybe it’s because my IRL “book boyfriend” is a man who knows how to love a traumatized woman, but I have such a love for this trope in dark romance. Rowan doesn’t need push around Sloane for us to know he’s ✨tortured✨. He doesn’t swing his dick around to tell us he’s strong. He takes Sloane pretending not to know who he is in stride. He gives her space and time, patiently and intentionally earning her trust. When it comes to sex, he’s giving, cognizant of her need for safety but also not afraid to dick her down. Their dynamic reminds me a lot of my own, IRL, and gave me another safe space that I desperately needed, while also giving me an escape from the real world.

In the end, Rowan and Sloane come together to heal from their pasts—another aspect of dark romance that I have big love for. After all, we’re talking romance; love can and does conquer all. The ending had me smiling so big, and I loved that Weaver didn’t just dump us off—she gave us an epilogue that connected to the next book in the series, plus a bonus epilogue that gave us a sweet happily ever after that was so very fitting to these characters.

I loved this book so much, I could go on and on—I loved and strongly related to Sloane being a lone wolf with one best friend, and as a horror fan I really enjoyed the gore and almost episodic serial killer segments. I know Weaver didn’t write this book for me, per se, but man, it really felt like it. It was just what I needed, reminding me that no matter the things I’ve been through, the beauty I have in my life far outweighs the ugly.

“You have never been unlovable. You were just waiting for someone who will love you for who you are, not for who they want you to be. I can do that, if you’ll let me.” I press my lips to hers and taste salt and blood but pull away before the kiss deepens. “I fucking adore you, Sloane Sutherland. I wanted you from that first day at Briscoe’s. I have loved you for years. I’m not stopping. Not ever.”

Check it Out

If you liked A Disturbing Prospect, you’ll like Butcher & Blackbird. Like Olivia and Cliff, the lead couple punishes abusers together, the romance is an achingly sweet slow burn, and the story is fast-paced with plenty of thrills and delicious darkness.

“Mother ” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 2

I did a lot of hard things without my mother. It made me stronger in some ways, emptier in others. Lonelier.

Author’s Note

Catch Up: Part 1

Part 2: “Mother”

Olivia

Not too long ago, I was this woman. Wondering where my mother was, looking to the club for answers. I worked as a bartender under Shannon, Ravage’s wife, and she became a sort of surrogate. My childhood memories were a blur, yet I’d washed up on their doorstep the same way Bree had, so many years before, pregnant with me.

I didn’t like the answers I got then, and I’ve got a feeling Tommie won’t like whatever answers she got now.

“Are the police involved?” I ask, hesitant, wary. I don’t need any more run-ins with the PD. None of us do.

“Define ‘involved,’” she mutters.

I don’t press her. I go to the bar, pour us some coffee. With my mug steaming between my hands, I wait for her to tell her story, in her own time, at her own pace.

“She went missing,” she says finally. “I came home from school one day and no Mom in the kitchen. Chocolate chip cookies on the counter.” She gives me a rueful smile. “She was always baking things.”

Bree never baked. She liked to get baked.

“I called the police,” Tommie continues. “They told me she must’ve just run out to the store for something. But I knew something was wrong. She never left me alone. It was annoying—I was fourteen,” she explains, shaking her head.

Bree left me alone all the time. It never even occurred to me to call the police until a few days passed.

“Anyway, they found her a few weeks later.”

I wish I could stand, smile, send her on her way—case closed, she doesn’t need me. The creases at her eyes tighten, and I know this story is far from over, with no happy ending.

“Gunshot, to the head, execution style,” she says softly. “They found her on the side of Route 8, dumped off the Mixmaster.”

I gasp. I can’t help myself. The Mixmaster is the interchange between Route 8 and I-84, smack in the middle of an urban area. I imagine Tommie’s mother tumbling down from the highway, landing on the riverbank, her body broken.

“You don’t just…” My voice trails off as I catch myself, rearrange my face back into something professional, but it’s too late. Tommie’s already seen my shock.

“The police ruled it as a robbery,” she says, meeting my shocked gaze with a steadiness that holds, then wavers. “I never believed that.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” I say quietly. I shouldn’t have said so, not when my club’s involved somehow and I don’t know the details yet.

Protect the club—that’s the first rule of being a member of the River Reapers MC.

That’s why I need to cut to the chase.

But Tommie lost her mother, making her a victim—a survivor. I can’t push her too quickly, or I’ll lose her. Even worse, I could do irreparable damage.

“Did you bring your concerns to the police?” I ask gently.

She scoffs. “I was fourteen. They weren’t listening. I told them my mother’d been dating this guy—real dangerous dude. She never left me alone with him.”

I swallow, thinking of Bree’s boyfriends over the years, the way they eyed me, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Thankfully she had enough sense to never leave me alone with them.

“Who was he?” I ask. “Was he in the club?”

“I’d know him if I saw him.” She leans forward. “That’s why I’m here.”

“For a lineup?” I can’t see how Ravage will ever okay that. Especially not for an outsider. Especially not a dead one.

“I was hoping I could talk to him. Maybe he knows what really happened,” she says, her gaze intense, feverish.

I wish Shannon hadn’t sent Tommie to me, that she’d gotten the details herself. I don’t have this kind of pull with Ravage—only Shannon does, and usually it’s for one of her girls. Protection, errands, things like that.

“I can’t exactly call Church and start bossing a bunch of bikers around,” I say to Tommie, rising. This is the part where I kick her out, tell her I’m really sorry about her mom, but I can’t help her—we can’t help her.

Except helping people is my job. It’s what I thought I’d do, anyway, working within the system to take care of strays like me. I grew up in a foster home, with parents who never adopted me. They just collected a paycheck and told me they’d adopted me. The system, in all its broken glory, was more than okay with that—it kept the money flowing.

Tommie isn’t a kid, though. She’s a grown woman, sniffing around dangerous places for answers. I should shut her down, send her packing in such a way, she never comes back.

Except who would help her, then? Certainly not the police.

I open my mouth, still not sure what to tell her, when Cliff answers for me.

“Bossing around bikers is what Olivia does best,” he says from over by the bar. He leans against the doorway, giving me a knowing smile.

I start to argue, remind him I’m already on thin ice with Ravage. We both are. Then Tommie engulfs me in a hug scented with leather, perfume, and cigarettes—she even smells like Bree, the rush slamming into me, yanking me back to childhood, the way I’d burrow into my mother’s closet while she was gone, mainlining the remnants she left behind. It comforted me, that stale perfume and old leather, in ways she never could.

I know too well what it’s like growing up without a mother.

So I find myself hugging Tommie in return, a quick pat to the back, pulling away with a smile and promise that I’ll talk to my president, that we will. I grab Cliff’s hand and pull all six-four feet of him to me, warding off another hug from Tommie, keeping away another flashback. He squeezes my hand, his presence alone reassuring as I swap phone numbers with Tommie and promise to text her the moment I have news.

Then she’s gone, the wisps of her scent lingering, my head spinning with memories and feelings. Mostly, the sense of abandonment, of emptiness.

I did a lot of hard things without my mother. It made me stronger in some ways, emptier in others. Lonelier.

“I didn’t mean to interfere,” Cliff says, bringing me back to the here and now.

“Oh.” I wave him off. “It’s okay.”

He pauses, head tilted slightly.

“What?” I ask.

“Well, usually you yell at me for things like this.”

Smiling, I rise onto the tips of my toes and kiss him. “I figure Ravage’ll do enough of that for the both of us.”

“Ravage?” he repeats.

I nod. “Since it was your idea, you can tell our president to call Church.”

Tipping his head back, he groans.

“Better catch him while he’s still in a good mood.” I shoulder my bag and kiss him goodbye. “I’ve got a cookout to plan.”

Then I make myself scarce before I get roped into anything else.

To Be Continued…

Read Part 3

Photo by JP Valery on Unsplash

One of the best books about generational trauma and mother/daughter relationships I’ve ever read

I love the way Jo Leevers wrote The Last Time I Saw You (July 1st, 2024), deftly handling daughter Georgie’s struggle with abandonment and mother Nancy’s shame of disappearing from her children’s lives. Her writing immediately pulled me in, keeping me reading because first I was curious about what would make a mother leave her children, then because I became deeply invested in the characters and ending.

Leevers’ pacing is impeccable. Chapters fly by until you realize you’re 70 percent in and should probably go to bed. She tells the story by showing us the damage caused by Nancy’s disappearance, then showing us both Nancy’s and Georgie’s lives. As the truth began to unfold, I rooted for Nancy and hoped she and her now grown children would find their way back to each other.

The ending felt like a hug from a loved one you haven’t seen in a long time. I cried happy tears but I was also relieved, after the wringer Leevers put me through.

This book should have a TW/CW for on-page sexual assault—I had to step away for a moment and check in with myself, and was able to continue shortly after. I don’t want to spoil any plot points, but readers with a history might need the heads up that there is rape and stalking.

With the happiest of endings, The Last Time I Saw You is a healing story, deftly written with tenderness and care, and I’m so grateful to Prime First Reads for putting it into my hands because it was exactly what I needed.

Check it Out

If you liked my novella Her Mercy, you might like The Last Time I Saw You. Even though this book isn’t a romance, it contains similar themes: missing mother, generational trauma, mother/daughter relationships, examining the past, healing together, cross country road trip to find someone. There’s even a lovely dog named Bree! I truly felt like this book was put in my hands, it was so special to me.

I just finished reading this spicy, slow burn, small town romance

Wild Card by Staci Hart has some pretty memorable scenes: the rooftop, the pond, the water tower (iykyk). I love a Staci Hart novel, not just for the spice but also for the slow, sweet way she writes sex scenes. With Wild Card, she really kicked it up a notch. “Duchess” (Jessa) and Remy seemed determined to get caught, what with all the public places they banged in. 😂

I really appreciated how lighthearted this book was. Off-page, pre-book, Remy cared for his mother while she went through cancer treatment, and she survived. (She even assists a little, behind the scenes.) The most serious thing that happened was when his giant dog muddied up Jessa’s clothes (and it was nothing a little dry cleaning couldn’t fix). It was a couple hundred pages of witty banter, Remy dirty-talking, and Jessa falling in love with not just Remy but also the town. In other words, it was exactly what I needed.

I finished this book with a big ass grin on my face, squealing in happiness when I read Epilogue 2 at the end. Wild Card reminded me a lot of Bad Penny, the first Staci Hart book I ever read, because there was such a bounce and sauciness to her writing. (Penny’s nipples, lips, and dick theory has lived rent-free in my head ever since.)

Hart was much missed and I’m so glad she’s back in action. I can’t wait for Cass and Wilder’s book—I’m a sucker for second chance romance, and the ending of Wild Card set things up nicely for their story.

In the meantime, if you like small town romance, Wild Card is a fun summer read.

Check it Out

If you liked my Love in Ink small town tattoo shop romance series, I think you’ll like Wild Card (or any of Staci Hart’s other small town romances, really).

“Echoes from the Past” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 1

She even reminds me of Bree, with the smoker’s pulls around her mouth and that haunted survivor look in her eyes, the one we all seem to share—and recognize immediately.

Note from the Author

Olivia

History repeats. That’s all I can think as I sit across from Ravage and he tells me it’s my “duty” to throw the club’s big Fourth of July party. I give him a skeptical look through slitted eyes because I’m pretty sure he’s messing with me. He made me throw the club’s big Halloween party, and we all know how that ended.

Okay, it actually turned out great, but that’s not the point.

“I’m not a prospect anymore,” I remind him. “I’m not even your bartender anymore. Can’t you foist this on someone else?”

“We don’t have any prospects right now,” he reminds me in his gravelly voice, “and you’re the lowest man on the totem pole, so to speak,” he adds.

I groan. “I’m a full-time social worker. I don’t have time to organize something this big.”

The River Reapers MC cookout for the Fourth of July is the party of the year. Bikers from other clubs come out in droves. A couple hundred people crowd Ravage and Shannon’s backyard. It’s not no little Halloween haunted house that goes up for an evening. It’s an all-day affair that carries late into the night, often the next morning and day.

“You did great. You can handle this.”

His father-knows-best attitude drives me crazy—and it’s why I love him so much. He’s been looking out for me my whole life, even when I didn’t know I had a guardian angel in the form of a grizzled biker. I’d do anything for him because he’s done everything for me. He’s been a father to me while my biological father cowers and my real dad was in prison.

That’s the only reason I don’t slouch out of his office like a teenager who’s been told to go clean their room.

“And Olivia?” he calls as I reach the hall.

“Yes?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“The hotdogs. They have to be Deutschmacher—”

“I know, I know. I’ll get you your ‘douchey’ hotdogs,” I tease, purposely mispronouncing the only brand he’ll eat. The man is a picky toddler.

“Thank you,” he says, and the hint of a smile plays on his lips. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile, not in a happy way, so I hightail it out of there before those icy blue eyes pierce me.

I don’t make it far before I run into the other man who’s done everything for me.

“There you are.” Cliff bends down to kiss me, his beard grazing my cheek, his hands brushing my hips as he pulls me into an embrace. “I heard the boss wanted to see you. Everything cool?”

I chuckle darkly. “Define ‘cool.’ He’s making me plan the Fourth bash.”

“Damn. What’d you do to deserve that?” he jokes.

“Apparently too good a job on the Halloween thing.” Shrugging, I loop my arms around his neck and lean into him. “Maybe you can help me de-stress a little…” I say it suggestively, let it hang between us. I’ve been trying—and failing—to keep it casual between us. We’ve been everything but, not with the things we’ve done together.

Things most couples never dream think of—like disposing of rapists.

“I’d love to,” he says, with that tender emphasis he keeps putting on the L-word.

I know how he feels. It’s obvious. What isn’t so obvious is how I feel, and how to keep my heart safe after everything I’ve been through.

“There’s someone else who wants to see you, though,” he continues.

“Who?”

He leads me out of The Wet Mermaid’s employees-only area and onto the strip club and bar’s main floor. At this time of morning, it should be empty—a couple stragglers from last night’s drinking, if anything. But a small figure in a too-big hoodie sits huddled at a table.

At first I think they must be a kid—a teenager, maybe. As I approach, she lifts her head and the hood falls away. I see crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and I put her in her forties, just a few years older than my mother.

She even reminds me of Bree, with the smoker’s pulls around her mouth, the perpetual terrors life’s rained down on her displayed for all to see by the elevens on her brow. She’s got that haunted survivor look in her eyes, the one we all seem to share—and recognize immediately.

It gives “it takes one to know one” a whole new meaning.

“What is this?” I whisper to Cliff as we draw closer.

She stands. “Shannon told me I could… She said to ask for Olivia.”

I throw on my social worker face, the one that says “I’ve seen everything and I’m listening.” Except I’m pretty sure most social workers haven’t seen half the shit I have.

I drop into the chair opposite her and motion for her to sit, too. Cliff makes himself scarce, probably sensing she’s nervous to talk in front of a man. He’s empathetic like that.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Tommie,” she says. Chipped and clipped fingernails shred a napkin. “Shannon said maybe you could help…”

I’m gaining quite the reputation. If it keeps going this way, I’ll have to set up a hotline or something, the way Shannon’s Haven has a private number that rape and domestic violence victims can use to contact her shelter.

That is, anyway, if Ravage doesn’t take me to the river for all the trouble I keep bringing to his front door.

This one isn’t my fault, though—I can honestly say that. I start to tell her that she’s got the wrong place, that I can’t bring another body to the club, that I’m so sorry for what happened to her, but I can’t afford to be involved with another murder. Then she says something really interesting, something that makes me shut up and listen.

“My mother went missing in the nineties, and I think your club had something to do with it.”

Like I said, history repeats.

To Be Continued…

Read Part 2

Photo by Drew Beamer on Unsplash