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A Fatal Prospect, Chapter 1

My relationship with Olivia is… complicated. She doesn’t want to move in with me, she doesn’t want to get married, and she definitely doesn’t want to have my babies. She won’t even let me tell her I love her. Sometimes, I think she’ll be the death of me.

Catch Up

The following is an excerpt from A Fatal Prospect. This chapter contains spoilers from the series; please read A Disturbing Prospect and A Risky Prospect first!

Chapter 1

Cliff

“You’re on Bunny duty, Cliff,” Olivia tells me as I set down the final box of decorations. I turn to find my cousin Lucy holding out her baby to me.

“Leigh,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Olivia. “Her name is Leigh.” She passes the baby Olivia nicknamed Bunny to me, and I cradle her in the crook of my arm.

“Easiest job in the house,” I say. I’d never pass up on some uninterrupted Bunny time. It’s a regular game my cousin and I play. Where we used to fight over turns playing Crash Bandicoot, now we fight over who gets to hold Bunny. Lucy always wins, of course.

Nothing has changed between us.

“I can’t believe you two talked me into a biker Sip and See,” Lucy says, climbing onto a chair. She wraps crepe streamers around the stripper pole, and I bite back a laugh.

I can’t believe it, either.

I catch Olivia’s eye from where she sets up the bar. She smirks. “Please. I wasn’t about to let you sip tea. Whiskey’s so much better, and we’ve got plenty of that.”

“I told you to save it for your own baby,” Lucy says.

“Not gonna happen,” Olivia says. “And don’t even start with that ‘you’ll change your mind’ bullshit again. I’d be a horrible mother.”

I swallow her statement. It lodges in my chest, wedging the rift between us even wider. Babies are a touchy subject between us, close behind marriage and Olivia’s PTSD.

Bunny fusses. I look down at her, and I can’t help but smile. “Hey,” I soothe. She’s existed for just about two weeks, yet she brings out the very best in me. I might never have my own children, so for me, Bunny is it.

“I’m gonna spoil you,” I confess, rocking her. I swear she smiles. “I’ll even buy your first motorcycle.”

“Over my dead body.”

I turn. Lucy holds out the tiny outfit she debated over for the last week, rolling her eyes at me but smiling. “I’ll work on her,” I tell Bunny.

“It might not take long.” She holds out her arms. “Olivia talked me into a biker baby debut. The two of you could talk me into anything. Give me my baby.”

“I can change her,” I say, not ready to give up my niece.

“I need you to hang up the rest of the streamers,” Olivia says, joining us.

She barely looks at the baby. I’ve seen her hold Bunny twice, and both times were at the hospital.

“Sucks being tall, doesn’t it?” Lucy teases, and I relinquish the baby, immediately missing her.

“She smiled at me.” I grab a roll of streamers and tape, and get to work.

“We’ve been through this. It’s gas.” Lucy lays Bunny down and starts working her out of her tiny onesie.

My chest aches.

Olivia loves Bunny—Leigh. I know she does. She’s the one who gave her that nickname while Lucy was pregnant. But once Lucy brought Bunny home, everything changed between Olivia and me.

The distance between us is complicated. She doesn’t want to move in with me, she doesn’t want to get married, and she definitely doesn’t want to have my babies. She won’t even let me tell her I love her.

It’s not just that.

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I still see her on top of Greg, those fingers, currently stacking delicate shot glasses, wrapped around his throat. There’s no doubt in my mind that she had to do it. I still wish I didn’t have to see it.

I guess that’s how Lucy must feel about me.

I finish up the streamers, my hands tingling, the muscles and nerves remembering what I want to forget. I made my father pay for his sins against Lucy with my bare hands. No regrets, that’s how I live. Olivia, too.

It still changes you.

There are times when I can’t look at her. The monster in me sees the monster in her. It stops me cold in my tracks. Our entire relationship is probably built on that thread that runs through us both. It makes sense that we can’t have the things I want so badly.

Our world is no place for a child.

It’s not her fault at all.

I just don’t know what to do about it.

“It’s time,” Olivia calls, putting the final touches on the gifts table. Right on cue, the door swings open, and Donny and Esther shuffle inside with their herd of kids. Esther’s three little sisters come with a plus-one, an older teen boy I’ve never seen before. Esther’s oldest little sister, Cierra, breaks off from the group with him and they dip their heads together. Cierra points to Olivia, and my eyebrows furrow.

“Who’s he?” I ask Donny.

His jaw tightens. “Cierra’s seventeen-year-old ‘friend.’ She’s fourteen, for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t ready for this shit.”

“She’s in high school, brother,” I say, clapping him on the back. “It was bound to happen.”

“I ain’t a fan.” Donny eyes the boy. “They’re attached at the hip, and I swear, if they attach anywhere else, I’ll kill him.” His dark eyes meet mine, softening as his threat dies.

Donny fell in love with Esther and didn’t skip a beat when she got guardianship of her little sisters. They’ve all been through a lot and, teen boyfriends aside, I’m glad things are getting back to normal for them.

More guests pour in, mostly teachers Lucy works with at the elementary school. I spot her chatting with friends, rocking Bunny in her arms. Motherhood looks good on Lucy. She reminds me of my mother, dedicated and tender.

I’ll probably never know the truth behind Ruth’s death.

It’s a loss I feel every day, but especially today when she should be here. She’d love Bunny. She’d love Olivia.

I glance around for my woman, but she’s gone. So are Cierra, the boy, and Esther.

“Olivia will fill you in later,” Donny says, gripping my arm.

“Fill me in on what?” Before I can get an answer out of him, music fills the clubhouse.

Thank you for reading Chapter 1 of A Fatal Prospect, Book 3 in the River Reapers MC series.

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Pre-Order A FATAL PROSPECT, Book 3 in the River Reapers MC Series

Earlier this summer I announced I won’t be publishing anything in 2020, so that I can spend the next few months “writing ahead.” I don’t want another flareup of my UCTD derailing my career, ever again. If that means purposely slowing things down even further, even if only temporarily, so be it.

After much thought, I’ve finally set a release date for A Fatal Prospect. I know a lot of you are really looking forward to this book. I know you wanted it to escape into during all of the madness that has been this year. I really wish I could give you this book right now. Publishing doesn’t work that way, though, especially not with a chronic illness.

There are many moving parts that you as a reader will likely never see: booking cover designs, editing, ARCs, promotion companies, advertising . . . The list goes on! It isn’t just me and my UCTD that I have to work around. I work with many other professionals, all of whom have other clients and their own lives to schedule around. When all was said and done, the date I chose is the very soonest I could comfortably schedule a release date, especially factoring in that shit happens and, when shit inevitably will happen, I’ll still be able to release this book on time without penalty.

(Yes, penalty—if I were to miss my release date, I could lose my Amazon pre-order privileges for a year!)

That date is . . .

Drum roll, please . . .

A Fatal Prospect
River Reapers MC, Book 3
Available March 29th, 2021

(Blurb and cover reveal coming soon)

🖤🏍💀 Pre-Order Now 💀🏍🖤

A Fatal Prospect and its spinoff novella will be worth your wait, I promise!

“Better Than Her Hating Herself” | Alternate Scene from A RISKY PROSPECT

While writing A Risky Prospect, I knew how I wanted to handle the scene. I just wasn’t sure if I should. To help me decide, I wrote an alternate version.

Spoiler Alert: This alternate scene contains spoilers from A Risky Prospect. Read at your own risk!

♠

I stare after Olivia, frowning. The two shot glasses remain upside down on the bar, the remnants of tequila splattered across the wood. I’ve never known her to leave a mess behind, never mind run out without even grabbing someone to stand in for her. I’m even more shocked that she didn’t let Mark know personally.

What really trips me up, though, is the look on her face when she looked at her phone. I know technology has advanced a lot in the past twenty years, influencing the way people do almost everything, but I also know that if DCF needed her for something, they would’ve called. Not texted.

I tap a finger on the bar, torn. Do I follow her, or do I go get my brothers first?

“You’re late,” Beer Can says from beside me.

“We’ve got a problem,” I reply.

I explain as quickly as I can, then run after her, promising Beer Can I’ll text as soon as I know where she is. Just as I step outside, she flies out of the parking lot. I’ve heard the phrase “like a bat out of hell” a million times, but the people who spoke it never met Olivia.

Her hair flies out behind her, black coils highlighted by the glow from the street light. It’s an alive thing, a harbinger of revenge. She’s the embodiment of the Sludge Specter insignia on my cut and the hoodie she was wearing behind the bar. My hoodie. I watch her disappear, my bones growing colder. I feel sick to my stomach.

Something bad is going down.

I jump onto the Screamin’ Eagle, damn near flooding the thing in my rush to get it started. Thankfully I get it on the first kick, a small flash of luck in this cold, dark night.

It’ll probably never happen again.

I take off in the same direction she went, adrenaline flooding my system, flushing out the heaviness and ache in my limbs. Every muscle is coiled, my body warm as it gears up to fight.

Though light traffic crawls the streets, Olivia is nowhere in sight. It doesn’t matter, because I already know where she’s going. I head to the Mallane Lane address Vinny texted me weeks ago, my fist gripping the throttle, my head a scramble.

What will I find when I get there?

I pull up in front of the teal house. In the dim light, it looks more like mud. A single light floods one window. There isn’t even a porch light on. A Thunderbird sits in the garage, but Olivia’s Street Glide is absent.

I roll past, frowning. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she really did have a work emergency. Everything else was all in my head, some sick need to concoct excuses to be near her.

Whether she wants me or not, she’s got her hooks in me, ensuring I’ll never let her go. The only way I’ll ever get her out of my system is if I get as far from her as possible. That’ll never happen. She’s poison floating in my veins, a toxic potion for which there is no antidote. Loving her is going to kill me, and I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing.

Clenching the throttle, I pull away from the teal house. Even as it fades from my mirror, adrenaline keeps pumping through me. I pull over several blocks away. If she’s handling a work emergency, she’ll answer her phone, exasperated. If she isn’t, well, I still have to figure out where she is.

With the bike rumbling between my thighs, I call her. I turn up the volume on the phone so I can hear each ring over the engine, can count how many pass. Either I’m wasting time or I’m getting fired.

Her voicemail picks up: “It’s Olivia. You know what to do.”

I end the call, torn. If she’s dealing with a work thing, she might not be able to pick up. I just can’t think of where else she might have gone, if she really is after Greg.

The phone rings in my hand. My heart stops, relief flooding me only for a second. It’s Vinny, not Olivia.

“Yeah?” I brace myself for the warning.

“You at Greg’s?” he asks, breathless.

“I rode by. What’s up?”

“I peeked at some court documents. I’ve been checking every so often, see if anything else involving our buddy pops up.”

“Okay,” I press. With no direction, the adrenaline turns to nausea.

“His wife filed for divorce,” Vinny says.

“When?”

“This morning.”

My heart stops again, this time kickstarting with a fresh wave of adrenaline. This time, it’s accompanied by fear. “I’m circling back. Meet me there.” I hang up, wishing I’d thought to grab my piece.

I turn the Screamin’ Eagle around and blip the throttle, riding in the direction I came from. My pulse races with the single thought looping through my head: I hope I’m not too late, not too late, too late.

I roll to a stop in front of the teal house, right behind the Street Glide. The front door stands open, darkness spilling from the house into the street. It’s a quiet neighborhood, the kind where parents let their kids play in the street without worrying about them getting hit. The kind of street where people don’t shrug when they hear a gunshot—they call the police.

I shut off my bike and kick the stand into place. Then, without glancing around, I stroll up the front walk and onto the porch.

I creep inside, eyes straining to make out anything in the dark. The porch serves as a sort of mudroom, opening into a living room. At least, I think it’s a living room. I make out the silhouette of a couch, walk into a coffee table. Its edge bites into my shin, the whole thing sliding back, its feet scuffing against the floor with a whine like a long, drawn out Fuuuuuck.

Which is exactly what I think, standing here in the dark, ears strained for any sign that he knows I’m here. Then again, if I wanted to be stealthy, I should’ve left the bike around the corner.

Fuck it.

“Olivia?” I shout.

A thud responds.

“Olivia?” I glance around, still not accustomed to the dark, completely unfamiliar with the layout. Another thud answers, a strange game of Marco Polo. Pulse throbbing in my throat, I move in the direction I think it came from—toward a set of stairs. The toe of my boot nudges the bottom step. I climb them two at a time.

When I get what I think is halfway up, the sound of thrashing crashes into my ears, a frenzied cacophony of elbows and feet hitting the floor—the symphony of a struggle. I fly up the remaining steps, not even thinking anymore, just moving. I burst into a spare room. Instead of a bed, there’s a desk and a dresser, closet doors standing open, half of the clothing removed. I take this all in even as my focus zeroes in on the floor, on Olivia, pinned under Greg. His fingers wrap around her neck, all of his weight forced on her throat.

“Was it like this?” he asks, over and over.

Her face is a mottled shade of purple and blue. She scratches at his hands, even as the rest of her flops underneath him.

I take two steps and hook my arm around his neck, yanking him back. He drags her with him, and she goes limp, eyes rolling in the back of her head. “Let her go!” I roar in his ear. He releases her, his gurgling nearly drowning out the thud as she hits the floor. She doesn’t move.

“Olivia!” I call, tightening my hold on him. She remains still. “Olivia!” I scream again. I shake him, punctuating each syllable. His eyes bulge, his flesh speckled with purple as I squeeze the air from him.

Her hand twitches.

“Olivia,” I beg. “Come on, babe.”

She sucks in air, head tipping back as she gulps, filling her lungs. I sigh in relief, some of the anger fading from my marrow.

“That’s it. Can you sit up?”

“Asshole,” she croaks, and I grin.

Greg thrashes, twisting out of my grip. He slips away and crouches, a barking cough exploding from his lungs.

“Slippery motherfucker,” I mutter. He lunges at me, catching me off guard and knocking me back. Most other men know when to stay down when fighting me. Not this one. There’s a strain in his eyes, his manic need to control Olivia overpowering all sense.

Because that’s what rape is about, when you boil it down: power.

His knuckles catch my cheekbone, blood spurting from a small cut in near slow motion. My shoulder blades press into the hardwood floor as his weight settles on me. He draws his fist back for another blow.

I was so busy worrying about Olivia, I didn’t even notice him slipping out of my grasp. He caught me by surprise again by recovering so quickly. It’s easy to forget what adrenaline can do, the strength that desire for control breeds.

All of this flies through my head in sync with his fist reconnecting with my face. Another catches me in the ribs. I grunt but keep still, drawing calm in with every breath. Anger won’t get me out of this hold.

“Don’t!” Olivia screams.

I crane my neck to see behind Greg. She kneels on the floor, her gun trained on Greg. Two bright red handprints encircle her neck, some of the bruise already turning purple. The sight sends an upsurge of anger through me, those red handprints encroaching my vision until they’re all I see.

I shove Greg off me, sending him careening into the dresser. This time, I don’t give him a chance to recover. I’m on him, gripping his head with one hand. I glance at the corner of the dresser, so like the coffee table downstairs that I smashed my shin into. I pull his head back, then slam it into the corner.

He cries out, hands flailing, fingers gripping my cut. They squeak against the leather.

I do it again.

His mouth opens, pleading eyes hooked on mine. But I still see those handprints, still see her marbled skin, her mouth wide and gasping but getting no air. It’s too easy to fall back in time, to imagine younger versions of them in a similar pose, my girl begging no.

So I do it again, and again, more times than I can count, but not enough, never enough for what he did to her. What he almost did tonight. His lips move in a “No” and I smile, because isn’t that what she told him? I smile and I smile and I smile.

Then I let him go. He crumples to the floor in a heap.

“Fuck,” Olivia explodes. “Is he dead?”

She rushes over and checks his pulse, her finger smearing the blood running down his neck.

I step back, chest heaving. I can’t catch my breath. I need a cigarette. My limbs shake as the adrenaline leaves my system. I lower myself to the floor, feeling utterly drained.

I should be panicking. I just killed a veteran—again. That’s a ticket straight back to the pen. I tip my head back. In a moment, I’ll make a few calls, get a cleanup crew going. Right now, I need my head and body to sync up.

“You fucking killed him,” Olivia scolds.

I look at her, gauging how angry she is. “Sorry,” I offer.

“That was my kill, Cliff. Fuck!” She turns, pacing the room, one hand curled into a fist, the other still clenched around her gun.

I wonder if she’s going to shoot me. I’m not sure which would be worse: Olivia blowing my brains out, or going back to the pen. At least I know she’s safe. What’s another federal offense?

“I’m sorry,” I say again. I gather my strength back and climb to my feet. My stomach growls, the sound cutting through the room.

She wheels on me. “So that’s it, huh? Let’s just go grab dinner. No big deal, right?” She scowls.

Part of her will always hate me for this, for taking her kill. But what was I supposed to do?

The same beast lives inside me, the one that can’t be controlled. I try to explain, to tell her how even now, all I can see are the handprints on her throat. Just like part of me will always see my father on Lucy.

Instead, I let her hate me. It’s better than her hating herself.

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“I Watch Her Take Her Power Back” | Bonus Scene from A RISKY PROSPECT

In this bonus scene, we see the pivotal scene in A Risky Prospect from Cliff’s POV.

Spoiler Alert: This bonus scene contains spoilers from A Risky Prospect. Read at your own risk!

♠

A work emergency—I don’t buy it. I give Olivia a head start, then I follow her. I keep several cars between us, just in case she really is going to work. I don’t want her to think I’m some kind of lovesick stalker, like Eli. But when she turns onto her street, I know for sure.

This has nothing to do with work.

I hang back, shutting off my headlight, and watch her go inside. Barely two minutes pass and she’s already mounting her bike again. Nothing is different—that I can see, anyway. Still, my gut tells me something is wrong.

So I follow her again.

She takes Spring Street, then turns onto Mallane Lane. I continue by. I don’t need to alarm her. She’s too focused, body bent forward, shoulders hunched.

Who lives on Mallane?

I circle back down Spring Street, taking a left onto Springdale Avenue. It’s the only other way to access Mallane. By the time I turn onto the road, her Street Glide is already cooling down in front of a teal house.

My pulse jumps in my throat.

I consider calling Ravage or even Donny, but there’s a slim chance this could be a client’s house. Even if it isn’t, I don’t want to step all over her toes again. That’s how we ended up here, this place where we don’t talk and I follow her like some kind of creep.

I thumb the throttle, two seconds away from leaving Mallane. This isn’t healthy. Olivia’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself. Bright white light flashes through a window—a strobe light. I frown. Nothing is adding up.

Something crashes on the second floor, shattering as it hits hard wood. It’s then I know. I have to get inside.

I shut off the bike and vault over it, barely registering whether I’ve moved the kickstand into place. My bike, the street, everything fades away, my focus solely on the house. I lunge up the steps, yank open the screen door. The front door is unlocked. I push it open and race inside, careening through a dark living room. The dim light from the street highlights a framed photo: Greg with his wild red hair, and a happy blonde bride.

This must be Greg’s house.

“Was it like this?” Olivia screams from upstairs.

I fly up the steps, hands tingling, fingers twitching for something to latch onto. I’m going to kill him, if she doesn’t first.

I hit the landing and turn toward the sound of her voice. Bright light spills from a bedroom into the hall, a beacon guiding me to her. I take a step toward the door. The blood pounding through my veins pulses even in my eyes. My vision becomes a tunnel of red.

Something thumps—a boot against a footboard, a desperate thrashing.

“Was it like this?” Olivia screams again, pain and fury breaking her voice.

My heart rockets into my throat. He’s got her, and he’ll kill her if I don’t get there now. I close the distance to the door and stop dead in the hall when I see her in the bedroom.

Olivia straddles Greg on the bed, their clothing littering the floor in a trail behind them. Her hands wrap around her neck, all of her weight pressed into his throat. He jerks underneath her, but she’s got him in the most vulnerable position a man can ever be in.

I stare as his face turns purple.

“Was it like this?” she shrieks again, tears running down her cheeks. She lets out a howl of pain, a growl of vengeance—a battle cry. Even as I gape in shock, my chest aches for her.

I’ll never know what it’s like to have survived what she survived, but I do know what it’s like to reach your limit, when you’ve had enough. When the phoenix of your broken soul rises, morphing into a beast whose thirst must be slaked. The evil of a man like Greg awakens that beast, and it won’t be stopped until its thirst is slaked.

So I watch her take her power back.

A part of me will always be shocked, knowing that the same hands that caressed me could do this. The rest of me will always be in awe.

Get More

The Next Book is on the way!

Get the official newsletter to stay in the loop. You’ll also immediately receive the standalone spinoff novella, Her Mercy.

Click here!

River Reapers MC Series

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles: “A Sense of Purpose”

But I’m a romantic at heart; I want someone riding behind me. Or better yet, beside me, the way Cliff has Olivia. I look at them and the world makes more sense, in the way that the MC used to frame things for me.

They’re our future.

“A Sense of Purpose”
A River Reapers MC Short Story

Author’s Note: Have you been wondering how the River Reapers would handle social distancing? I have! So I wrote a few very short stories, just for fun, just for you and me. The following is unedited, so please excuse any typos or errors. Please also be aware that it may contain spoilers for the series.

Mark

I’m the only one in the club who isn’t attached in some way. I put my dark and silent phone to the side, our second Zoom meeting over. With everyone homebound, the rules for Church changed a little—enough for me to see the rules changed for me, too.

Pru is now with Beer Can.

It’s cool—we were never exclusive or anything like that. It was just for fun. But Beer Can, really? It’s like looking at Beauty and the Beast.

I know, I know. I’m bitter, and I sound it. I guess deep down I kind of hoped that my occasional nights with Pru might turn into something more. My everything is comprised of the MC and my family, and my work at the strip club, in no particular order. The lines between them are blurred. The MC gave me The Wet Mermaid. Before, I had the management experience but not the purpose, not the means. Now I have it all. But I’m a romantic at heart; I want someone riding behind me. Or better yet, beside me, the way Cliff has Olivia. I look at them and the world makes more sense, in the way that the MC used to frame things for me.

They’re our future.

I stand in the middle of the empty strip club, the stage and bar dark. I’ve been coming down here a few times a week, just to check in, make sure everything is okay. Everything is always just fine. Without this place, without my club, I’m at loose ends. I have no purpose. I drift through my house and the club house, untethered, unattached. I’m pushing fifty and I have no wife, no children of my own, no one to fill my days when I’m not needed. This pandemic has made it clear that I’m not needed.

Strip clubs, after all, are hardly essential businesses.

Arguably, anyway.

For me, The Wet Mermaid is essential. It’s a moot point now. Pushing my hand through dirty blond hair streaked with gray, I give the club one last looking over. Not a chair is out of place. For the first time in years, I’m caught up on sales and use tax filings. The stage gleams. I’m like a mother whose children have all flown the nest.

I need a purpose. At the least, I’ll take a hobby. I can’t remember the last time I had anything like that. Years and years ago, I played co-ed softball. It was just for fun, when I was young—really just a way to occupy myself, to stay out of trouble for my mother’s sake. Then I met Ravage and discovered riding, and I didn’t need to fill my time anymore. I just fell into place.

Rapping on the door yanks me out of my thoughts. “We’re closed,” I call out even as I make my way over. Through the glass I see her, her dark hair not dark enough to hide the bruise blooming around her eye. My eyes drop down to her fist, also bruised and a little bloody. A medical grade mask hides her mouth and nose.

“Be careful what you wish for,” I mutter, unlocking the door. “Are you okay?” I ask her.

She pushes past me, out of the sunlight and into the cool exterior of the strip club. Her wild eyes appraise the bar, settling back on me as if she already knows she’s safe here. “Pru told me to come here,” she says through the mask. “Is . . . Shannon around?”

I nod as understanding dawns. She’s another stray. This is usually Shannon’s territory. My gaze dwells on her mask. I didn’t wear one; I hadn’t planned on coming into contact with anyone. I came straight here and I planned on going straight home. I can’t exactly turn her away, though.

“She’s not,” I say. “I’m Mark. What’s your name?”

She hesitates. “I . . . Pru told me to ask for Shannon.”

I hold back a frown. I don’t know why Pru gave her this address instead of Shannon’s Haven, but she’s here now and that’s what I’ve got to focus on. I pull down a couple of chairs and seat myself, hoping she’ll feel more comfortable with me sitting. “Usually Shannon’s at the shelter—Shannon’s Haven,” I explain. “This is, uh . . .” I wave a hand around. “A strip club.”

“Pru works here,” she says, nodding. “I know. She says you can hook me up with a job here, too.”

“Me?” I peer at her a little more closely. Doesn’t she realize we’re in the middle of a pandemic? No one is working. The dark circles under her eyes tell the story of a woman who’s been living in hell for quite some time. When she runs a hand through her hair, I catch a wide shock of white buried underneath all that silky black.

“You’re Mark, right?” She lifts green eyes to mine, an emerald green that shocks me, freezing me in place.

I nod, because I can’t form words.

“Pru told me to ask for Shannon . . . and Mark.” She licks her lips. “I just didn’t know if I could trust you.”

I nod again. I’ve given jobs to more wary women than I can count. Even the men who work here—our bouncers—are refugees of some sort. The Wet Mermaid is a safe haven of its own accord.

She remains standing in front of me, this mystery women. My eyes drop to her knuckles again, and I jerk my chin toward them.

“I’m guessing he won’t be a problem anymore.”

“No,” she says. “He won’t.” She tilts her head, watching me, waiting.
I push my hand through my hair, thinking. “Well,” I say after a few moments, “we’re closed, for the time being.”

Her shoulders droop.

I stare at the mask.

“A nurse in the ER gave this to me.” She holds up her left hand, exposing splinted fingers to me. “I . . . He didn’t keep a TV or anything in the house. I kinda just got the crash course.”

“Okay,” I say, and words start falling from between my lips before I can think about what I’m saying. “You can stay here. I’ll go get your paperwork. We’ll furlough you so you can collect. I’ll check in and train you to be a cocktail server . . .”

“No,” she says, lifting those intense green eyes to mine. “I used to be a dancer—a competitive dancer. He took that away when we got married. I want to dance again. Give me the stage.”

The word “married” barely registers. Her determination, the resolve in her eyes, her knuckles—all of it enthralls me.

I’m a goner.

THE END

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

Thank you so much for reading the River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles! “A Sense of Purpose” may be the last in this miniseries, but there are more RRMC stories coming your way.

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles: “The Sound of Waves”

I’m sick to death of rides. On the back of his motorcycle, I feel a little like a dog hanging out the window, hungry for any taste of the outside world. He’s trying, though, and I don’t want to crush him. Not when he rode miles to find me, after twenty years in prison.

“The Sound of Waves”
A River Reapers MC Short Story

Author’s Note: Have you been wondering how the River Reapers would handle social distancing? I have! So I wrote a few very short stories, just for fun, just for you and me. The following is unedited, so please excuse any typos or errors. Please also be aware that it may contain spoilers for the series.

Bree

I stand in the bedroom that used to be Olivia’s nursery, back before everything blew up. I find myself in here every morning, mug of coffee in hand, one of Mercy’s shirts grazing my thighs. This tiny house once felt like home, and now it’s my prison. I’m surrounded by memories and what could have been.

I hate this house.

“Morning,” Mercy says from the doorway.

I turn, the soft fabric swishing around my breasts, rubbing against my belly—achingly empty. I don’t know if it’s being back here, or the near isolation, but all I can think about is how different things could be if Mercy and I made different choices.

“Morning,” I reply, and my low, slow tone gives me away completely.
He fixes intuitive brown eyes on me—eyes that I swear also belong to Olivia, even though that’s impossible. “Want to go for a ride today?”

I’m sick to death of rides. On the back of his motorcycle, I feel a little like a dog hanging out the window, hungry for any taste of the outside world. He’s trying, though, and I don’t want to crush him. Not when he rode miles to find me, after twenty years in prison.

“Or,” he says, stepping closer, “we could go to the park. Get some sandwiches or some other takeout, enjoy nature.” He slides his hands along my hips, and I melt into him immediately, holding my mug out and steady.

“I’ll take that,” he murmurs, plucking the mug from my hands. He sets it down—I never see where—and pulls me into him. The motion hitches his shirt up over my hips, and he sucks in a deep, appreciative breath.

“After all this time,” he says, gazing deep into my eyes, “you are still all I want, Bree. I’d walk through fire for you. I hope you know that.”

I nod and smile, because he has. Yet my heart clouds, because in this pair, I’m the runner. Part of me is still running. Part of me will always run.

I passed that trait to Olivia. Everything bad in me, I gave to her.

I sigh, leaning my forehead against his shoulder. Tears burn my eyes, spilling out before I even have the chance to shove the emotions down again. This social distancing is really getting to me.

“Oh, none of that.” He lifts my chin and uses his thumbs to brush fat teardrops away.

“I hate this house,” I sob, feeling like a two-year-old who hasn’t had a nap.
It’s only eight in the morning.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, enfolding me in his arms, holding all of my pieces together.

“I want to go to Marshall’s.” It flies out of my mouth, completely illogical, irrelevant, and impossible. Most stores are closed, unless they sell essential items. I don’t even need anything at Marshall’s.

“Ah,” Mercy says. He rubs his beard, more salt now than pepper. As his fingers move, the morning light breathes life into the faded letters on his knuckles: B-R-E-E, one on each finger.

“This is the only prison tattoo I allowed myself,” he told me once, a few weeks ago. His other hand has R-R-M-C—another prison tattoo, another constant reminder of what could have been.

“You need retail therapy,” he says now.

“No.” I pull away, shaking my head, aiming my hands for my coffee. “We don’t have any money to spend.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t look.” He lifts me into his arms, sweeping me off the floor.

“Hey!” I stretch out a hand one last time, watching my coffee shrink away as he carries me into our bedroom. “No fair.” He deposits me onto the bed, then stretches out beside me.

“Here.” He hands me my phone, twirling a finger in the air. “Pull up Amazon.”

“It’s not the same.” I set the phone aside, turning so that we’re lying facing each other.

“Right.” He sighs. “Maybe we could go to Target later, stroll through the dollar aisle.”

I chuckle. “I do find good things there.”

He holds up a hand, indicating the newly decorated bedroom. Right before the pandemic hit, I dropped more money than I care to admit—all on breathing life into this house.

It still feels like a prison.

“Maybe when this is over, we can move,” I muse. “Go to the coast.”

It’ll never happen. As much as we’ve sacrificed, as much as he’s suffered under the oath, Mercy will never walk away from his club. Since I won’t walk away from him, I’m stuck here, too.

Foolishly, I once thought that by letting DCF take my daughter, they’d save her from me and the club. Yet here we all are, back in this town, still tied to the River Reapers MC.

I frown. Until now, I never realized how much I resented the club.

“Sure,” Mercy drawls. “We could go to Maine.”

This is a new game. I move closer to him, closing my eyes and resting my head on his chest. “We could move to a small coastal town,” I murmur, each beat of his heart a soothing crash against my ears. I pretend it’s the sound of waves.

THE END

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

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Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles: “Shelter in Place”

No one ever rang my bell. My apartment was damn near a no-fly zone, and I liked it that way. Keeping my head tilted, I listened for signs of life outside the door. It had to be a mistake.

“Shelter in Place”
A River Reapers MC Short Story

Author’s Note: Have you been wondering how the River Reapers would handle social distancing? I have! So I wrote a few very short stories, just for fun, just for you and me. The following is unedited, so please excuse any typos or errors. Please also be aware that it may contain spoilers for the series.

This short is NSFW-ish.

Beer Can

When the virus hit Connecticut, my old ass was stretched out in my recliner, filling in a Sudoku puzzle with good ol’ fashioned pencil and paper. I don’t fuck around with that app shit. I know there’s no truth to the whole 5G thing, but there are a lot of downsides to technology. I’ve never been a slave to anything; I refuse to be glued to my cell phone all day.

The governor came on to urge everyone to stay at home, and right as I rolled my eyes, my doorbell rang.

I sat up in the recliner, frowning. No one ever rang my bell. My apartment was damn near a no-fly zone, and I liked it that way. Keeping my head tilted, I listened for signs of life outside the door. It had to be a mistake.

But no. The ding-dong of a second ring rilled my apartment. Setting the puzzle aside, I worked my way out of the well worn chair—too broken-in to get out of easily, but perfectly formed for my body and nice long naps.

Yeah, some badass biker, I know.

“Hold on,” I called out, making my way to the front door. I unlocked the top and bottom locks, and swung it open. There was no one there. The bell rang again, and I headed toward the back porch. Unlocking the sliding glass door, I pushed aside the blinds and shoved it open. “Pru?” I gaped at the dancer from The Wet Mermaid standing on my deck.

“Special delivery,” she said, thrusting a box toward me.

“What’s this?” I stared at the box, making no move to take it from her.

“Mark ordered some merch but it came to my place by mistake.”

“Your place?” I blinked at her. “Why in the world would it come to your place?”

Steely blue eyes met mine. She shook the box at me.

“You . . . and Mark?” My eyebrows furrowed. Pru was young enough to be my granddaughter, if I had kids. I was also pretty sure she was exclusively into women. The name of her band was Cervical Caves, for Christ’s sake.

This old man couldn’t keep up.

“It was a one-time thing,” she said, inching closer with the box. “Mark said to drop it off at your place, since you’re closer to me.”

“Oh, it’s none of my business,” I said too late. “But what does he want me to do with this?”

The sliding glass door of the adjoining apartment scraped open. My neighbor and the street gossip, Mrs. Henry, poked her head out.

“You know what, dear, you better just come in.” I ushered Pru inside, giving Mrs. Henry a harsh look before closing up.

Pru set the box down on my kitchen table. We stood there, eyeing each other, unsure of how to act outside of the workplace.

Five weeks later, we still don’t really know how to act.

I sprawl in my recliner, Pru curled against me. We’re still connected, neither of us making any attempt to move.

“This is a one-time thing,” she says, for the thousandth time.

“Sure.” I stroke her back, soaking in her presence. Even though I used to appreciate the peace of living alone without visitors, I’m not sure I could’ve survived the last month without her. I’m still not sure how we went from sorting hoodies by size to kissing to undressing to fucking more times a day than I can count. Suddenly I’m like a teenager again, and I’m still unclear on Pru’s sexuality.

But maybe it’s as fluid as quarantine time, I don’t know. I’m just glad she chose to shelter in place with me.

THE END

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

Get a FREE short every Monday, plus immediately receive the standalone spinoff novella, Her Mercy.

Click here!

River Reapers MC Series

Read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited | Order a Signed Paperback

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles: “More Than I Can Hold”

“When I’m dead and gone, I want to matter,” I say, my turn for confessions. This pandemic has turned me inward, put me more in tune with my emotions. Rather than cower from it, I’ve leaned into it.

“More Than I Can Hold”
A River Reapers MC Short Story

Author’s Note: Have you been wondering how the River Reapers would handle social distancing? I have! So I wrote a few very short stories, just for fun, just for you and me. The following is unedited, so please excuse any typos or errors. Please also be aware that it may contain spoilers for the series.

This short is NSFW.

Ravage

She lies with her head pillowed on my chest, strands of blonde streaked with gray and brown trailing across my skin. When she turns, her hair slips from my chest, leaving me cold in its wake.

“I feel trapped,” she admits with a sigh.

I can’t remember the last time Shannon was ever so still. We’ve been following social distancing protocol for weeks—before the governor even started signing executive orders. Many of Shannon’s clients have health issues, and some of our staff at The Wet Mermaid, too. Then there’s Olivia, living with her sister and newborn niece. If there’s one thing I can be proud of about myself, it’s that I take care of my family. I’d take a bullet for any of them—even if it was one of their fingers poised on the trigger.

Shannon would, too—that’s why she’s so restless.

“You’re not trapped,” I assure her, gathering her into my arms. I pull her into my chest, pressing her breasts to my skin, relishing the sensation. I’m not a religious or spiritual man, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, but even the briefest of skin to skin contact with her is heaven. “You’re doing everything right,” I murmur into her ear, and kiss her lobe.

“I’m lying in bed while a skeleton version of my staff runs the house,” she says, brown eyes blinking rapidly.

I thumb away her tears. “Everyone is safe. That’s what matters—not how much you’re doing.”

Even as I say the words, I feel her frustration. While the virus sweeps through our state and country, with thousands of people dying, thousands more struggle financially. The Wet Mermaid—as much as people around town think it’s disgusting—gives Shannon’s clients, my club, and all of the staff we’ve accumulated over the years a living. The governor doesn’t see strip clubs as essential businesses, though, and as much as I’d like to strangle him for his lack of action and weird decisions, I know he’s right about that. A bar full of barely clothed women and horny patrons is hardly a safe environment.

Still, I worry, because that’s what I do. It makes me reconsider our business practices. We should be running something that will always be needed—like a grocery store.

I snort.

“What’s so funny, Mr. Harris?” Shannon’s fingers flutter back and forth between my nipples, and immediately my cock hardens.

Even after all these years, she’s the only woman I want, the only person I want to spend my life with.

I just have one regret.

“I’m picturing a bunch of bikers wearing grocery clerk vests,” I say, and haul her on top of me. I find her slick and ready against my shaft, and with slight rolls of each of our hips, we’re connected.

Her hair cascades over her breasts and I push it aside, closing my hands around her soft pink flesh. “Are you still thinking about bikers?” she asks.

“Nope.” I thrust up into her, watching her belly shudder with each stroke. I can’t help but stare, mesmerized by the possibilities gone and buried.

“Hey,” she says, stretching a hand out and cupping my face. “Where are you?”

“Sometimes I wish we had children,” I blurt, locking eyes with her. “Call me greedy, but I want more with you. I want a legacy.”

“Todd.” She stops moving, her brown eyes soft. “We’ve built a legacy. Olivia is as much ours as she is Mercy and Bree’s. And Cliff—we helped shape him, too. We have Shannon’s Place, the MC, The Wet Mermaid . . . And we have us. That’s enough for me. It’s everything.”

“When I’m dead and gone, I want to matter,” I say, my turn for confessions. This pandemic has turned me inward, put me more in tune with my emotions. Rather than cower from it, I’ve leaned into it.

“You matter to me,” Shannon says, leaning forward until our chests touch. She captures my lips with hers, wrapping them in her warmth. “You matter to your family—and it’s a big ass family.”

I laugh into her mouth. “It sure is.”

Wrapping my arms around her, I hold her there on top of me, every inch of us connected, my awareness stretching, encompassing every single one of them—my family. I never knew it was possible to hold so much love in my heart, certainly not for a nobody who served in the military, did time, and took over his club when shit hit the fan. Yet this life turned on a dime and gave me things I learned to appreciate. I’ll never take them for granted again.

THE END

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

Get a FREE short every Monday, plus immediately receive the standalone spinoff novella, Her Mercy.

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River Reapers MC Series

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River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles: “One Way or Another”

I’m not afraid of anything. I’m Abraham, member of the River Reapers MC. I haven’t earned my Sludge Specter patch yet, but I’ve proven my worth through the years. I’m the only one who voted nay who stayed. That should count for something.

“One Way or Another”
A River Reapers MC Short Story

Author’s Note: Have you been wondering how the River Reapers would handle social distancing? I have! So I wrote a few very short stories, just for fun, just for you and me. The following is unedited, so please excuse any typos or errors. Please also be aware that it may contain spoilers for the series.

Abraham

“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” I tell him, with an adamant shake of my head. “You’re not going.”

Rui tilts his head, giving me his look. The look—the one that says “Silly boy.” Usually it’s accompanied by a smirk, but this time, there’s a hint of annoyance. “My shift starts in twenty minutes,” he says with a placating smile. “I’ve got to go, Abe.”

I consider my options. I could lift him over my shoulder, handcuff his ass to the bed, and be done with it. I could sweet talk him into staying, using kisses and nuzzles to melt away his decision. Or I could tell him exactly how I feel—expressing feelings, with my words.

I don’t do that shit, though. I never have. I learned early on that feeling anything could get someone like me killed, or at least beat up in every schoolyard, bathroom, cafeteria . . . Name it, I’ve had my ass handed to me in that spot. Then I discovered lifting, protein, good hair products, and the art of keeping my feelings to myself, and everything changed.

Things with Rui are different, though. Things are finally good for me—for the most part. I’m with a man who loves me, and my MC accepts that. At least, on the surface. Not a single one of them have ever said or done anything to make me think otherwise, but I know they don’t approve of me. It’s all because of that God damn vote.

If I’d known that a nay from decades ago would haunt my ass into the future, I’d have just voted yea. At the time, though, I truly believed that Mercy and Ravage were making a run for President and VP. We all believed that, because it was easier to swallow than the truth.

Kind of like right now.

“Baby, please don’t make this any harder than it is,” Rui says. He straightens his N95 mask, which obscures most of his face from me, except for his gentle brown eyes. Those eyes plead with me to understand.

I can’t.

“You’re being reckless,” I say, my volume increasing. I’ve never been able to control how loud I am, especially when I’m emotional. There are too many emotions boiling over right now.

“I’m going where I’m needed,” he soothes.

“You’re going to get sick.” I slash a hand through the air. “Don’t you watch the news?” I flick a glance toward the TV, which I haven’t turned off since this whole thing started.

Rui sighs. “Are you afraid something is going to happen to me?”

I burn at the word “afraid.” I’m not afraid of anything. I’m Abraham, member of the River Reapers MC. I haven’t earned my Sludge Specter patch yet, but I’ve proven my worth through the years. I’m the only one who voted nay who stayed. That should count for something.

“Baby,” Rui croons. “The hospital still has plenty of PPE. We’re not short. We’re testing everyone who comes into the ED. Our caseload is low, compared to the rest of the state. I’m in the safest place.”

“The safest place is here,” I said, “or on the maternity floor, or anywhere else. Not the fucking ICU, Rui. Why would you volunteer to go straight into the shit?”

“Because I’m a nurse,” he says, his soft tone only amplifying my gruff shouts. “I don’t want to look back and say I played it safe. I want to tell our kids—maybe even our grandkids—that I did something, that I mattered.”

“Kids?” I repeat.

“Kids.” His eyes crinkle, and I figure he’s smiling.

I’m not.

“I don’t want kids, Rui. I want us both to be safe. I want us to matter more to you than what people think.”

He blinks. “It’s not about what people think. It’s about what I think of myself. I can’t sleep at night, knowing every day at work I’m spared. It’s not fair.”

“You’re per diem,” I insist. “You’re not obligated to do anything.”

He sighs. “Abe, we’ve been going around and around this for days. Maybe you’re worried that you don’t matter, but this isn’t about you. This is about the difference I can make. Now let me go. I’ve got a twelve-hour shift ahead of me, and this mask is already making me tired.”

I realize I’m standing in front of the door, my limbs spread like tentacles. All of the tension drains from my body. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you,” I whisper. “Without you, I don’t even know if I’m real.”

“You’re real,” he assures me. He steps into me, and my arms wind around him of their own accord.

“I think the quarantine is getting to me.”

“I think you’re scared and you just don’t want to admit it.” He moves my hair out of my face and, standing on the balls of his feet, presses a kiss to my collarbone. “I’m scared too, Abe. But I’m not going to just freeze. This is my way of fighting back.”

I nod, tell him I understand. I just wish I had a way to fight back. I let him go, watching him walk out of our apartment and hoping he hasn’t made a deadly mistake. He’s probably right, that my own insecurities are getting to me.

I love my club.

Even though they all hate me, even though they don’t bother to hide their suspicions. One vote and all trust is lost. I made a mistake. It’s time to prove to my brothers that I can be trusted, that even though I loved Bastard, I was wrong about him. Once this pandemic is done and over with, we can finally move on—one way or another.

I grin into the gloom.

I will fix this.

THE END

Get More

River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

Get a FREE short every Monday, plus immediately receive the standalone spinoff novella, Her Mercy.

Click here!

River Reapers MC Series

Read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited | Order a Signed Paperback

Read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited | Order a Signed Paperback

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My Casting Picks for Donny and Esther

I was really excited to give Donny and Esther some more page time in A Risky Prospect. They are my most asked about side couple. “Can we have a Donny/Esther novella?” I get asked this all the time.

And there’s one in the works! I can’t say any more, though.

Instead, let’s talk about my muses for these two.

Esther looks like Paula Patton in my head. It’s been a few years since I started writing this series, but I’d still totally cast her in a movie. She can easily play a younger woman.

(Also, while looking at pics, I saw that she recently rocked a blonde mohawk, and she is dead sexy with that look!)

My Donny looks like Morris Chestnut. Donny is several years older than Esther, so Morris Chestnut is PERFECT. His smile lights up the room. He’s also got those fierce eyes that see through to your soul.

Gah, just talking about these two makes me want to spill the beans about their novella! But I’ve got to keep my lips zipped… for now!