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Her Mercy, Chapter 4

Hiding out in a strip club isn’t easy, especially when Bree’s the worst cocktail waitress ever, and Mercy just won’t stop asking questions. There’s only one way she can get him off her back.

Why was Mercy on my case? Why did he even care? I wasn’t hurting anyone. If anything, I was an extra pair of hands at half the pay rate.

“What are you running from?” he pressed.

It was gonna be a long night.

Catch Up

Part 1: The Drifter

Chapter 4

1997

I made my way from the bar toward the stage, balancing a tray of drinks. As I passed a cluster of tables, someone grabbed my ass. I jumped back, the drinks spilling, my clothing instantly soaked.

I gaped at him, a gray-haired man with a dingy trucker’s hat.

“Watch where you’re going, sweet cheeks!” he bellowed in my face.

Glancing around, I tried to find Shannon. She stood behind the bar, her back turned to me as she mixed drinks. The music was too loud, the club too dark.

“You know the rules, Mac,” a familiar voice growled. “Hands off our girls.”

I swallowed. Mercy stood right behind me, the heat from his body burning into mine.

“Aw, I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Mac grumbled. “I’m just drunk.”

“No excuses. Now get out.”

“Come on,” Mac slurred.

Mercy seized him by the collar of his stained T-shirt and hauled him onto his feet. “I asked nicely,” he said. “Don’t make me ask again.”

With a sneer, the old man lurched out of the bar.

I bowed my head, eyeing my wet clothes. I sighed.

Mercy lifted the tray from my hand, setting it onto a table. “Come on,” he said without looking at me. “I’ll show you where we keep the spare uniforms.”

I followed him to a back storage room that held mostly booze. A rack of linens stood against the wall next to the door, though.

“Eighteen, huh?” he commented as he searched through the stacks of aprons and shirts.

I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

“What in the world are you doing here? You and I both know you don’t belong.” He handed me a fresh black dress.

“How did you know my size?” I countered, checking the tag. He was dead on.

“What are you running from?”

I peeked up at him from between my lashes. “What makes you think I’m running?”

“So you really just want to get into the half-naked hospitality business.”

I shrugged. “Why? Does it bother you?”

He used a hand to push his hair back from his face. “It bothers me because Shannon is good people. If you bring anything nasty to her doorstep, then you’re hurting one of the last good people on this Earth.”

Rolling my eyes, I edged toward the door. “Think whatever you want.”

“You’re the worst cocktail waitress I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen a lot here,” I shot back. “I’m going to get changed.”

He spread his hands, his lips tipping in a crooked grin. “No one’s stopping you.”

“Great.” Turning, I yanked open the door and stepped into the cool, dark hall. Instantly my shoulders relaxed a little. I appreciated him kicking out that dirty old man, but the last thing I needed was him asking more questions about me. Shannon hadn’t asked for ID or anything. Half the girls here were probably runaways. I doubted all of the dancers were of age.

I hurried to the bathroom, where I stripped out of my soaked clothing and shimmied into the fresh dress. All of the cocktail waitresses at The Wet Mermaid wore the same low-cut black dresses and stilettos. It was only my first week and I was about one step away from breaking my neck.

But the pay was decent, and Shannon let me stay in a room above the club.

“It’s only temporary,” she said with a warm smile, “considering it’s technically breaking the rules.”

I wondered what rules she was talking about, but didn’t ask. I didn’t ask much at all, to be honest. I just did as I was told, grateful for the job and roof over my head.

Until Mercy had to start guilt-tripping me.

Why did he even care how old I was? I wasn’t hurting anyone. If anything, I was an extra pair of hands at half the pay rate.

I stepped out of the bathroom, tossing my soiled clothing into the laundry bin. I tucked my wet panties into the pocket of my apron, too embarrassed to add them to the business’s laundry.

It was going to be an uncomfortable night.

“So where are you from, eighteen-year-old Bree?” Mercy asked, stepping out of the storage room.

“Goddamn,” I scolded him. “What do you, have a camera on me?”

“Nah,” he drawled. “Just impeccable timing.” His round, depthless brown eyes searched my face. “Me, I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“I didn’t ask.” I glanced at the end of the hallway. Sooner or later, Shannon would notice I was missing.

“But I did.” He grinned again. On any other man, it would’ve looked sly. On him, it looked boyish, mischievous. Maybe a little sly, but in a totally harmless, kind of sexy way.

“I’m from Connecticut,” I hedged.

“Waterbury? No one ever likes admitting they’re from Waterbury.” He chuckled.

“Got me.” I shrugged. “I’ve got to get back.” I strode back toward the bar, not sparing him another glance.

“See you around, Bree from the Dirty Water,” he called after me.

Throwing a hand over my shoulder, I flipped him off and kept walking.

Thank you for reading Chapter 4 of Her Mercy, a River Reapers MC prequel novella.

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Her Mercy, Chapter 3

Exhausted from her latest sprint from trouble, Bree debates whether to take up homewrecking Claudine’s hospitality offer, or run again. She can’t run forever.

I don’t want to be here. Why Claudine is still involved with the club after everything is beyond me. God damn Ravage and his meddling.

I should’ve known there’d be a price to pay. There always is.

Catch Up

Part 1: The Drifter

Chapter 3

Now

“Don’t you at least want to see him?” Claudine calls after me.

I march toward the front door, bag in hand. I should’ve known this was all a setup. If I had a phone, I’d tell Ravage exactly what I think about all of this. I put my hand on the doorknob and turn it.

Claudine slips between the door and me, blocking my way out. Her chest heaves, her Cunt tattoo practically staring me in the face. “Don’t you want to see your daughter? Don’t you want your family back?”

I laugh. “Since when do you care about my family?” I spit the words at her.

She blanches, sagging against the door. “Water under the bridge,” she says weakly.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s all over and done. Now let me through.”

“I’ve been told . . . not to.”

“By who? Ravage?”

She purses her lips.

“Claudine, you owe me this. Get out of my way.”

“I’ve got a guest bedroom,” she says. “There’s your own bathroom. You’ll hardly even notice I’m here.”

I don’t want to be here. Why Claudine is even still involved with the club is beyond me. She was all but banished after everything. Goddamn Ravage and his meddling.

I turn away, fuming. I never should’ve come to him and the club for help. I should’ve known there’d be a price to pay. There always is.

“Please,” Claudine begs. “We both know I can’t keep you here. I’m a heavy sleeper.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t want to know how she sleeps. Seeing her in bed with my husband was enough. I don’t need any other visuals.

“Mercy wants—”

“I don’t care what he wants,” I tell her, shoulders sagging. The long train ride is finally catching up to me. “All I want is a hot shower and a good night of sleep.”

“I can give you that,” she says.

I march toward the stairs.

“It’s the bedroom on the left.”

I begin to climb.


Claudine’s hot water isn’t half bad. I stand under the stream for an hour before it runs cold. Her guest bed isn’t bad, either. The sheets are clean and smell like Tide and Gain. How this homewrecking whore can afford the good shit is beyond me. There’s a small dresser with an even smaller TV on top of it. I change my clothes and put everything back in my bag, then stretch out across the bed with the remote in my hand.

She’s even got a decent cable package, with HBO and Showtime.

Goddamn Claudine.

I should’ve asked when he’s supposed to be getting out. I have no idea how much time I’ve got.

I’ve got no plan, either.

What else is new?

Goddamn Mercy.

I put on a Lifetime movie and try to follow the plot: some woman stealing some other woman’s baby. It’s always the same, but I’m a sucker for these movies. I love the thrill, the not-so-surprising twist, the happy but ominous ending. I fall asleep halfway through, my dreams a tumble of brown eyes and big hands, golden wedding rings falling through the dark, a baby’s cry.

When I wake, it’s just a little after 7:00 a.m. The house is empty, but I find the coffee pot set up for me and a note from Claudine.

Have a good day.

I crumple it up and throw it in the garbage.

While the coffeemaker does its thing, I sit down at Claudine’s table and try to figure out my next move. I can either sit around here and wait for her to get home—or even worse, for him to show up—or I can make my escape plan.

Shannon and Ravage gave me a little cash, and I have a bit more in my checking account from the waitressing job I had. That’s one downside to being a drifter: a resume shot full of holes. I didn’t even give them my two weeks’ notice.

I’ve got enough for a couple nights in a motel or a couple more train tickets. Not both.

That’s never bothered me, though. The universe has a way of arranging things for you, if you’re prepared to take the leap of faith. I don’t really know what I’ve got faith in anymore, other than my own two feet.

I find Claudine’s laptop and turn it on, then make myself a cup of coffee while I wait for it to boot up. Her mugs are tiny, an insult to coffee and tea drinkers everywhere.

While I sip, I look up train schedules. My biggest hurdle is getting to the train station itself. After that, I can go anywhere: down to Florida (always a good time), out to Colorado (even colder than Connecticut this time of year, but beautiful), even up to Canada (I think my passport is still good).

I’m weighing my options, making up my mind when someone knocks at the door.

Thank you for reading Chapter 3 of Her Mercy, a River Reapers MC prequel novella.

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Her Mercy, Chapter 2

Runaway Bree stumbles into the River Reapers’ strip club to warm up, but biker Mercy knows she’s much younger than she looks. Before he can drive her back to whatever sent her running, a fight breaks out between the club’s president and VP.

“American Woman” played as a woman spun onstage. I moved closer, a moth drawn to fire.

“You can’t be in here.” A tall man wearing a beat up leather jacket covered in patches blocked my path. “You’re like twelve.”

“Eighteen,” I lied. “I need a job.”

catch up

Part I: The Drifter

Chapter 2

1997

I couldn’t stomach the thought of telling anyone, so I ran.

I didn’t go far. I was only fourteen, after all. I had no money, aside from the babysitting cash I blew on the bus hop out of Wolcott. I had no job experience, aside from babysitting a few kids on my street. And I had no high school diploma—a recent development.

I stood on the long strip of roads that made up Route 63 in Naugatuck, the bus pulling away from the curb and leaving me in a cloud of dust. I was officially out of cash—and adrenaline.

Glancing up and down the street, I looked for a sign, anything to tell me what to do next. I could go home. All I had to do was find a payphone and call my parents. Then I’d have to tell them why I’d run.

Nausea scraped against my stomach, clawing up my throat. I wrapped my arms around myself, pushing back against it and the memories. I couldn’t tell them. No one would even believe me.

I started walking.

As I walked, I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. I hadn’t even grabbed a coat on my way out, and it was freakin’ January. Not like I’d really had time to think things through. I stumbled into a parking lot, not even bothering to see what it was for. I just wanted to get inside and get warm. As I hurried toward the door, the backpack I wore slung on one shoulder brushed one of the motorcycles lined up out front.

“Hold it!” a gruff voice called out.

I froze in my tracks.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, stepping in front of me. He all but blocked out the sun—if the sun had been shining. The sky was a cold milk white.

I tipped my head back to look at him. The breeze ruffled the dark hair that just about covered his ears.

“You can’t go in there,” he continued, but all I saw were his lips. Thick, round lips that hugged every word he spoke. A constellation of stubble framed them, all that black facial hair only highlighting the pink plumpness of those lips. Shadows hung under his hypnotic brown eyes, more hair hanging in front of them.

I blinked, shaking myself out of my daze. A gust of wind whipped my hair into my face. I grabbed the dark strands, tucking them back into my shirt. “Why not?” I said between shivers. I glanced at the door again. It was so close.

“Because that,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the building, “is a strip club. And you are like twelve.”

I scoffed. “Eighteen.”

“Same freakin’ difference.” He crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Flicking my eyes from his face to the motorcycle, I crossed my arms, too. “Shouldn’t you be in jail?”

“Probably.” He laughed, and the sound flooded me with warmth—a heat so real, my fingers tingled.

“Move out of my way.” I hopped from foot to foot.

Ordinarily I’d never speak to an adult like that. And he was very much a man, probably in his early thirties. But I was freezing, and I had to pee. In about two minutes, I was going to be warm for a whole two seconds before I caught pneumonia.

“I can’t let you in.” He dropped the smirk, eyes warming a little. “Why don’t I give you a ride home?”

I lifted an eyebrow at the bikes.

“In my truck.” He jerked a thumb toward a pickup parked at the end of the line.

“So you’re not a biker?” I had no idea why the question popped out. I was cold. I should’ve been climbing into the cab and blasting the heat as high as it’d go. Maybe I was just trying to delay going home. Or maybe I was disappointed that he wasn’t a biker.

“That one’s mine.” He smiled proudly at one of the bikes. “If I put you on the back of that, you’ll turn into an icicle. Come on. Where do you live?”

The door opened and a curvy woman with long blonde hair and bangs poked her head out. “Mercy! What the hell are you doing out here? Ravage and Bastard are at it again.” She slipped back inside as quickly as she popped out.

He darted in after her, not even sparing a second glance at me. I counted to twenty, then opened the door.

The Guess Who’s “American Woman” blasted over speakers I couldn’t see in the dim light. What I could see, very clearly, was the woman spinning around a silver pole on a stage.

A strip club.

I almost laughed, but a hard body slammed into mine. He glared at me with green eyes before turning toward another man.

“We voted on this, Bastard! Split table means no escort service. You can’t just do whatever the fuck you want!” the other man growled. His ice blue eyes nearly glowed with rage, his black hair damp.

Bastard launched himself at the other man. “The hell I can’t. I built this goddamn business, Ravage!”

The man from outside—Mercy—shoved himself between them. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice rising even over the music.

Everything stopped. The girls dancing on stage edged out of the spotlight. The crowd of men with dollar bills in their hands stared at the trio in the middle of the floor.

“I’m not gonna abide this shit,” Ravage said.

“Ravage,” Mercy warned. “This is a club. We have to take this to the table, not the middle of the floor.”

Bastard spat a wad of blood onto the floor. “Good call, VP.” He sneered at Ravage.

Mercy’s face hardened, then slipped back into a neutral mask. He clasped Ravage’s shoulder. “Take a walk.”

Fists curled, Ravage stalked outside, his blue eyes cold and unforgiving.

Mercy rose his voice again. “Show’s over. Eyes back on the stage.” He put an arm around Bastard and guided him to a door on the other side of the bar. They disappeared into the darkness.

“What are you doing in here, sweetie?” the woman from outside asked, spinning me around. Her blonde bangs framed anxious round eyes. Up close, I could see that they were brown instead of the usual blue. Outside, she’d looked angry, but inside she looked worried. It probably had less to do with me and more to do with the men.

“I was cold,” I admitted, the first truth I’d spoken that day.

“It is pretty cold out,” she said, steering me toward the door, “but you’re too young to be in here.”

“I’m eighteen,” I blurted. “Are you hiring?”

She halted, looking me in the eyes. “I’m Shannon,” she said, “and there’s no way in hell you’re dancing on that stage.”

I swallowed. “Please,” I begged. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, her chest rising and falling. “Why do I always take in strays?” she muttered. Opening her eyes, she fixed them on me. “I’ll figure something out for you. You’re not dancing. Want a cup of hot cocoa?”

“Coffee, please.” I licked my lips.

“Cream and sugar?” she asked as she stepped behind the bar.

“Black.”

It was the second lie I’d told.

Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of Her Mercy, a River Reapers MC prequel novella.

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Read A Risky Prospect for free

Olivia’s mousy roommate Esther knows her biggest secret: how she “took care of” her stalker last semester with the help of her biker family. Now on graduation day, Esther needs her and the club’s help with a similar yet bigger problem. Before Olivia can ask the MC for another favor, her traumatic past walks into the clubhouse.

Her ex is the reason she can’t trust Cliff, the ruggedly handsome ex-con who helped her get rid of her stalker. Cliff risked going back to prison for her, and now he wants to make things between them official. In a perfect world, Cliff would be the one, but after the unspeakable things her ex did to her, she can’t let anyone close enough to hurt her again.

She couldn’t save herself back then, but she can protect Esther and her little sisters now. If the club won’t listen, she’ll make them. If her ex comes anywhere near her, she’ll “take him to the river,” too. And as her feelings for Cliff grow deeper, he’ll have to show her that he’s worth the risk.

A Risky Prospect is a slow burn, touch her and die, dark romance, and the second book in the River Reapers MC series.

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Meta used my books to train its AI

Yesterday The Atlantic reported on the latest in the Meta AI hearings, breaking the story that unsealed employee communications revealed that not only did Meta knowingly use stolen content from the piracy site LibGen, it was Mark Zuckerberg who okayed it.

Authors can check the tool The Atlantic put together to see if their work was used.

There’s a class-action lawsuit against Meta, Open AI, Microsoft, and other companies. If your work was used to train AI, you’re already included in the lawsuits. (There’s no need to join Authors Guild or take any further action at this time.) Right now courts are determining whether Meta, Open AI, et al violated copyright.

15 of my titles were used. I checked LibGen using a mirror site and they have over 20 of my titles. (I don’t recommend doing this, because the mirror sites are full of garbage and porn pop-ups and sketchy redirects. I don’t know how to check LibGen directly. Big props to The Atlantic for putting together tools for both waves of this!)

I’ve always looked at piracy the same. Yeah, it sucks that sometimes people don’t pay me for my books. I’ve got medical issues and bills like everyone else, and I really like to eat. The thing about pirates is, if you send one DMCA takedown, two more will pop up in its place. I’d rather spend my time writing. I like to think that piracy helps readers discover my books. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. I do have readers who buy my books and stuff, and my platform continues to grow every year.

This is different, though. These corporations are directly profiting off their AI and therefore artists’ work, without compensating us. We didn’t have a choice in contributing (I for sure would’ve declined had they asked and made me an offer).

And it won’t stop at books.

If Meta, OpenAI, Microsoft, and other corporations are allowed to use artists’ work without consent, compensation, or consequence, they’ll also use people’s medical information and other personal and even private data.

This is bigger than books.

Photo by Andrea De Santis on Unsplash

Winter’s getting on my nerves, literally

Every time my lupus flares, it does so with a chef’s special, a new or worsened symptom I already had that becomes the showstopper. 2020 gave me flare a la pleurisy; 2025 is serving peripheral neuropathy. Bon appetit.

I almost made it through this winter without prednisone—almost! It’s okay, though, because it’s still another winter I’m on less steroids, another winter without chemo entirely. For me, that’s a major win. Go Benlysta!

Peripheral neuropathy is hard to manage, I’m finding. Mine presents mostly as fiery pain in my hands and feet, with tenderness in my fingertips that defies all reason, the same treatment in my toes, swelling too, and pins and needles, and coldness. It also causes balance issues. It really makes me miss amitriptyline—but not enough to die. 🙃

Since my labs are okay, I’m managing it with a course of steroids, round-the-clock Tylenol, Motrin 800, and medical cannabis, and lots of rest. I’ve also recently cut out carbs almost entirely, which weirdly has made a huge difference in my overall pain and energy levels (until winter really got going here). I’m not allergic to gluten, so I’m not sure why this works, and I’m not asking any questions, either. I’m just saying no to the carbs.

It’s frustrating because things change so fast for me, especially during the colder months. I’d just gotten into a groove, after having just gotten into another groove interrupted by renovations, and the only thing I’ve found to be true with chronic illness—especially when it’s a dynamic disability you’re dealing with—is that the game is constantly changing, and I’ve gotta be ready to trade the system I just created for myself for a whole new system. Or go into flare survival mode, a place that I simultaneously appreciate and hate.

It forces me to focus on what’s really essential. It also makes me look forward to when the flare will pass. Even pleurisy didn’t last forever; I’ll never forget the moment I realized I could take a full breath without excruciating pain. I still get twinges of chest pain, but usually only when I’ve overdone it or I’m too cold.

This will pass, too.

Photo by Girl with red hat on Unsplash

A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2 | Audio/Video 🎧▶️

I think of all the ways our parents already disapprove of him. This morning, when Lucy filled me in on what she was doing, she made me promise not to tell them. I’m twenty-one and yet apparently still have to swear to sister secrecy. Other than that, she didn’t tell me much. Just that her cousin Cliff needed some help because he just got out of prison. And then those cherry red lips of hers clamped shut.

It’s weird, because Lucy and I tell each other everything.

You’re listening to an author reading of A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in the River Reapers MC series, a dark romance.

What You Can Expect

  • 18-year age gap
  • forbidden romance (“legally” cousins, not biologically related)
  • exciting adventure
  • vigilante justice (the MC avenges survivors by taking their rapists “to the river”)
  • vengeance
  • family saga
  • spicy romance (explicit sex on page, sorry prudes)
  • sex positive
  • antiheroine is quite possibly crazier than our antihero
  • black cat, golden retriever

Catch Up

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Read along with the transcript!

Thank you for watching Elizabeth Barone read Chapter 2 from her dark biker romance, A Disturbing Prospect.

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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1 | Audio/Video 🎧▶️

The second the sun touches my skin on the other side of the barbed wire chain link fence, I am truly free. It doesn’t matter that I have to meet with my probation officer, or that I don’t exactly have any place to go. All that’s important is I’m not rotting within those cement walls anymore.

My twenty years are finally up.

You’re listening to an author reading of A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in the River Reapers MC series, a dark romance.

What You Can Expect

  • 18-year age gap
  • forbidden romance (“legally” cousins, not biologically related)
  • exciting adventure
  • vigilante justice (the MC avenges survivors by taking their rapists “to the river”)
  • vengeance
  • family saga
  • spicy romance (explicit sex on page, sorry prudes)
  • sex positive
  • antiheroine is quite possibly crazier than our antihero
  • black cat, golden retriever

Listen Now

Watch on YouTube

Read along with the transcript!

Thank you for watching Elizabeth Barone read Chapter 1 from her dark biker romance, A Disturbing Prospect.

Continue Listening

Keep Cliff & Olivia for Your Shelf

Signed Paperback
Ebook

If you enjoyed this reading, please give it a like, and share with your friends!

Books, Bud, and Brews: Episode 3 Delayed

This week’s episode of Books, Bud, and Brews 📖💨☕️ is delayed due to renovations in my apartment building. 🔨

I’m hoping they’ll finish up quickly and then I can batch record episodes so this doesn’t happen again. The funny thing is, before I started this, I thought to myself, Maybe I should record a few episodes ahead, just in case, and then I told myself I was just finding yet another reason to not start. Lesson learned! 😅

I’ll be back soon with a breakdown of Olivia’s post-traumatic growth and character arc in the River Reapers MC series, my personal author burnout story, and more reading to you from A Disturbing Prospect.

In the meantime, stay lit! 📖

Catch Up

Read A Disturbing Prospect

🖤