Books, Bud, and Brews: Episode 2

Welcome back to Books, Bud, and Brews. I love saying that!

What a week. This week was really hard. I had to just unplug from all the media, and I needed to rest, and regroup a little bit, and I took a morning nap, which felt amazing, and I woke up actually feeling much better, and it was an accidental nap. *chuckles* I was watching the Reading Rainbow documentary, and that actually was just the pep talk I needed.

I don’t know—it’s so strange, sometimes when I watch things, or read things, they’re exactly what I need, and it was wild. Reading Rainbow—still saving my generation’s sanity, to this day.

So, what are we talking about today? We are talking about writer burnout, which is taking us out, one by one, like dominoes, and we don’t talk about it at all. So I’m gonna talk about it.

We’re also going to talk about character trauma, and character arcs, and healing together from trauma, in romance.

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author burnout

So, creative burnout. It’s a thing. It happens to writers. It happens to us a lot. It’s an issue in our community that we don’t talk about. I don’t think readers are even remotely aware. I just think readers kind of see—you guys see the after effects of burnout, right. You’ll see that the series you’re really into is not being continued anymore, or that author’s not on social media anymore. Or, you’ll see author’s kind of rescheduling releases a lot or completely cancelling different releases, different events, stuff like that. I’ve also seen authors be really up front with readers, like “Hey, I’m going through this thing right now, and I just can’t get this book out at the moment. I need a moment for myself, and I need to regroup, reset, and relax, and reevaluate things. The wonderful thing about the book community is, people are generally pretty supportive of this. Which is why I don’t understand why we don’t talk about it, because our readers are very supportive, other authors are very supportive.

We got sucked into this myth that we have to publish quickly because the algorithms on certain retailers favor that. The thing is, before those algorithms were a thing, we were lucky if we saw a book a year from our favorite authors. I mean, authors were creating pen names so they could publish more than one book in a year. The norm really was every year or so you’d get a new book from that author. Sometimes even longer. Books used to take years and years and years in between, like, series books. I mean, if you don’t have the experience of waiting for the next book in the series, and you’re just so hungry for any news, and then it comes out, and you get that first cozy-up with it—it’s the best.

So we didn’t always have this insane breakneck speed schedule. Readers were happy waiting, writers would just take their time, focus on the craft. Things would just naturally come out, and people would get to enjoy them.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with a fast release schedule, do not get me wrong. Because it can be great, there are people who literally read books *snaps fingers* within hours. You’re amazing. So no hate to people that write fast or read fast. What I’m really talking about is when we kind of get stuck in this thought that, “I have to serve this algorithm. I have to be on this schedule. I have to be very fast. I have to keep putting books out. I have to release weekly, or monthly.”

I have actually seen people trying to do weekly schedules. I’ve seen people do monthly. It’s… a lot. The authors are suffering. That’s the thing. If people were not burning out so bad, and things were just moving along, that would be fine. The problem is, all the time, authors are disappearing, never to be heard from again. Authors that were doing well—that were kicking ass in their careers, that were really just taking off, and then all of a sudden, they burn out. I’ve seen authors talk about it, to the extent where they’ll kind of explain a little about what’s going on, and then I’ve also seen authors just never come back, either.

There’s also an issue within the industry of an expectation of speed. I was just talking with some authors and other industry people about how they’re formatting books and copyediting books that aren’t even written yet. So if you can kind of break that down and digest what I just said, they are copyediting books that are not written yet. *chuckles* I don’t know how that works. He explained it, it sounds stressful for everyone on all sides of it.

I don’t know what we’re doing.

I think that we need to start saying no. I think that we need to start putting boundaries for ourselves and others, and I think we need to lose the mindset that we are all in competition with each other. This kind of competitive spirit has become toxic. It’s one thing to push yourself and to want to do better, and keep pushing forward, and it’s another to just pit all authors against each other, and constantly be working against each other. We are actually on the same side, because I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t keep up with a person who can read three to five books in a day. *laughs* Never mind one book a day. I’m just always amazed by how quickly people tell me they read my books, or other books, or how many books they read in a day. That kind of thing always blows my mind, because at this point I feel like I’m lucky to read a book a year.

So what can we do? We can talk about it. That’s all I wanted. I’ve actually been in author groups where I posted something just saying, “Hey guys, we really need to talk about this, and try to figure it out, because we really are disappearing.” We’re burning out at, I think, a pretty steady rate, and it’s kind of alarming. I’ve also experienced burnout for myself, and I don’t want that, our readers don’t want that, we don’t want that for ourselves. We want better for ourselves. We want to have businesses that are sustainable and fun, and we keep getting better at what we do, and we do cool shit together. That’s what I think. So I think we start talking about it, and we collaborate on solutions for burnout. We get more collaborative in general. You know, you’re not my competition, I’m not your competition, because they’re gonna read all of our books, and then some. *laughs* So we don’t need to worry about whose book they want to read. They’re gonna read all the books.

And we also start setting boundaries for ourselves. We really think about, “If I’m going to publish a book a month, if that’s something I am going to do, that I’m comfortable with and able to do, and I can do it in a healthy, sustainable way, then what are the boundaries I’m going to put into place for myself?” Because you can’t keep pouring out of yourself if you have nothing coming in. And if you’re constantly working late, working weekends—and I understand a lot of us don’t have the flexibility in our lives to have a steady, consistent schedule at all. I mean, I don’t have kids right now, but I do have chronic illnesses. They’re like kids, they’re always needing something, they don’t go away, they don’t go with their dad for the weekend. *chuckles* Some of us are writing nights, some of us are working around other work schedules, some of us are working around family, so it’s a lot of different things that are going on.

But say I work nine to five. I stay tight within those boundaries. Or if I can only grab time where I can, say I’m writing tonight, then it’s only gonna be for an hour, 9-10 p.m., and then I’m done, I’m going to rest or relax or do something else. It’s about boundaries.

It’s also about saying no… to people that think we can *snaps fingers* generate a book. This is where it’s going to get interesting, because we have this AI technology now. We are not meant to just vomit things out. We’re not supposed to just endlessly go go go, we are human beings. We are meant to experience, and feel, and enjoy our lives. Yes, enjoy. We are meant to enjoy, and experience—even if the circumstances around us are not ideal and perfect, we’re still meant to enjoy and feel and experience. We are not supposed to keep going and burn ourselves out.

So I think those three things are a great starting point. We talk about it, we start collaborating more, and we keep some boundaries.


reading to you

Today we are reading from A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in my River Reapers MC series.

That was Chapter 2 from A Disturbing Prospect. You can go back and watch Chapter 1. The entire book is available for free everywhere ebooks are sold, and it’s also available on my website in serialized chapters, and I have signed paperbacks available.


what a character:
Healing trauma through reading

From ex-con to leader of the MC

Last week we read Chapter 1 of A Disturbing Prospect, and Cliff got out of prison, and he is trying to figure out pretty much everything. He doesn’t have a place to stay, he doesn’t have anywhere to go, he doesn’t have a job, he doesn’t know if he has any friends or family that he’s going to be able to have as a support system, and he’s figuring everything out. His character arc is pretty awesome. I’m going to try not to spoil anything.

So when Cliff gets out of prison, he is dealing with several traumas. He’s processing so much. He has just gotten out of prison after a 20-year sentence. He’s dealing with grief, and loss. He’s also dealing with having witnessed a child hurt. He’s dealing with separation from his family. And he’s dealing with reintegration, getting back into society.

Everything is different for him. Those are the things he notices is everything is different. He is not familiar with anything anymore. The technology has changed, everything that he knew going in is pretty much horribly outdated, and there’s all this new stuff that he’s gotta figure out. So the first thing he has to figure out is, how does he find his family, so that he can maybe have a chance. Because the statistics of inmates committing another crime are really high when they first get out. Turns out there’s really no rehabilitation happening in these “rehabilitation centers.” There isn’t as much of a reintegration process that you’d think.

All of these things shape this characters as he’s—as you’re introduced to him in the story. You’re just kind of dropped into right when he gets out of prison, and he’s kind of just taking everything in, and realizing, “I’m all alone, I don’t have anyone, I don’t have anywhere to go. My only shot is finding my cousin.”

That character starts out very not sure-footed at all, really just having to pick up and really start building—and quick. He doesn’t have time or room for any trouble, anything that could potentially land him back in. He really just wants to be out, and not be there again. So this is a character that’s used to solving every problem with his fists and violence, and now he’s in a situation where he can’t do that at all anymore. He’s gotta do things the “legit way.” He’s gotta do things by the book. He’s gotta make sure he checks in with his P.O., make sure he gets a job right away, he has a place to stay—ticks off all the boxes because he does not want to go back inside.

Those survival behaviors that he had before don’t suit him anymore. He knows what he is and what he’s done, and he’s really trying to do different. After 20 years in the prison, living like that, having to fight to defend yourself, not having contact with anyone in the outside world, can he change? That’s what he wonders when he first comes out, Can he even change? Does he even have a shot at having a future, a family, falling in love…?

He can’t do it alone—we all need support—so the first thing he does is try to find his cousin and reconnect with her, because that was his best friend. But because of what happened and why he went into prison, he doesn’t necessarily know if he’s going to be able to find her, or if she’s even gonna want to talk to him. He’s very much dependent on her accepting him back into her life.

Their relationship was very, very good, they were very very close, like this, like siblings basically, except he was much older than her, so kind of more of a chibling relationship. He is really hinging everything, like, “If I can’t reconnect with this person, and she doesn’t want me, then that’s okay, I will go away… but then I’ll go away.” *chuckles* “I’ll go away… but I’ll also go away.”

So he’s in a very shitty position. It brings up issues of toxic masculinity, because he’s feeling like, “I should be the one taking care of her. I should have a job, I need to fucking get my shit together, I need to man up.” He uses those exact words. He just spent 20 years stuck in a prison with all these other men where it really is fight or die. It’s not a vacation.

So this character is dealing with all that, processing all that, and then he meets Olivia, and everything changes for both of them. They are immediately attracted to each other, and recognize something in each other. They also, because of their own individual traumas, can’t quite connect. He’s just getting out of prison and he’s like, “I gotta check all these boxes, because I’ve missed 20 years of my life. I want to have a family, I want to settle down… and I gotta do it yesterday.” Right? So he’s like ready to go, and she’s like “Uh, no.” She doesn’t want those things at all. They both have very good reasons for wanting and needing the things that they need and want.

They also complement each other at the same time. They also each have what each other needs. They have found a home and a family in each other.

Cliff immediately starts gathering his sort of support system. He’s got his cousin Lucy, he’s got Olivia, he’s also going to be having this P.O. that he can check in with, and then he will eventually have the club’s support as well.

He’s having to kind of learn everything on the fly, completely just picking it up and going. He doesn’t know what Facebook is, he doesn’t know how to use a cell phone, and he’s finding that even socially things have changed quite a bit, like in his own community. The people that he was familiar with have all faded away—the letters, the calls, the visits, those have gone. He doesn’t have any real community at all anymore. That looks completely different from what he remembers growing up.

Throughout the series, we see this character becoming less reluctant and more aware of his family history, and the generational trauma that he’s inherited. Through that understanding that he’s gaining, as he’s kind of navigating his role in the club and becoming a fully patched member, he starts to realize that he does want the club. He wants to make it what it could be. His father left a legacy that’s not so great. [Cliff] knows what he wants for it.

He goes from a person who has nothing, and has no direction, no support system—nothing—to a person who is leading. After not wanting to lead, but coming into that. Which has been so fun and so rewarding to write, and read. I know you guys love him.

His character was actually influenced by people I know in real life who did do time—throughout the years, spent a lot of time in prison, and actually were in prison longer than they were out. Through those experiences, they definitely have an interesting way of looking at life, and they have a very… amazing personality, quite honestly, because I think that it could change you. You could let it—like, Cliff worries about, is it going to change him, is he still going to be that monster that he thinks he is, he thinks he’s always going to be that person that went in and spent those 20 years in there.

It’s really easy to be that person, quite honestly. I think it’s easy to just give in and just let those things take over, and forget about what’s important, what’s within your control. I think it’s so much easier to just give in to it. Whereas, you can work and develop and evolve, and… I don’t want to say, like, “Take the lesson,” because prison is a very complicated conversation, and I don’t necessarily want to fully get into it, but I don’t think that most people start off in life thinking, “You know what I really hope? I hope I do some hard time!” *chuckles*

Most people are good people, and that’s not what they were intending at all. I think our system should reflect that, and support that, instead of supporting the chaos and trauma that come from being in prison. What I really wanted to do was highlight how very little support there is, and how very much we emphasize that prisoners should rehabilitate, but we give them very little support or opportunities to do that.

People can’t even get jobs coming out of prison. Most employers won’t hire a felon, and it doesn’t even matter if the crime wasn’t violent. In fact, recently I learned that most nursing homes won’t even let a felon recuperate in their nursing homes, even if they weren’t a violent criminal. That to me is just insane. You’re not giving people opportunities to actually come back into society. You’re completely blocking them out because of their past mistakes.

Through Cliff, I really wanted to highlight these things and draw awareness and attention to it, because it really is something that’s not mainstream at all. It’s just kind of always used as a plot device, like, “Oh, this character’s done hard time.” Well, you know, that comes with a lot of its own trauma, it comes with a lot of its own baggage, and it’s very interesting to explore, and I think it’s something worth talking about.


If you enjoyed this discussion on author burnout and character growth from prison to leader of the MC, please let me know. Please leave a comment on YouTube, you can also DM me, you can email me, or you can leave a comment on the shownotes on my blog.

Thank you so much for listening to Books, Bud, and Brews! I’m Elizabeth Barone, author of dark romance with a body count, and small town romance with a body count. You can check out all of my books, including some free books and chapters, on my website ElizabethBarone.com.



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“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.


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My Casting Picks for Olivia and Cliff

In my wildest dreams, we’d land a River Reapers MC series or movie deal. Of course, I might find myself nitpicking what they changed from the book, and you’d be right there with me, because we all know the books are always better than the movies.

From the moment I started writing A Disturbing Prospect, I had very specific pictures in my head of what Olivia and Cliff look like.

Olivia has always looked a lot like Emmy Rossum in my head. You might know her from Shameless, one of my all-time favorite shows.

Cliff looks like Robb Flynn, the lead singer of Machinehead. That’s something about me you should know: I am a born and raised metalhead. I cut my teeth on Dio and Black Sabbath. I am not your typical romance author. My book playlists will always have at least one metal song.

I find Robb Flynn so, so sexy. Ungh! Mostly it’s his voice. Go watch his YouTube videos, you’ll see what I mean. That’s the growly drawl I’m going for when I describe Cliff’s smoky, husky voice.

Ungh!

*fans self*

Who would you cast for Olivia and Cliff? Leave a comment and tell me, or tell me whether you agree/disagree with my picks!

River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

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. Here are all the shorts in the mini series!

    1. “Zoom This” (Olivia)
    2. “Something Real” (Vaughn)
    3. “The Most Badass Thing” (Skid)
    4. “This Whole Time” (Stixx)
    5. “Another Terrifying Prospect” (Donny)
    6. “Tigers and Twin Flames” (Lucy)
    7. “One Way or Another” (Abraham)
    8. “More Than I Can Hold” (Ravage) | NSFW
    9. “Shelter in Place” (Beer Can) | NSFW
    10. “The Sound of Waves” (Bree)
    11. “A Sense of Purpose” (Mark)

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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: “Zoom This”

With the pandemic going and everything shut down, we don’t have much club business to attend to. But it’s important that we all stay connected—or so I thought. It turns out, getting a multigenerational MC onto a Zoom call is like herding kittens, if the kittens were all wearing leather and itching to go for a ride that doesn’t require staying six feet apart.

“Zoom This”
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.


Olivia

Ravage’s chin appears on the screen of my phone, a closeup constellation of black and silver stubble that I definitely didn’t need to see. On instinct, I pull my phone away from my face, but his chin remains.

“Hello?” He dips his chin, skin folding at the creases of his neck. “You all there?”

“It’s just you and me so far, Pres,” I tell him, casting a glance at Cliff beside me. I nudge him with my elbow, but he remains still as a statue on the couch. He sits with his phone damn near pressed to his forehead, dark eyes blinking slowly at it, as if it were a bomb. “You on?” I ask.

“I’m here,” Ravage says. “Olivia? I can’t see you.”

“Move the screen away from your chin,” I suggest.

“Screen?”

“Cliff?” I ask, turning toward him. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he says, but he glares at his phone.

My phone pings as another River Reaper enters the Zoom call.

“Yo,” Vaughn says. “Can you guys hear and see me? I’ve got Ravage’s chin, Olivia’s boobs, and Cliff’s a black screen.”

I yank my phone back up to face level. “Asshole.”

He holds up his hands. “Not my fault.”

“I don’t know how to move the screen,” Ravage says.

I close my eyes. My President, who rides a motorcycle with the ease of a stuntman, runs a sort of straight MC with an iron fist, and has dental work done without novocaine, can’t figure out how to hold his phone away from his face.

I’ve never been so embarrassed.

“Do you want me to tell him, or do you want to do it?” I ask Vaughn.

“I’m kind of enjoying this,” he says. “I finished Netflix a week ago.”

“I’m a black screen?” Cliff asks. His eyebrows scrunch together. Confused is my favorite look on him. It isn’t often that I get to see him unsure of himself. It’s endearing.

He mumbles a string of curses, and I bite my lip to keep from climbing into his lap and kissing his lips while laughing at him.

Social media and anything technology are so not his things.

“Here,” I say, holding out my hand.

He leans away from me. “I’ve got it.”

“Sure you do.” I turn back to my phone. As if it can sense my attention, it pings multiple times.

Beer Can, Donny, and Abraham’s faces appear in the neat row at the top of the screen. I peer at them, soaking in every detail of their home lives. It isn’t often, if ever, that I get to see any of them in their natural habitats.

Through his grainy connection, Beer Can sits in a broken-in corduroy recliner, wearing his usual Black Sabbath T-shirt under his cut. His salt and pepper hair sticks out in tufts at the sides. “You there?”

I swallow a snort. I could turn this into a drinking game; every time someone asks if we can see or hear them, take a shot. “We’re here.”

Donny stares dubiously back at us.

“You okay, man?”

He shakes his head once. “Women,” he mutters. “Why did I never realize how many women I live with?”

Punctuating his point, a shriek pierces the background.

I turn my volume down.

Pings chime as the rest of the club filters in. Both Mercy and Mark have black screens but sound, Skid has sound but his camera is pointed at the ceiling, and Abraham just looks wasted.

The little boxes of River Reapers rotate, cycling through some algorithm or other. Vaughn slides to the main strip, and for the first time I realize he’s sitting in a bedroom, with windows, A Perfect Circle playing softly in the background.

“Holy shit,” I say, nudging Cliff.

“I got this,” he insists.

“Yeah, yeah. Look at Vaughn.”

He squints at his phone. “I can’t see anybody.”

“You could just let me help you, you know.”

“Everybody here?” Ravage’s chin asks.

“I think we’re waiting for Stixx,” Mark says.

“Come on, kids. I figured this out. Surely you can, too,” my President says.

I chuckle. “Yeah, your chin’s doing great.”

Vaughn laughs through a hit of a joint, smoke pouring from his nose.

“What do you mean?” Ravage asks, but the two of us can’t stop.

“What is so fucking funny?” Cliff grumbles.

“They’re laughing at the old people,” Beer Can says.

Tears spill from my eyes, mascara bleeding into them. My eyes sting but I can’t stop laughing.

“Ravage,” Vaughn struggles to say, “just hold your phone away from your face!”

Suddenly the rest of my President’s face comes into view, his glacial eyes unamused. “Are you done?”

“Not my fault,” I gasp.

A final ping goes off as Stixx joins the call. “‘Sup,” he says as apology, his pale complexion even more washed out than usual. Dark circles underline his eyes.

“Why can’t we just go to the club house?” Cliff growls, dropping his phone into his lap.

“Because then we wouldn’t be social distancing,” I remind him.

“Fuck social distancing. Fuck Zoom.”

I swallow another laughing fit. “Can you just let me help you?”

“Let’s get started,” Ravage says.

“Give us a minute.” Setting my phone down, I turn to my ex-con, one of the few men who respects me, one of the few I trust. He’s more than earned it.

“I got it,” he insists.

Lucy sighs from her end of the couch. “You so don’t ‘got it,'” she chides. “Just let Olivia help you.”

“I’m not old,” he says.

“No one said you were, you big baby.” Lucy tosses him a wink.

A growl rumbles low in his throat.

“Can we get started?” Ravage begs. “My phone is dying.”

“That’s because it’s a dinosaur,” Vaughn says, “just like all you old fuckers.”

Ravage rubs his temples. “Why?” he mutters. “Why did I let you talk me into this?” He glares at the screen, and I don’t even have to ask who he’s sending it to.

It’s me, and Vaughn.

This was our idea.

With the pandemic going and everything shut down, we don’t have much club business to attend to. But it’s important that we all stay connected—or so I thought. It turns out, getting a multigenerational MC onto a Zoom call is like herding kittens, if the kittens were all wearing leather and itching to go for a ride that doesn’t require staying six feet apart.

I turn to Cliff again. Suddenly it dawns on me while he’s so frustrated by this Zoom call. It isn’t the tech. It’s the quarantine—it reminds him of prison.

Gently I take the phone from his hands. “Hey,” I say softly.

“Yeah.” His dark eyes meet mine, and in them I see decades of solitude and pain.

“You’re not alone,” I whisper. “Not anymore. And never again.” Pressing a few buttons, I get his camera working. Then I lean into him, sweeping my lips across his. “I’m right here.”

His warm lips open to me, softening under my touch. We meld, ignite, burn, each slow kiss easing the pain.

“All right, lovebirds,” Ravage says. “Are we all ready now?”

Pulling away, I grin at Cliff. He smiles back, the storm clearing from his eyes.

“Yes,” I say, cuddling into his lap. “We’re ready.”

THE END


Get More

River Reapers MC Quarantine Chronicles

Get a FREE short every Thursday, 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

Read for FREE with BookFunnel | Order a Signed Paperback