dark romance – Page 5 – Elizabeth Barone

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

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

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

Author’s Note

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

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

Catch Up: Part 1 | Part 2

Part 3: “Take Me to Church”

Cliff

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

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

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

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

Olivia bites her lip.

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

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

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

“You heard me,” he snarls. “Slag.”

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

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

He snarls in response.

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

For now.

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

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

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

“Not for me, either,” Beer Can says.

“How ‘bout you, Skid?” I ask.

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

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

No one moves.

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

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

“Hold it,” Olivia says.

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

Almost.

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

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

And fear.

Just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Be Continued…

Read Part 4

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Check it Out

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

“Mother ” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 2

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

Author’s Note

Catch Up: Part 1

Part 2: “Mother”

Olivia

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

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

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

“Define ‘involved,’” she mutters.

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

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

Bree never baked. She liked to get baked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” I wave him off. “It’s okay.”

He pauses, head tilted slightly.

“What?” I ask.

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

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

“Ravage?” he repeats.

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

Tipping his head back, he groans.

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

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

To Be Continued…

Read Part 3

Photo by JP Valery on Unsplash

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

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

Note from the Author

Olivia

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did great. You can handle this.”

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

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

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

“Yes?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“The hotdogs. They have to be Deutschmacher—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

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

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

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

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

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

Like I said, history repeats.

To Be Continued…

Read Part 2

Photo by Drew Beamer on Unsplash

A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1

After 20 years in prison, I’m finally free, but I’ll never be free from what I did. There’s only one person who can help me now that I’m out. Assuming she forgives me for what I did to save her. First I have to find her.

Cliff

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.

The taxi idles, puffs of exhaust eddying into the cold February air. The dead of winter is a shitty time to be homeless, but even that thought doesn’t dampen my spirits. Prison wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t like being outside. Inside, I was just a caged animal throwing myself at the bars, bruising and bloodying myself in defiance. I was in segregation more times than I can count, and I’m lucky I got out five years early.

I’d kiss the fucking ground if the guy behind the wheel wasn’t already eyeing me warily.

I slide into the backseat, warmth from the heater enveloping me. A sigh nearly escapes my lips. It’s been so long since I was really, truly warm.

Through the rearview mirror, the taxi driver continues to question my sanity. He isn’t prejudiced. “Where to, sir?” he asks, his voice void of any accent. He could be from Anywhere, America. Actually, the United States could’ve sunk into the bowels of hell while I was inside, for all I know. Maybe this accent is the new norm.

I squint at him, trying to decide whether I’ve lost my fucking mind or if this is really the way things are now. He even looks racially ambiguous, with a broad hooked nose, green eyes, and olive skin.

The newspapers I managed to get my hands on were always old, and the old men hogged the lone fucking TV all day. I have no clue what’s going on in the world. Or where I’m going.

Maybe he takes pity on me, because his eyes soften and he clears his throat. “How long have you been in, sir?”

I really wish he’d stop with the sir, but it’s better than what I’ve been called. What I am. Who. “Twenty years,” I tell him.

He nods real slow, then he rubs his chin, the stubble not quite poking through yet. It’s too early in the day. It’s another difference between us. My goatee is scratchy. I didn’t have time to shave this morning.

“Well,” he says finally. “We have a woman president.”

This I knew. I start to tell him that I haven’t been living in a fucking hole, but that would not be true. “Isn’t that something,” I reply.

He shoves the taxi into drive and pulls away from the only home I’ve ever known. I’ve been inside longer than I’d been alive when I went in.

A sliver of panic creeps in. I don’t know how to cook or how to drive a car. It seems ridiculous, pathetic. And I still don’t know where I’m going. I have no one on the outside. At least, I don’t think so.

During the first year, I had visitors. Then they trickled into phone calls, faded into letters, until finally, nothing. I don’t blame them. Twenty years is a long time, and Pennsylvania isn’t exactly close to home.

The taxi driver takes me to a Days Inn. I don’t even bother looking through the glass as we drive through the small town. There’s not a damn thing here.

I use most of the only cash I have left to buy a room for the night, and when I leave the lobby to find my room, the taxi is already gone. Blinking into the winter gloom, it starts to sink in that I don’t have any friends, inside or out.

I’m a goddamn statistic.

But the room has a shower that doesn’t run cold after two minutes, and I take a half hour to revel in my first real taste of freedom. The hot water sluices over hard muscle I’ve been careful to build and maintain. My own mother probably wouldn’t recognize me.

After I step out, I clear the mirror with a hand and take a good look. It’s been a while since I looked at my reflection in something other than a mirror that more closely resembled a dented paper towel dispenser. In the pen, everything is constructed with safety in mind, carefully evaluated to ensure that even the simplest of tools can’t be converted into deadly weapons.

But anything can be a weapon.

Anything.

Even my bare hands.

The goatee doesn’t surprise me. It’s familiar and has kept my face warm for two decades. It’s the crow’s feet at the corners of my brown eyes that make me pause. I’m only thirty-eight, but even though I don’t feel it, I look it. Maybe even five years older.

A frown creases my forehead.

It really shouldn’t matter. I’m not entering any beauty pageants anytime soon. And any woman who might be interested would be quick to run in the opposite direction the second she heard about my record.

She’d be careless not to.

I drape the towel over the hook on the back of the door and stalk out bare as the day I was born. There’s no one here to see me, and I’m not too keen on the idea of changing back into those clothes. They were donated to the prison. Never were mine. The clothes I wore the day I was cuffed are long gone, tucked into some forgotten evidence bin or maybe even burned, since the case was pretty quickly closed.

There was no point in pleading innocence.

I sit on the bed and eye the phone. I might have one friend out there. It’s a long shot, really. But maybe not that long.

Snatching the phone from its cradle, I pause. Try to remember how to call someone whose number you don’t have. I have no fucking idea. I slam the receiver down, wishing I had a pack of cigarettes. Or even one cigarette would do.

I’m about to throw back on those moldy old clothes when I remember. I can call the front desk, ask them. For a second, I feel even more pathetic. I’m like an old man with dementia. I’m lucky I don’t need help wiping my ass.

The outside is so much different than I pictured.

The closer I got to my parole hearing, the more convinced I was that there would be some kind of process. A sort of easing into things for the post-release inmate. When I mentioned it to my C.O., motherfucker laughed at me and handed me a booklet. The morning of my release, he handed me some cash—my total earnings. Twenty years of pennies on the hour, and I can’t even afford a second night at a shithole motel.

I need to make that call, because it’s the only chance I have.

Otherwise, I’ll be right back in within hours of walking out.

Sucking in a breath between my teeth, I pick up the phone again and call the front desk.

A chipper female voice answers—a young voice. “Days Inn front desk. How can I help you?”

“Hey there, sweetheart,” I drawl. My voice is smoked whiskey, smooth but with a bite. “I need to look someone up in Connecticut.”

She draws in a breath, then hesitates. “You’re serious?” Her voice lilts, amused.

I lay it on thick, dropping my voice several octaves—still sweet, but low enough to drop panties. “Yeah, baby. I really need your help.”

A giggle caresses my ear before she can collect herself. She’s definitely young.

I close my eyes for a moment, the memory of another small laugh pricking at me. The anger rises up quickly, fire shooting through my veins. I struggle to stuff it down, to shove the lid on it before it can backdraft, blowing me straight out of the room and right back into Lewisburg Pen.

“What’s the name?” she asks, completely oblivious to the man burning on the other end.

Sucking in a deep breath, I manage to slow it for a moment. “Lucy Demmel.” Saying her name only makes it worse. The panic shoves its way in. I wonder if she’s even alive. If she’s healthy. Safe. Or if she’s just another statistic, too. I jump up from the bed. Pace the room. Wait.

The receptionist spells out our last name, and the sound of tapping reaches my ears. It’s a weird tapping, though—a computer keyboard.

I frown. “Aren’t you going to patch me through?”

She laughs. “I’m looking her up on Facebook. Hold on.”

My eyebrows furrow. Facebook? Before I can ask what the fuck that is, my angel lets out a triumphant “Ah-ha!” and rattles off a number to me. I fumble for the pen and notepad in the drawer, ask her to repeat it, and jot it down.

“Are you sure that’s really her?” I need to know, because I can’t take the disappointment.

“Lucy Demmel,” she says, as if she’s reading. “Twenty-eight, lives in Naugatuck, Connecticut. Went to Naugatuck High School. She’s in a relationship—”

“Wait.” I take another deep breath. “How do you know all this?” The age is right. The town, too. “Never mind,” I say, even as my angel laughs at me. Flat out laughs. Not just amused. She’s almost hysterical. “How does she look?”

The laughter dies. “You’re not, like, a stalker . . . are you?”

I sigh. “She’s my cousin. Same last name. Come on. What does she look like?”

She makes a skeptical sound, like a hmph. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given you her number. Oh shit. Am I going to get fired? Please don’t get me fired. I can’t keep a job—”

Christ. I’ve always been a magnet for headcases. “Shh, baby. I’m not a stalker. She really is my cousin. Check my room records. My last name is Demmel. But don’t call me Clifford, or I’ll . . .” The threat dies on my lips, because it’s not an idle one. I blink, and wonder how long it’ll take for the prison effect to wear off. How long before I’m normal again. I don’t even know who I am anymore, or what normal is.

“She has long red hair. Kinda wavy, like. Real sad green eyes. And . . .” Her pause stretches, almost endless. “A beauty mark or mole thing right near her eyebrow.”

I almost cry with relief. That’s my Lucy.

“Her last post: ‘Strength isn’t keeping your tears locked up when you’re sad, it’s saying no to a marriage proposal from the sexiest, sweetest man alive, even when everyone expects you to say yes. Fuck that shit.'” She snorts. “What?” She whisper-reads it again.

That fucked up sense of humor is Lucy, all the way. I rattle off the phone number back at my angel to make sure I got it right, then hang up.

I pick up the phone again and dial the number. It rings, the connection crackly but real. I almost lose my shit. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Or if she even remembers me. She was so little. Maybe she blocked the whole thing out.

A loud male voice booms into my ear. “PLEASE DIAL THE NUMERAL ONE BEFORE THE AREA CODE. This is a recording.”

I hang up, muttering a “No shit.” Clearing my throat, I try again—this time dialing one. I vaguely remember needing to do that before I went in.

This time, the call goes through. It rings five times, and then my heart stops.
“Hey, you’ve reached Lucy. You know what to do, dontcha?”

The disappointment shoots into me. My shoulders slump and I almost drop the phone onto the floor.

“Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording, hang up, or press one for more options.”

A shrill beep pierces my ears, and I nearly drop the phone again.

“Shit. No, wait. Sorry, Luce.” I pause. Suddenly I really have no idea what to say. “Uh, yeah. Luce, this is Cliff. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been ages since I got a letter from you. I assumed your parents shut that shit down real fast. Sorry. Well, I guess you’re not eight anymore, so it’s okay to swear around you.”

I’m babbling. Taking a deep breath, I try to make words that won’t freak her out.

“Luce, I know this is asking a lot. And do you even go by Luce anymore? Or do you prefer Lucy?” I rake my free hand through my hair. I’m fucking this up. Majorly. I let out a low, frustrated sound. “Okay, look, I’m at the Days Inn in Lewisburg. Fucking Pennsylvania, Luce. I’m just gonna lay it all out here: I have no money, nowhere to go, and I have to stick around at least long enough to see my parole officer. So maybe . . .”

Suddenly I realize how desperate I sound. But I am.

“Sorry to bother you, Luce—Lucy. Just forget it.”

I hang up.

Dressing, I decide I’m better off spending my time finding a job. If I’m going to get out of this ass crack of a town, I’m gonna need cash—fast. There’s got to be a diner or something looking for suckers who don’t mind bussing tables for minimum wage. And maybe they’ll even overlook my record.

The odds of me finding a job are even lower than finding Lucy. I figure my angel at the front desk can’t possibly save me twice, but maybe she can. Maybe she’s from around here and knows of a place that will hire without asking questions. Or she can at least point me to the closest drug dealer so I can start selling too.

I really will be a statistic if I don’t get my shit together.

My hand is on the door knob when the phone rings. I freeze, then turn in slow motion toward the nightstand where the phone rests. But it keeps ringing, and I have to accept that I’m not imagining it.

I dart across the room and grab it, pressing it to my ear. “Yeah. Lucy?”

“Cliff,” she sobs. “Is it really you?”

A relieved sigh escapes my lips. “It’s me,” I say with a smile. She sounds so different, yet I’d know that voice anywhere.

“You’re really out? I can’t believe it. I thought you had another five years.”
“Yeah, I got lucky. Overcrowding and good behavior.” Mostly. Plus I had a lawyer that was really good at talking judges into dreamland.

“Cliff, holy shit. Where are you? I mean, I know where, but when are you coming home?” She’s talking so fast, I can barely understand her. I love every second of it.

I hate to disappoint her. Even after all these years. “Luce . . .”

I can almost hear her shoulders slump. “You’re not coming home?”

“Not likely. At least, not anytime soon. I’m broke, kid. And I—”

“I’ll PayPal you some money,” she says, and now she’s really talking fast. I strain to understand her, the words like a foreign language. At least her accent is Connecticut.

I let her finish, again wishing I had a cigarette. Something to calm my nerves.

“Cliff? You there?”

Swallowing past the dry lump in my throat, I tell her I am. “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, Luce.”

“Okay, just give me your email address.”

She’s going to think I’m an alien, that the games we played when she was a kid were real. “I don’t have one.”

She barks out a laugh. “What? Oh. No Wi-Fi in prison.”

“Wi-Fi?” My head starts to throb.

“Um . . . Like AOL, but wireless.” She laughs again. “Wow, this is so funny. You’re like a newborn.”

It’s good that she can be so positive about this—about anything.

“All right, let me think.” She hums a little. “No email address, and I’m guessing you don’t have a bank account either. Jesus, prison is inhumane. Well, there’s only one solution.”

I shrug, because seeing as how I can barely grasp this Wi-Fi stuff, I’m probably going to be blown away by whatever she comes up with.

“Cliff, text me your address.”

The throbbing between my eyes intensifies. “Luce, I don’t—”

“Fuck,” she yells. “You probably don’t even know what a cell phone is.”

“I know what a cell phone is,” I shoot back.

“Yeah, the clunky TV-remote-looking ones from the early 2000s,” she jokes.

Both of my eyebrows lift. “Everything is different now, huh?” My voice is low, but not that flirtatious purr I used on the girl at the front desk. I sound sad. I need to man the fuck up.

“It is,” she agrees. “But don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of you, reintroduce you to the wild. And teach you how to play Pokémon GO.”

“I know how to play Pokémon,” I grumble.

She laughs again. “This is way different, trust me. It uses GPS and—”

“Okay, mercy. My head hurts.”

Her giggle, however, is a soothing mother’s stroke across my forehead. It reminds me of better times. “I’m gonna come down there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. I’m supposed to be a man. It should be me taking care of her, not the other way around.

She snorts. “Dude,” she says, “trust me. You need a guide. And I’m currently on vacation, licking my wounds.”

I suddenly remember what the receptionist read to me. “You got married?”

“No,” she says, almost sadly. “It’s against my rules.”

“What are you, a nun?” For a second, it feels like I’ve gone back twenty years in time, like we’re just kids busting each other’s balls.

“Nuns,” she says, “don’t have one-night stands.”

I nearly choke. “I don’t ever want to know about your sex life.”

“You sure? You don’t want to live vicariously? Must’ve been awfully lonely in prison.” I can practically hear her smirking.

“No,” I tell her firmly. A few seconds pass. My voice softens. “Hey, Luce? Thanks.”

Her voice is so small when she finally responds. “No, Cliff, thank you.”

I shake my head, wondering if other people have these kinds of conversations. Sighing, I let her direct the conversation for a few. She rattles off times and schedules, then promises to be at my room before checkout time.

“Please set a wakeup call,” she begs.

“Yeah, yeah.” I smile, though. “Hey, Luce? What’s Facebook?”

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

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Table of Contents

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“It’s Blood I Want” | Excerpt From A FATAL PROSPECT

I take the weight that’s pitted in my belly, wrap it in a kerosene-soaked blanket, and drop a match in. This pain has to have a purpose. I can’t let anything like this happen to Bree, or Bryce, or anyone else, ever again.

Even though the air is crisp and cool, sweat soaks through the back of my shirt, the fabric sticking uncomfortably as I crouch in the back of the van. My pulse thumps in my throat in time with the swirl of fury in my heart.

Abraham signals a right turn, and Vaughn plants a hand on the metal wall for balance. Mimicking him, I place my palms on the floor. Lucky Stixx gets to ride up front, where there are actual seatbelts. I didn’t even say goodbye to Cliff.

We pull onto Bristol Street, a spur off of Platts Mill Road. The old Platt Brothers factory is just a short walk over.

“Let’s creep up on them, watch for a minute,” I tell the men with me, passing around the ski masks.

“Rui’s gonna fucking kill me if I get arrested,” Abraham says, but yanks his mask on anyway.

We jump out of the van, closing doors gently so the sound doesn’t echo over to the factory. The night presses down on us, lit only by the orange glow of old street lights. Out here, I can make out some of the stars.

“Let’s get this over with,” Abraham says.

“Olivia, you take point. This is your kill,” Stixx tells me.

“Now, now,” I remind him with an exaggerated wink he probably can’t see. “Ravage said no blood.”

Yet it’s blood I want.

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I’m Breaking All of My Rules for Him | A DISTURBING PROSPECT Snippet

Cliff has me breaking all kinds of rules.

I throw on sweats and my high top Nikes, then toss my hair into a frizzy bun. With such wild curly hair, I’ll never have one of those cute messy buns that straight-haired girls rock. But I’ve managed to make it my own.

I’m supposed to work tonight, but I’ll come home and shower first. Still, just in case, I wing my eyeliner and dab on mascara. Looking at my reflection, I shake my head at myself. The odds of me running into Cliff today are pretty low. This is totally absurd. After another moment, I shrug and add lip gloss.

My hand is on my bedroom door knob when I hear a door slam. Frenzied shrieks and Spanish gush from my roommate’s mouth. I throw my door open and Esther barrels into my room.

Between high school and my roommate, my Spanish is pretty good, but she’s talking way too fast. Tears streak her cheeks, and she clutches her phone in her hand. I lead her to my bed and sit her down. After bringing her an ice cold glass of water, I calm her enough to talk.

“My car,” she gasps, her hands shaking. “Someone slit my tires.”

I bolt up straight. Eyes narrowing, I stomp toward the front door as if I can still catch the motherfucker. Right outside our front door, Esther’s car slumps pathetically. All four tires have long gashes in them. My jaw hangs open even as fury rips through me. Esther is a nice person—someone so quiet, she wouldn’t disturb a librarian. Cutting tires is never random, always personal. This doesn’t make sense.

I light a cigarette and Esther joins me outside. Red rims her eyes and blots her nose.

“Who would do this?” she whispers, hugging herself.

I shake my head. “No one followed you home?”

“Not that I saw.” She holds her hand out for my cigarette. I give it to her and light another for myself. Taking a drag, she grimaces. “I haven’t smoked since high school.” Still, she visibly relaxes. Once a smoker, always a smoker.

“Anyone you might have . . . annoyed?” I can’t imagine Esther ever pissing anyone off enough to make them want to slit her tires, but I have to cover all the bases.

Her head swivels from side to side. “No. Last night was actually a really good tips night.” Dainty eyebrows knit together. “Donny even asked me out.”

My eyes narrow. “Who’s Donny?”

Lips softening into a smile, Esther practically swoons. “This guy at work. He’s one of the chefs. I’ve been waiting for him to make a move forever.” She sucks on the cigarette, still smiling.

“He’s nice to you?” I’m losing hope. Walking around the car, I examine it again.

“Very,” Esther says. “He’s one of the ones who hold doors open and all that. He’s even brought me gifts—little things like chocolate. He brought me a rose last night.”

I blink at her.

Rolling her eyes, she puts her hands on her hips. “Valentine’s Day?”

I halt in my tracks, groaning. “Fuck,” I mutter.

Esther rushes to my side. “Did you think of something?”

“No.” I sigh, lighting another cigarette. “I kind of did something last night, without realizing what day it was.” Wrinkling my nose, I hope Cliff didn’t think it was all supposed to be some romantic bullshit. Or, even worse, that I was so desperate for a Valentine, I begged him to come home with me. I rub my temples. God, I’m pathetic.

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The River Reapers MC Series is Now Available at Target and Walmart!

Did I die and go to heaven? The River Reapers MC series is now available at Target and Walmart!

You could say the River Reapers are taking over. This series is opening more doors for me than I ever dreamed!

Buy the River Reapers MC series at Target
A Disturbing Prospect | A Fatal Prospect

Buy the River Reapers MC series at Walmart
A Disturbing Prospect | A Risky Prospect | Her Mercy

You can also get The Stairs Between Us at Walmart!

I don’t know when they’ll be adding my other titles. Hopefully soon! 🤞🏼

(Looking for the series reading order? Click here!)

Quite a few people asked me how this happened and, the short answer is, I don’t exactly know, but I set myself up for success.

The long answer is, a few years ago, I stopped using CreateSpace (now KDP Select) to print and distribute paperbacks, and switched to IngramSpark. I was trying to get my books into Barnes & Noble and other book stores, and one of the managers at my local BN told me I needed to get my books into the Ingram catalog, because most stores order exclusively through Ingram. That’s everyone from small indie booksellers to big box stores.

(Shoutout to Robin M. for not only giving me this crucial tip, but also supporting me over the years and having me at the store! I can’t wait to come back.)

I’ve been in the Ingram catalog for quite a while now, but neither Target nor Walmart have ever carried my paperbacks before. (For a little while, when Walmart and Kobo were partnered, you could read my ebook editions through their app. Their partnership seems to have ended, though I’m not sure why.)

My theory is that someone on their merchandising teams saw my books in the Ingram catalog and ordered them. This whole thing started with Target carrying A Fatal Prospect, so I’m wondering if these big box stores are positioning themselves to cater to the growing dark romance community. Dark romance is exploding, in case you haven’t noticed.

However it happened, it’s really cool, and definitely an author achievement I’ve unlocked.

Thank you so much to all my readers for all your support over the years, and thank you to all the stores, big and small, who are supporting indie authors!

A FATAL PROSPECT Cover Reveal

It’s finally A Fatal Prospect cover reveal day!

I wanted this cover to have an “us against the world, we’re going to war” feel, since everything is about to be turned upside down for Cliff and Olivia. I’ve been working with cover designer Natasha Snow for a few years now, and one of my favorite things about working with her is how I can give her a general idea and she runs with it.

See what I mean? 😍😍😍

Our enemies of past and present are uniting to put us in our graves. Not even death would destroy our love, but death isn’t the only thing that’s fatal…

Cliff

I’ve finally got Olivia, but she can’t give me the two things I want most: three words so I know I’m not in this alone, and a family so I can redeem all the horrible things I’ve done. My past is still chasing me, and the only way I can let it go is if I stop running and face it. I can’t allow the monster in my blood to take over, but it’s rising to the surface and I can’t fight it much longer.

Olivia

After all I’ve been through, I’m never giving away my heart, even if my heart has other plans. War strikes before Cliff and I get a chance to figure it out. When a teen football player is unspeakably violated, only my club can avenge him. A rival motorcycle club from the past is also looking for revenge, just as I realize my true feelings for Cliff.

When someone betrays us, we’ll pay the ultimate price, in both blood and love…

A FATAL PROSPECT is the third book in the River Reapers MC series, a dark romance with a body count. Some content may be disturbing to some readers.

READ CHAPTER 1 | PRE-ORDER

A Fatal Prospect releases April 28th! Pre-order your copy now!

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Catch Up on the River Reapers MC Series

A Disturbing Prospect
River Reapers MC, Book 1

Our violent pasts brought us together. One night entwined us forever. We’re not falling in love, we’re just hanging onto each other while everything falls apart.

Read now for only $0.99!

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/adisturbingprospect

A Risky Prospect
River Reapers MC, Book 2

If we can’t keep each other from the dark, we’ll have to be each other’s light, even if our revenge blackens everything we love.

Read now!

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/ariskyprospect

Her Mercy
River Reapers MC, Spinoff Novella

The last time Bree ran away, she put Mercy in prison. Now he’s got to find her and convince her they belong together so they can both be free.

Read now for FREE!

Download: https://BookHip.com/MRDJJFQ

A FATAL PROSPECT Glossary

While reading A Fatal Prospect, there might be some terms you aren’t familiar with, or places you need a refresher for. I’ve put together a glossary of biker slang and club roles, as well as terms special to the River Reapers MC, plus locations.

Looking for the character guide? Click here!

Bastard Brothers MC: The half of the club that split in ’97. This story is told in the FREE standalone novella Her Mercy.

Cara’s: A diner on 63 that Donny and Esther work at. Many of the River Reapers frequent Cara’s.

Colors: A logo of sorts that adorns the back of MC members’ cuts. Usually embroidered onto the leather. The River Reapers colors is the Sludge Specter—a sludge-covered reaper that is a nod to the polluted Naugatuck River.

Cut: The leather jacket or vest that members of a club wear, usually with the club’s insignia embroidered onto the back, and various patches sewn on.

Enforcer: Sort of a bouncer for the club… or the guy who sorts things out when talking doesn’t work.

Hangaround: A non-member who hangs out with the MC, often at The Wet Mermaid. Usually other motorcycle enthusiasts and even non-rival bikers.

House Mouse: A woman who is unaffiliated with but hangs out with the club.

Holeshot: When someone in a motor vehicle rips up gravel. It’s also the fastest driver during a race. Not a biker term, but a reader asked about it, so I figured I’d include it. It also used to be my dad’s CB handle.

Ol’ Lady / Ol’ Man: Girlfriend/boyfriend, usually serious.

One-kicker: In A Disturbing Prospect, Cliff mentions that he isn’t a one-kick wonder yet; this means that he can’t start his bike with just one kick of the starter.

One-percenter: A club that is involved with illegal activity.

Lewisburg: The prison that both Cliff and Mercy served time in.

MC: Motorcycle club

Naugatuck, CT: The dying industrial town where the series takes place. Also a real town near where I grew up. Sometimes referred to as “Naugy.”

Naugatuck River: A river that cuts through Naugatuck and Waterbury. Known nationally in real life for its chemical pollution. More recently, there was an oil spill. Some say the river is cursed.

Patch: This can refer to the patch on a biker’s cut, or the verb—as in, getting patched in, meaning being accepted as a member.

President: The member who oversees club activities, duties, and operations.

Prospect: A potential member.

Pussy Pad: The seat on the back of the bike, usually where a biker’s ol’ lady rides.

River Reapers MC: A fictional motorcycle club named for the Naugatuck River.

Rocker: A curved patch that is usually placed on the side or back of a cut. Usually designates the club’s name.

Sergeant-at-Arms: The member who handles club rules, patches, etc. Also sometimes weapons. (In some MCs, the SAA and Enforcer are interchangeable terms for the same role.)

Shannon’s Haven: A shelter for women who are survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault, run by Shannon. Most of the women are employed by the Mermaid.

Sludge Specter: A patch awarded only to members willing to do anything for the MC, who have actually gone above and beyond member duties. Also refers to the MC’s colors.

“Take them to the river”: A River Reapers phrase referring to killing someone—usually determined by a club vote. Example: When the original members voted to kill Bastard for molesting Lucy, they voted whether to take him to the river. Bodies are often buried on the Naugatuck River front, making it a more literal phrase.

Treasurer: The member who takes care of funds. Also organizes activities, fundraisers, and other club events.

Vice President: Second-in-command, usually coordinates Church and other events, and also takes over President roles in case that member can’t perform his duties.

The Wet Mermaid: The strip club owned by the River Reapers. The business is under Treasurer Mark’s name. Sometimes referred to as “the Mermaid.”

Catch Up on the River Reapers MC Series

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