Tag: her mercy

Get tattooed (fictionally) for $5, summer updates, and a free River Reapers novella

In the July edition of my reader newsletter Romance with a Body Count, I share my current lupus challenges, what I’m working on, and how you can get a (fictional) tattoo for $5.

The only constant in life is its challenges. We can either spend all our energy avoiding them, trying to fix them, or staying on our path. It’s all hard, so we have to choose the right hard for us. Sometimes there are no fixes, so the best thing to do is stay the course.

Romance with a Body Count

Author Elizabeth Barone’s Reader Newsletter
July 2025

Archive: January 2025 | February 2025 | April 2025

When I wrote A Touch of Gold in 2020, we’d lost my Noni and our family home. I baked my grief into the book, and wrote a way for Goldie to save her family’s home.

Cut to 2025, I’m working on the last book in the series while staring down the barrel of being homeless.

I really don’t need any more writing inspiration! 😅

The only constant in life is its challenges. We can either spend all our energy avoiding them, trying to fix them, or staying on our path. It’s all hard, so we have to choose the right hard for us. Sometimes there are no fixes, so the best thing to do is stay the course.

For me, that means writing.

It’s really hard to focus when everything is crashing around you. Lately I’ve been practicing my original reason for writing: to stay sane. Over the years, my why evolved first to keeping my mind occupied while sick and unemployed, then to giving my readers more of the story they loved. I struggle with the fawn trauma response, so I’ve done a lot of people pleasing over the years, almost always to my detriment. Going back to basics and writing for myself has been so healing.

Whether you’re struggling with health issues, horrified by the evils of the world, or going through something else entirely, it’s a good time to pause and reflect on your why. You don’t have to be a writer to have a why; my best friend says her five children are hers. It can be that simple and wholesome. We all need a light that keeps us going.

What’s yours?

What I’m Working On

Summer is in full swing, and for me that means a renewed focus on my work in progress, Sleeve of Hearts. It’s slow going as ever, but a change in attitude has made things a bit easier. Instead of beating on myself for only being able to do one thing a day—often that one thing is making a meal—I’m shifting to focusing on one thing at a time. I’m practicing prioritizing my needs and keeping my expectations realistic. Much like anything else in life, it’s a work in progress; it’s a practice, never perfect. I’m practicing remembering that.

I’m so grateful for my publisher for being so understanding and supportive while I duke it out with this book and my own body and brain. Their publishing schedule is set for the next two years, so I’m hoping Sleeve of Hearts will see a 2028 release.

You don’t have to wait three years to go back to Stagwood Falls, though!

Get a (Fictional) Tattoo for Only $5

Inflation’s fucking crazy lately. I’m sure I don’t even want to know the going hourly rate for a tattoo these days. Let my apprentice Kinsley tattoo you fictionally!

I’ll turn you into a character in Sleeve of Hearts and your fictional self will receive a tattoo, microblading or permanent makeup, or haircut or braiding from apprentice Kinsley. All you have to do is upgrade to a paid sponsor of my newsletter for $5/month!

I’ll post a rough draft of your scene on my website, and you’ll see the edited version in the published book.

Don’t worry, if you don’t want to upgrade, you’ll still get my free reader newsletter and occasional goodies. But if you do upgrade, you’ll also get access to serialized editions of my books and exclusive goodies (like new stickers before they even hit my shop).

Become a sponsor now!

Thank you so much to my Sponsors Lauren, B., Dee, and Katy! Look out for your characters’ scenes soon.

Free River Reapers novella

As my email subscriber, you can now read Her Mercy for free! All 25 chapters are now live.

If you’ve already read Mercy and Bree’s story, leave a comment with your emoji reaction to the novella. Mine would be like 🦋🦅🖤!

What’s your biggest challenge this summer? Let’s cheer each other on—tell us yours by replying to this email, or you can leave a comment on my website.

I hope you and your loved ones are as well as can be, and that your summer’s giving all the good vibes. Or at least good AC. 😉

This summer, I’m having six MRIs and a tilt table study to assess what lupus is doing all up in my brain and nervous system. I could let the fear freeze me in place, or I can choose to see these scary tests as a scheduled nap and amusement park ride. I’m somewhere in between—like I said, I’m practicing.

May you always be in practice as a beautiful work in progress, too.

Happy reading!

Her Mercy, Epilogue

There’s only one thing left to do.

“It’s gonna be a long ride,” I warn Bree. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re no longer entirely true. Overnight my heart is younger, my body lighter—more free.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” she says, nuzzling into me. “I just don’t know what I’m gonna say to her.”

Catch Up

Part 3: The Bohemian and the Biker

Epilogue

Now
Mercy


In the morning, I borrow the kitchen and cook too much breakfast for just Bree and me. The thought of hundreds more breakfasts like this one makes me smile. She sits in my lap and I feed her bites of bacon and eggs, unable to physically separate. Not just yet.

Soon there’s nothing more to do. Our bags are packed—not an impossible task, since there are only two of them. I hold her in my lap, bringing her hand to my lips.

“It’s gonna be a long ride,” I warn her. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re no longer entirely true. My body has aged, but overnight my heart is younger. Lighter. Freer.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” she says, nuzzling into me. “I just don’t know what I’m going to say to her.”

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A dark second chance romance told with 11 songs

Music is a powerful tool. All of Mike’s concussion clinic providers are about 45 minutes away from our apartment—plus traffic. “Exhausted” is my baseline, but when he started having seizures, I took over as driver. It’s been good for me, in a sense, challenging me out of my comfort zone and into pushing myself a little bit more. But driving requires a lot of focus, which eats up a lot of my spoons—especially when I’m in a flare.

“Hit me with something high octane,” I beg Mike, passing him my phone. He puts on Kylesa, and it actually perks me up.

This isn’t the first time I’ve used music to set my own mood. I do it a lot when I’m writing, especially when writing dual POV romance. The two lead characters are often different as night and day, even down to the music I put on to get in their heads.

When I wrote Bree’s chapters for Her Mercy, I listened to a lot of Liela Moss’s My Name is Safe in Your Mouth. All of the songs on this album have a sad, romantic, nostalgic feel to them. There’s wisdom woven into the heartbreak, a constant thread of self-discovery. The novella is dual POV but the story is really driven by Bree; Mercy’s all in, it’s Bree who has to face and save herself.

The playlist for Her Mercy is shorter than the other books’ playlists, mostly because I listened to that Liela Moss album quite a bit. I kicked it off with Fleetwood Mac’s “Gypsy” to set the mood of the book. It’s pretty much the soundtrack to a then 14-year-old Bree having run away.

When she stumbles upon The Wet Mermaid and walks into the strip club, “American Woman” is playing. This song is required for all biker gatherings. I’m pretty sure it’s an unwritten rule. This is the first time Bree has a run-in with Bastard, and it won’t be the last.

As Mercy searches for Bree in the present, both of their past selves grapple with everything they know exploding.

Mercy struggles to believe the evil things his lifelong friend Bastard does, hoping to rescue him from the darkness before it swallows both of them and the club they built.

Bree is alone in the world, reeling after a shocking event that sent her running. She’s convinced Mercy and the others to let her stay, but she doesn’t really belong.

Not that she belongs anywhere or to anyone, not anymore.

To keep Bree safe from Bastard, Mercy pretends to marry her, making her forever off limits. But he can’t keep her safe from herself, no more than he can stop the fire burning inside him.

Being fake married only brings them closer. Bree’s balm soothes the pain in Mercy’s bones, and when he tells her the truth about Bastard, she urges him to take it to the MC’s table for a vote. Mercy knows she’s right, that Bastard can’t be allowed to hurt anyone else ever again, but it’s soul-crushing, accepting what his best friend’s become.

As everything comes to a head in the past, Mercy searches for Bree in the present. He’ll never break the vows he made to her, but she sure doesn’t make it easy.

Especially when she runs away again just as he closes in.

When they finally reunite, even though they have much to reconcile, it’s clear that they belong together.

It won’t be easy, but now that they’re together, they can heal the past and face the future.

Read Her Mercy

Ebook, serial, and paperback editions of Her Mercy are now available! Read serialized chapters for free on my website. All you need is a valid email address. You can also purchase the ebook or paperback through your favorite retailer.

Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

Her Mercy, Chapter 5

The banging on the door continues, and Bree has no choice but to let Mercy in. Except the woman at the door isn’t him. She might even be worse.

“You can’t hide from me!” She kicks the door, and it shudders in its frame.

She’s strong for such a little thing.

I decide to have some fun with her, and fling the door open.

Catch Up

Part 1: The Drifter

Chapter 5

Now

The knocking continues, even though I’m standing between the kitchen and living room, eyes squeezed shut. As if that’ll make him go away.

There’s not enough time to run upstairs, grab my shit, and slip out the back door. I consider leaving it all behind, but then I’d have nothing. I’ve started from zero before, over and over again. Doesn’t make it any easier.

It’d be easier than facing him after all this time.

I take a step toward the back door, praying it doesn’t lead onto some weird enclosed porch. That’d be just my luck.

“Claudine!” hollers the knocker, who sounds like she’s gargling cigarette smoke.

I tip my head back, relieved. It’s not Mercy. I don’t have to run.

Not yet, anyway.

I peer through the peephole and find a woman who can’t be taller than four and a half feet. Her dishwater blonde hair is set in curlers, which shake as her fist begins beating on the door again.

“You can’t hide from me, Claudine!” She kicks the door. It shudders in its frame.

She’s strong, for such a little thing.

I don’t really feel like dealing with her—or anyone, really—but it would be kind of fun to leave Claudine some kind of parting gift. I decide to see what this woman wants, and fling the door open.

Her fist freezes midair. “You’re not Claudine,” she says, voice accusing.

I glance down at my chest, then raise my eyes to her face pointedly.

“Where’s Claudine?” She peers past me into the living room, as if Claudine is hiding behind the couch.

“She’s . . .” It dawns on me that I have no idea where she is. Neither does her number one fan, apparently. “She’s out. Maybe I can help you.”

“Doubt it.” She shakes her head, a curler precariously close to tumbling loose. “That bitch owes me money.”

“For what?”

“Don’t you sass me.” She frowns, further wrinkling her already leathery face. “Oh, fine, she owes the HOA money, but I’m the treasurer. She can’t avoid me forever!”

I bite my lip to hide the smirk. Claudine’s behind on her condo fees—I’ve found the chink in her sleazy armor.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

I glance around and lower my voice. “She’s looking at another townhouse.”

The treasurer gasps, her lip curling. “She isn’t looking at Covenant, is she?”

This is too easy. These bitches are just as trigger happy as the officers in a motorcycle club, if not more. They’re certainly cattier.

I spread my hands apologetically. “I’m afraid so. She said something about lower HOA fees.”

Pinching her face, she turns on her heel and marches away. I can practically see the cartoon fumes coming out of her ears.

Smiling, I close the door and lean against it. That was fun, but probably not very nice of me. Still, the thought of Claudine getting an earful from this woman warms my cold soul and stifles any guilt.

Besides, I’m pretty sure Claudine will have no problem setting her straight. Our history aside, I’ve got to give her credit where credit’s due. And Claudine can certainly hold her own.

I tamp down the spark of admiration. I refuse to respect the woman who destroyed my family.

Not that there was much of a family to begin with.

Thank you for reading Chapter 5 of Her Mercy, a River Reapers MC prequel novella.

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Her Mercy, Chapter 4

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

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

“What are you running from?” he pressed.

It was gonna be a long night.

Catch Up

Part 1: The Drifter

Chapter 4

1997

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No excuses. Now get out.”

“Come on,” Mac slurred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lifted my chin. “Yes.”

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

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

“What are you running from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Mercy had to start guilt-tripping me.

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

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

It was going to be an uncomfortable night.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m from Connecticut,” I hedged.

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

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

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

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

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

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Her Mercy, Chapter 3

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

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

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

Catch Up

Part 1: The Drifter

Chapter 3

Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been told . . . not to.”

“By who? Ravage?”

She purses her lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mercy wants—”

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

“I can give you that,” she says.

I march toward the stairs.

“It’s the bedroom on the left.”

I begin to climb.


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

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

Goddamn Claudine.

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

I’ve got no plan, either.

What else is new?

Goddamn Mercy.

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

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

Have a good day.

I crumple it up and throw it in the garbage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Her Mercy, Chapter 2

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

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

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

“Eighteen,” I lied. “I need a job.”

catch up

Part I: The Drifter

Chapter 2

1997

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

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

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

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

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

I started walking.

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

“Hold it!” a gruff voice called out.

I froze in my tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

I scoffed. “Eighteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lifted an eyebrow at the bikes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A strip club.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coffee, please.” I licked my lips.

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

“Black.”

It was the second lie I’d told.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Check it Out

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

“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

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. 🖤

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

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There are quite a few myths about reviews—sorry, 50 or more reviews don’t trigger Amazon marketing—so here’s how they actually help.

  • They help other readers decide if my book is The One for them
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