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.
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.
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.
I think of all the ways our parents already disapprove of him. This morning, when Lucy filled me in on what she was doing, she made me promise not to tell them. I’m twenty-one and yet apparently still have to swear to sister secrecy. Other than that, she didn’t tell me much. Just that her cousin Cliff needed some help because he just got out of prison. And then those cherry red lips of hers clamped shut.
It’s weird, because Lucy and I tell each other everything.
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.
Welcome back to Books, Bud, and Brews. I love saying that!
What a week. This week was really hard. I had to just unplug from all the media, and I needed to rest, and regroup a little bit, and I took a morning nap, which felt amazing, and I woke up actually feeling much better, and it was an accidental nap. *chuckles* I was watching the Reading Rainbow documentary, and that actually was just the pep talk I needed.
I don’t know—it’s so strange, sometimes when I watch things, or read things, they’re exactly what I need, and it was wild. Reading Rainbow—still saving my generation’s sanity, to this day.
So, what are we talking about today? We are talking about writer burnout, which is taking us out, one by one, like dominoes, and we don’t talk about it at all. So I’m gonna talk about it.
We’re also going to talk about character trauma, and character arcs, and healing together from trauma, in romance.
Please subscribe and give this video a like if you’re watching on YouTube!
So, creative burnout. It’s a thing. It happens to writers. It happens to us a lot. It’s an issue in our community that we don’t talk about. I don’t think readers are even remotely aware. I just think readers kind of see—you guys see the after effects of burnout, right. You’ll see that the series you’re really into is not being continued anymore, or that author’s not on social media anymore. Or, you’ll see author’s kind of rescheduling releases a lot or completely cancelling different releases, different events, stuff like that. I’ve also seen authors be really up front with readers, like “Hey, I’m going through this thing right now, and I just can’t get this book out at the moment. I need a moment for myself, and I need to regroup, reset, and relax, and reevaluate things. The wonderful thing about the book community is, people are generally pretty supportive of this. Which is why I don’t understand why we don’t talk about it, because our readers are very supportive, other authors are very supportive.
We got sucked into this myth that we have to publish quickly because the algorithms on certain retailers favor that. The thing is, before those algorithms were a thing, we were lucky if we saw a book a year from our favorite authors. I mean, authors were creating pen names so they could publish more than one book in a year. The norm really was every year or so you’d get a new book from that author. Sometimes even longer. Books used to take years and years and years in between, like, series books. I mean, if you don’t have the experience of waiting for the next book in the series, and you’re just so hungry for any news, and then it comes out, and you get that first cozy-up with it—it’s the best.
So we didn’t always have this insane breakneck speed schedule. Readers were happy waiting, writers would just take their time, focus on the craft. Things would just naturally come out, and people would get to enjoy them.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with a fast release schedule, do not get me wrong. Because it can be great, there are people who literally read books *snaps fingers* within hours. You’re amazing. So no hate to people that write fast or read fast. What I’m really talking about is when we kind of get stuck in this thought that, “I have to serve this algorithm. I have to be on this schedule. I have to be very fast. I have to keep putting books out. I have to release weekly, or monthly.”
I have actually seen people trying to do weekly schedules. I’ve seen people do monthly. It’s… a lot. The authors are suffering. That’s the thing. If people were not burning out so bad, and things were just moving along, that would be fine. The problem is, all the time, authors are disappearing, never to be heard from again. Authors that were doing well—that were kicking ass in their careers, that were really just taking off, and then all of a sudden, they burn out. I’ve seen authors talk about it, to the extent where they’ll kind of explain a little about what’s going on, and then I’ve also seen authors just never come back, either.
There’s also an issue within the industry of an expectation of speed. I was just talking with some authors and other industry people about how they’re formatting books and copyediting books that aren’t even written yet. So if you can kind of break that down and digest what I just said, they are copyediting books that are not written yet. *chuckles* I don’t know how that works. He explained it, it sounds stressful for everyone on all sides of it.
I don’t know what we’re doing.
I think that we need to start saying no. I think that we need to start putting boundaries for ourselves and others, and I think we need to lose the mindset that we are all in competition with each other. This kind of competitive spirit has become toxic. It’s one thing to push yourself and to want to do better, and keep pushing forward, and it’s another to just pit all authors against each other, and constantly be working against each other. We are actually on the same side, because I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t keep up with a person who can read three to five books in a day. *laughs* Never mind one book a day. I’m just always amazed by how quickly people tell me they read my books, or other books, or how many books they read in a day. That kind of thing always blows my mind, because at this point I feel like I’m lucky to read a book a year.
So what can we do? We can talk about it. That’s all I wanted. I’ve actually been in author groups where I posted something just saying, “Hey guys, we really need to talk about this, and try to figure it out, because we really are disappearing.” We’re burning out at, I think, a pretty steady rate, and it’s kind of alarming. I’ve also experienced burnout for myself, and I don’t want that, our readers don’t want that, we don’t want that for ourselves. We want better for ourselves. We want to have businesses that are sustainable and fun, and we keep getting better at what we do, and we do cool shit together. That’s what I think. So I think we start talking about it, and we collaborate on solutions for burnout. We get more collaborative in general. You know, you’re not my competition, I’m not your competition, because they’re gonna read all of our books, and then some. *laughs* So we don’t need to worry about whose book they want to read. They’re gonna read all the books.
And we also start setting boundaries for ourselves. We really think about, “If I’m going to publish a book a month, if that’s something I am going to do, that I’m comfortable with and able to do, and I can do it in a healthy, sustainable way, then what are the boundaries I’m going to put into place for myself?” Because you can’t keep pouring out of yourself if you have nothing coming in. And if you’re constantly working late, working weekends—and I understand a lot of us don’t have the flexibility in our lives to have a steady, consistent schedule at all. I mean, I don’t have kids right now, but I do have chronic illnesses. They’re like kids, they’re always needing something, they don’t go away, they don’t go with their dad for the weekend. *chuckles* Some of us are writing nights, some of us are working around other work schedules, some of us are working around family, so it’s a lot of different things that are going on.
But say I work nine to five. I stay tight within those boundaries. Or if I can only grab time where I can, say I’m writing tonight, then it’s only gonna be for an hour, 9-10 p.m., and then I’m done, I’m going to rest or relax or do something else. It’s about boundaries.
It’s also about saying no… to people that think we can *snaps fingers* generate a book. This is where it’s going to get interesting, because we have this AI technology now. We are not meant to just vomit things out. We’re not supposed to just endlessly go go go, we are human beings. We are meant to experience, and feel, and enjoy our lives. Yes, enjoy. We are meant to enjoy, and experience—even if the circumstances around us are not ideal and perfect, we’re still meant to enjoy and feel and experience. We are not supposed to keep going and burn ourselves out.
So I think those three things are a great starting point. We talk about it, we start collaborating more, and we keep some boundaries.
reading to you
Today we are reading from A Disturbing Prospect, Book 1 in my River Reapers MC series.
Last week we read Chapter 1 of A Disturbing Prospect, and Cliff got out of prison, and he is trying to figure out pretty much everything. He doesn’t have a place to stay, he doesn’t have anywhere to go, he doesn’t have a job, he doesn’t know if he has any friends or family that he’s going to be able to have as a support system, and he’s figuring everything out. His character arc is pretty awesome. I’m going to try not to spoil anything.
So when Cliff gets out of prison, he is dealing with several traumas. He’s processing so much. He has just gotten out of prison after a 20-year sentence. He’s dealing with grief, and loss. He’s also dealing with having witnessed a child hurt. He’s dealing with separation from his family. And he’s dealing with reintegration, getting back into society.
Everything is different for him. Those are the things he notices is everything is different. He is not familiar with anything anymore. The technology has changed, everything that he knew going in is pretty much horribly outdated, and there’s all this new stuff that he’s gotta figure out. So the first thing he has to figure out is, how does he find his family, so that he can maybe have a chance. Because the statistics of inmates committing another crime are really high when they first get out. Turns out there’s really no rehabilitation happening in these “rehabilitation centers.” There isn’t as much of a reintegration process that you’d think.
All of these things shape this characters as he’s—as you’re introduced to him in the story. You’re just kind of dropped into right when he gets out of prison, and he’s kind of just taking everything in, and realizing, “I’m all alone, I don’t have anyone, I don’t have anywhere to go. My only shot is finding my cousin.”
That character starts out very not sure-footed at all, really just having to pick up and really start building—and quick. He doesn’t have time or room for any trouble, anything that could potentially land him back in. He really just wants to be out, and not be there again. So this is a character that’s used to solving every problem with his fists and violence, and now he’s in a situation where he can’t do that at all anymore. He’s gotta do things the “legit way.” He’s gotta do things by the book. He’s gotta make sure he checks in with his P.O., make sure he gets a job right away, he has a place to stay—ticks off all the boxes because he does not want to go back inside.
Those survival behaviors that he had before don’t suit him anymore. He knows what he is and what he’s done, and he’s really trying to do different. After 20 years in the prison, living like that, having to fight to defend yourself, not having contact with anyone in the outside world, can he change? That’s what he wonders when he first comes out, Can he even change? Does he even have a shot at having a future, a family, falling in love…?
He can’t do it alone—we all need support—so the first thing he does is try to find his cousin and reconnect with her, because that was his best friend. But because of what happened and why he went into prison, he doesn’t necessarily know if he’s going to be able to find her, or if she’s even gonna want to talk to him. He’s very much dependent on her accepting him back into her life.
Their relationship was very, very good, they were very very close, like this, like siblings basically, except he was much older than her, so kind of more of a chibling relationship. He is really hinging everything, like, “If I can’t reconnect with this person, and she doesn’t want me, then that’s okay, I will go away… but then I’ll go away.” *chuckles* “I’ll go away… but I’ll also go away.”
So he’s in a very shitty position. It brings up issues of toxic masculinity, because he’s feeling like, “I should be the one taking care of her. I should have a job, I need to fucking get my shit together, I need to man up.” He uses those exact words. He just spent 20 years stuck in a prison with all these other men where it really is fight or die. It’s not a vacation.
So this character is dealing with all that, processing all that, and then he meets Olivia, and everything changes for both of them. They are immediately attracted to each other, and recognize something in each other. They also, because of their own individual traumas, can’t quite connect. He’s just getting out of prison and he’s like, “I gotta check all these boxes, because I’ve missed 20 years of my life. I want to have a family, I want to settle down… and I gotta do it yesterday.” Right? So he’s like ready to go, and she’s like “Uh, no.” She doesn’t want those things at all. They both have very good reasons for wanting and needing the things that they need and want.
They also complement each other at the same time. They also each have what each other needs. They have found a home and a family in each other.
Cliff immediately starts gathering his sort of support system. He’s got his cousin Lucy, he’s got Olivia, he’s also going to be having this P.O. that he can check in with, and then he will eventually have the club’s support as well.
He’s having to kind of learn everything on the fly, completely just picking it up and going. He doesn’t know what Facebook is, he doesn’t know how to use a cell phone, and he’s finding that even socially things have changed quite a bit, like in his own community. The people that he was familiar with have all faded away—the letters, the calls, the visits, those have gone. He doesn’t have any real community at all anymore. That looks completely different from what he remembers growing up.
Throughout the series, we see this character becoming less reluctant and more aware of his family history, and the generational trauma that he’s inherited. Through that understanding that he’s gaining, as he’s kind of navigating his role in the club and becoming a fully patched member, he starts to realize that he does want the club. He wants to make it what it could be. His father left a legacy that’s not so great. [Cliff] knows what he wants for it.
He goes from a person who has nothing, and has no direction, no support system—nothing—to a person who is leading. After not wanting to lead, but coming into that. Which has been so fun and so rewarding to write, and read. I know you guys love him.
His character was actually influenced by people I know in real life who did do time—throughout the years, spent a lot of time in prison, and actually were in prison longer than they were out. Through those experiences, they definitely have an interesting way of looking at life, and they have a very… amazing personality, quite honestly, because I think that it could change you. You could let it—like, Cliff worries about, is it going to change him, is he still going to be that monster that he thinks he is, he thinks he’s always going to be that person that went in and spent those 20 years in there.
It’s really easy to be that person, quite honestly. I think it’s easy to just give in and just let those things take over, and forget about what’s important, what’s within your control. I think it’s so much easier to just give in to it. Whereas, you can work and develop and evolve, and… I don’t want to say, like, “Take the lesson,” because prison is a very complicated conversation, and I don’t necessarily want to fully get into it, but I don’t think that most people start off in life thinking, “You know what I really hope? I hope I do some hard time!” *chuckles*
Most people are good people, and that’s not what they were intending at all. I think our system should reflect that, and support that, instead of supporting the chaos and trauma that come from being in prison. What I really wanted to do was highlight how very little support there is, and how very much we emphasize that prisoners should rehabilitate, but we give them very little support or opportunities to do that.
People can’t even get jobs coming out of prison. Most employers won’t hire a felon, and it doesn’t even matter if the crime wasn’t violent. In fact, recently I learned that most nursing homes won’t even let a felon recuperate in their nursing homes, even if they weren’t a violent criminal. That to me is just insane. You’re not giving people opportunities to actually come back into society. You’re completely blocking them out because of their past mistakes.
Through Cliff, I really wanted to highlight these things and draw awareness and attention to it, because it really is something that’s not mainstream at all. It’s just kind of always used as a plot device, like, “Oh, this character’s done hard time.” Well, you know, that comes with a lot of its own trauma, it comes with a lot of its own baggage, and it’s very interesting to explore, and I think it’s something worth talking about.
If you enjoyed this discussion on author burnout and character growth from prison to leader of the MC, please let me know. Please leave a comment on YouTube, you can also DM me, you can email me, or you can leave a comment on the shownotes on my blog.
Thank you so much for listening to Books, Bud, and Brews! I’m Elizabeth Barone, author of dark romance with a body count, and small town romance with a body count. You can check out all of my books, including some free books and chapters, on my website ElizabethBarone.com.
Thank you for listening to Episode 2 of Books, Bud, and Brews!
Whatever Cliff did to earn a life sentence must’ve been bad, but that doesn’t keep social worker Olivia from one killer night with him. He’s a prospect for the local biker club and the last person to see her missing mother. History seems doomed to repeat in this slow burn dark romance that kicks off the River Reapers MC series.
Whatever Cliff did to earn a life sentence, it must’ve been bad. That’s what Olivia thinks on her way to pick him up on his release day. But the ruggedly handsome ex-con with the gentle eyes can’t be all that bad, not when those killer hands touch Olivia like they were made for her. When their paths cross again, she realizes he might mean much more to her than just a one night stand in the back of a stranger’s car.
Olivia’s mother is missing, and Cliff is the key to finding her. Because the president of the local biker club they both work for has all the answers, and as Olivia gets closer to new prospect Cliff, she gets closer to finding her mother.
The club is the family Olivia’s sought her whole life, on the surface. The more entangled she becomes with Cliff and the club, the more she discovers that his life sentence and the club’s disturbing history have everything to do with her mother’s disappearance, and she never should’ve fallen for him in the first place.
A Disturbing Prospect is a slow burn, touch her and die, dark romance, and the first book in the River Reapers MC series.
The heat radiating from his eyes will burn me alive. My heart races faster, and I’m not sure if it’s from exhilaration or fear. Because as much as I’m dreading what I think he’s going to say, it feels nice to be wanted.
Even if I can’t give him what he wants.
“Where are you planning on going when Esther moves out?”
Here we go.
catch up
Chapter 5
Olivia
“I’ll see you tonight,” I promise Esther. “Call me if . . .”
I don’t finish. Esther doesn’t need me. What she needs is the relief that comes with her family’s safety. She doesn’t need me to hold her hand. She needs me to get her some answers. I won’t be able to do anything for her until Monday, when I start my new job with the Waterbury Department of Children and Families.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing my hand. “And I do need you, chica. You keep me calm and focused just by being here. So thank you.”
I leave my hand in hers, too stunned to say anything. Being wanted sends a spark of warmth through me. I squeeze her hand back, then release it. “Let’s go,” I say to Cliff, hurrying past him and out of the club house.
On to the next emergency—my biographic title.
“Hey,” Cliff calls after me.
Shoulders tightening, I dangle between pretending not to hear him and riding off, or actually dealing with him right now. Except I’m not dressed for riding, so it’s either go back into the club house and grab my gear, or warm the seat behind him.
Smoothing away my emotions, I turn around. “How pissed is Lucy?” I ask, hoping that’s all he wants to talk about.
He grimaces. “Pretty pissed. Want a ride?”
I try not to mirror the look on his face. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I just need a little distance right now. Plus, I’ll use any excuse to take out the Street Glide.
“I get it,” he says when I don’t answer right away. “Why ride with me when you can ride your own?” His grin lights up his face. There’s nothing but affection there.
I nod, even though that’s not it. I really need to clear my head.
“Go get changed,” he says. “I’ll wait for you.”
I take a step back toward the club house. “That’s okay. One of us should get to Lucy before she explodes.”
“I’m not really looking forward to facing Livid Lucy and your parents on my own,” he admits.
No matter how muddled my head is, I can’t subject him to that kind of torture. “You’re right. It’s safer if we stick together.” I laugh, and his face softens as he reaches for me.
“I want to talk to you about something.” He places a hand on each side of my waist and pulls me into him, and I nearly dissolve in his arms.
I swallow. “We should go.”
“It’ll take two minutes. I’ll ask, you’ll say yes, and then we’ll handle your parents and Lucy.”
The heat radiating from his body, from his eyes—it will burn me alive. My heart races faster and faster, and I’m not sure if it’s from exhilaration or fear. Because as much as I’m dreading what I think he’s going to say, it feels nice to be wanted.
Even if I can’t give him what he wants.
“Where are you planning on going when Esther moves out?”
Here we go.
I shrug as if I haven’t put any thought into it. “Not sure I’m going anywhere. I mean, my salary with DCF should cover rent.” Barely. “I’ll probably keep my bartending job to fill in the gaps.”
“What if you didn’t have to?” The corners of his lips lift, brown eyes pools that I could dive into. Drown in. He’s the water and I’m the stone.
“I like bartending. Besides, it’s a way out of Prospect pranks.” I roll my eyes, but my smile is fond. Along with club dues, Prospects—potential members of the MC—get the grunt work. That’s how it is. But I swear the guys are giving me the extra special treatment, because there’s no way that regular Prospects have to do things like buy hemorrhoid cream and magnum condoms. Then there was the time they sent me to pick something up, and there was nothing at the address they gave me—not even a building.
It’s like having a gang of older brothers. Their brand of torture is harmless, but it’s a huge pain in my ass. Not to mention a waste of gas. If I’m too busy with work and bartending for them, they can’t send me wandering all over the state. At least, that’s what I’m banking on.
“Just wait ’til you find out what they’ve got planned next,” Cliff says, kissing the tip of my nose. His hands slide up and down my waist. A hot breeze moves my skirt around my thighs. All I want to do is drag him upstairs with me. I have to get undressed anyway.
He kisses the side of my neck, just under my ear, and I’m melting into him again. My neck arches back, exposing my throat. Leaning down, he licks the slope from my chin to the hollow of my collar bone. His lips rest in the space, notching in as if they were made to fit my body.
“Let me take over Esther’s half of your rent.” His lips move against my skin as he speaks, and my knees go weak.
Traitors.
“Cliff,” I moan. “We have to go.” Putting a hand on each side of his chest, I push him away, even though I don’t really want to. I want to take him upstairs with me, let this fantasy envelope me for another little while.
It doesn’t work that way. Things with Cliff need to stay easy if I’m going to remain intact. No tangling up our lives until he’s so deep inside me, I’ll never get him out. A man almost ruined me once before. I’ll never let it happen again.
“I’ll be down in five,” I tell him, tone firm. Without looking back at him, I head into The Wet Mermaid.
The Street Glide hums between my thighs, a constant vibrating purr that reverberates through my bones. This thing is power. It’s the crash of ocean against land, the crush of a flower in a hand, the punishing whip of a sandstorm across the desert.
It already feels like an extension of me.
I push it faster, leaning forward into the wind. My hair lashes out behind me in a stream. If it were possible to do so without getting sand in my mouth, I’d be smiling. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a long time—and the most free.
Cliff draws even with me, throwing an annoyed glance my way. I lift one shoulder. He motions for me to slow down and pull over, his hands and fingers in black leather gloves.
I roll my eyes. We’re just getting to the good part. I’m not exactly sure where we are, as far as town lines go, but I do remember that the road curves ahead, snaking wildly this way and that. It’s a fun stretch to drive in a car. I’m dying to find out how it is on the Harley.
Cliff makes a more fervid motion. His message is clear, but I pretend not to understand. Lifting a hand in a wave, I take off. For a second, I swear I hear a sigh behind me, but that’s impossible. My engine is too loud.
The first curve begins. I don’t slow, but I do lean into the turn just like Cliff taught me. The Harley leans so far, if I glance to my right, the road is only inches from my face. My heart thrusts blood through my veins, and despite the wind, I do smile. Pitted gray gravel blurs past me. A black spot could be an ant or a droplet of grease. I pretend it’s the former, that I’m some Greek goddess looking down on my Earth.
Taking it all in.
As the turn ends, I right the bike. Being vertical again makes blood rush from my head and I feel slightly faint. Dizzy. My hands go numb, my legs heavy. I let my body go limp on the bike, tipping my head back. The air rushes up my neck, a cold caress. I’m a little tempted to let go of the handlebars, but I know Cliff is right behind me and I’m sure my little stunt already gave him a heart attack.
I’ll hear all about it later.
For now I just ride, uniting my body with the machine between my legs, leaning into curves, pushing myself closer to the road every time. It’s an edge that I’m riding—too far and I’ll get myself a nice tattoo of road rash up and down that half of my body. Maybe even wreck myself entirely. It’s the line I’m straddling that gives me a high. Every time I sit upright again, every time adrenaline flushes my system, I feel invincible.
I decide I’m going to name the bike Até, after the Greek goddess of mischief. She’s another part of me, like we were made for each other. It feels like I have to put barely any effort into this. Then again, both Ravage and Donny have said several times that I ride like my father.
Mercy—the first man who taught me how to ride.
Not for the first time, I wonder how different things would’ve been for me if he’d stayed out of prison. If Bree had stayed put. I would have a family much different from the one that adopted me. Even though I wouldn’t trade Lucy for anything, being adopted has its complications.
Mainly, Cliff.
As I cross the Middlebury line, heading south on Route 63, he appears at my side. We’re doing a slower 40 mph, so I actually hear him when he shouts over to me.
“Are you trying to scratch up that Harley?” His silky black hair flies out behind him, and the urge to run my fingers through it makes my hands twitch. I’m always wet after our rides, and today is no different.
Yet this damned ceremony is the only thing Lucy and Cliff have been able to talk about for weeks.
I’m glad we missed it. My adoptive parents have no idea about my second life, but they will soon enough. They’ve done a lot for me over the years, and have always treated me as their own, but I haven’t told them about Cliff yet. It’s bound to cause an argument.
This is my life, not theirs. It’s not even Lucy’s or Cliff’s. Even though I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do with this life yet, I want the freedom to figure it out. Patting the Street Glide, I slow down as I veer off Route 63 and onto Park Road, toward the restaurant.
At the restaurant, we back our bikes into spaces side by side. I kick down the stand but don’t move. I’m not looking forward to telling my parents that I’m banging the nephew who ruined their lives—according to them.
Never mind what Cliff’s father was doing to their daughter.
I’ve never known two people more in denial.
Cliff pulls me into his arms—thick, muscular limbs that wrap around me. He presses full lips to mine, the metal of his septum piercing cool against my skin. Another change he’s made lately. Yet here I am, still the same.
“It’s going to be okay, Olivia.”
The way he says my name sends warm tingles down my spine. Again I’m overcome by the urge to hop back on our bikes, go to my place, and ride him. But then I’d have to deal with his questions.
I’m not sure who I’d rather face right now—him or my parents.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
I lead him to Elena’s, an expensive Italian restaurant that my parents are obsessed with. They didn’t ask where I’d rather have my graduation brunch, same way they didn’t ask where Lucy wanted hers. Nora and Collin always assume that they know best, end of story.
I step inside, Cliff at my back, both of us still wearing our cuts, jeans, and riding boots despite the humidity. Better to sweat than to get third degree burns from the bikes.
The cold air is a welcome caress. I glance around for my parents and Lucy and, spotting them at a table in the back, ignore the hostess.
“Come on,” I say in a low voice. I weave past the tables, trusting that Cliff is following me and not heading for the hills.
It’s funny, the things that send us running.
For me, it’s the prospect of moving in with him. The unspoken feelings he carries in his eyes.
For him, it’s my parents. The history they share, long before Nora and Collin welcomed me into their home.
Mom smiles when she sees me, her face freezing and falling when she spots Cliff on my heels. Dad follows her gaze, his mouth hardening into a thin line.
“Hey, guys,” Lucy says, rising from her seat and giving us hugs. It’s good to know she’s on my side, no matter how pissed off she is at us for making her wait.
Olivia is the kind of woman who doesn’t have many friends. She keeps to herself, staying loyal to the few friends and family she does have. Esther has been an angel in my Olivia’s life. When my girl has nightmares about Eli and I’m not there to soothe her back to sleep, Esther climbs into bed with her and holds her close. No questions asked.
To think that someone hurt this quiet woman who so sweetly holds Donny’s heart and tames Olivia’s sends a fresh surge of fire through my veins.
Catch Up
Chapter 4
Cliff
I squeeze my hands into fists so tightly, my knuckles hurt. I see my father looking at Lucy a little too long, can hear her cries late at night. He’s dead, he’s gone, and Lucy is safe, but these little girls aren’t.
Donny’s fingers move like dancers through Esther’s hair, stroking and comforting. It’s weird, reconciling this tender man with the one who just a few months ago helped me disassemble a body. Then again, it’s weird compartmentalizing myself, my own hands that have taken lives and given love. He glances at me, brown eyes so dark they’re nearly black.
“DCF says they’ve done everything they’re supposed to,” Esther says with a sob. “My mom went to all of her parenting classes and therapy sessions. And my . . . He can’t pass the psychosexual evaluation, but he has a job and their apartment is a two bedroom.” Esther lowers her legs, crossing them and then letting her hands rest in her lap.
“What’s a psychosexual evaluation?” I ask, but I think I already know. My hands itch for something to do. A cigarette to smoke. A rapist to choke. Anything.
“It’s a test for sex offenders,” Olivia explains bitterly. “Tells the clinician how much of a risk they are, if they’ll sexually assault someone again. It’s also supposed to tell the clinician what kind of treatment they need.” Olivia practically spits the word. “Treatment.” Shaking her head, she paces the small room. “If he can’t pass the psychosexual eval, isn’t that a fail?”
“That’s what I thought,” Esther says with a shrug. “But their social worker is working toward reunification.”
“Reunification?” I repeat.
“Means they’re slowly going to give the kids back to Esther’s parents,” Olivia explains, still pacing.
“I was supposed to take care of them,” Esther whispers. Tears slide down her cheeks.
I rub at the strip of hair on my chin, every muscle and nerve in my body on fire. Olivia is the kind of woman who doesn’t have many friends. She keeps to herself, staying loyal to the few friends and family she does have. Esther has been an angel in my Olivia’s life. When my girl has nightmares about Eli and I’m not there to soothe her back to sleep, Esther climbs into bed with her and holds her close. No questions asked.
To think that someone hurt this quiet woman who so sweetly holds Donny’s heart and tames Olivia’s sends a fresh surge of fire through my veins.
“We’ll take care of them,” I say, giving Donny a weighted look. He nods.
“‘We’ the club, or ‘we’ the three?” Olivia asks. She’s finally stopped pacing but her arms are wrapped so tightly around herself, there’ll probably be bruises later.
Esther holds up a hand. “We need to handle things my way. At least, we have to try.”
“What do you want to do?” Donny asks, sitting behind her and wrapping his arms around her.
Glancing at the digital display on the alarm on the nightstand, she takes a deep breath. “Well, I’ve officially graduated. I guess my first step is to meet with the social worker.” Her lip curls. “She was supposed to get TPR moving ages ago. I need to find out what’s up with that.”
“TPR?” I prod.
“Termination of parental rights.”
“We can put pressure on her,” I offer. “Just get me an address.”
Her lips part, probably to tell me to let her handle it, but Olivia speaks over all of us.
“We’ve got this, Cliff. We’re both in the system now, remember? We’re the good guys.” She sits next to Esther and squeezes her hand. “We’re gonna figure this out.”
I don’t trust the system. Everyone in this town looked the other way when my father was hurting Lucy. They’ve obviously been doing the same for Esther’s parents. Before I can say so, my phone rings.
I pull it out of my back pocket, wincing when I see who it is. “Yeah,” I answer, swallowing.
“Where the hell are you two?” Lucy demands, enough heat in her voice to let me know that she’s been stuck with her parents at the ceremony, and she’s pissed.
Because I know this story. The details might be different, but the structure is all the same. College was my ticket out, too. Still, I have to hear her say it. I can’t jump to conclusions. Not everyone’s story is like mine.
catch up
Chapter 3
Olivia
Cliff watches me for a long moment. I hold his gaze, realizing that he tied his hair back from his face. The sight of that ponytail sends a rocket of heat to my center—completely inappropriate timing, I know.
What I love most about myself is that I can feel like utter, terrible, absolute shit death, and still be thinking about the next time I’m gonna have sex. I’m a gremlin like that. I’m the same with food. I can always eat. I’ve got a healthy appetite and I love that about me.
What I don’t love is the way Cliff is looking at me: all soft brown eyes, so dark they’re almost black, brows furrowed just enough to put a slight crease in the middle.
Despite the fact that shit just hit the fan for Esther—his brother’s old lady—he’s looking at me with a tenderness that pools in those eyes, so transparent I can see straight through it.
I frown, too.
That’s not supposed to happen.
“I’m taking her inside,” Donny says.
I use Esther as an excuse to break away from Cliff, although I still feel his eyes on me. Taking one of her arms, I hoist her to her feet, Donny supporting her other side.
Once we get her sitting in Donny’s room upstairs, I run back down to get her a shot of vodka. The bottle comes with me, just in case. Mark can yell at me later. Handing her the shot, I sit next to her, tucking my legs underneath me.
She holds the shot between two fingers, staring through it. Both men stare at me. I occupy myself by rubbing her back.
Donny kneels in front of her, each big hand clasping one of her knees. “What happened, baby?” he asks, voice calm on the surface but steely underneath. There’s a reason he’s the club Enforcer.
She downs the shot, shuddering as the sharp vodka slides down her throat. I hold the bottle out to her, but she shakes her head. “Maybe in a minute.” She sucks in a deep breath. “That call I got,” she says, looking at me, “was my grandma.”
I nod, trying to be patient. This isn’t some drama queen. It’s Esther.
“The kids,” she breathes, closing her eyes and holding out the shot glass.
I bite my lip as I pour her another one. For the past four years, her grandparents have been fostering her younger siblings. There’s some sort of unspoken agreement that when she graduates, she’s supposed to become their guardian. I don’t know much more than that.
She throws the vodka back, closing her fingers around the empty glass. Her hand curls so tightly around it, I’m a little concerned it’s going to bust. “They’re going to give them back,” she whispers. “My grandma didn’t want to wait ’til after the ceremony to tell me.”
Donny gives her a stricken look. “I’m sorry, Essie.”
“That’s good, right?” I ask, glancing from her to Donny.
She laughs, a bitter sound from those sweet lips. “It was all I could do to get DCF to take them out of there.” Her hand tightens.
Gently, I pry her fingers from the glass and take it away. “Doesn’t that mean that your parents got their shit together?”
“Damn, Olivia. You of all people should know people never change.”
I think of Bree, of all the men she paraded in and out of our apartments. Suppressing a shudder, I shove down the memories. Esther knows more about my past than I know about hers. That’s because, all throughout college, she plied me with Netflix and wine, and I gave up little pieces here and there. All this time, she’s sat next to me on that couch, being my friend, when I’ve done shit for her.
“The system is bullshit,” she continues.
“Yeah,” I agree. Before Cliff’s aunt and uncle adopted me, I bounced from family to family. No happy memories. I don’t want to press Esther, but we’re both social workers now. If anyone can figure this out, it’s us. “Look, I know I’ve been a shitty friend, but let me help. What exactly did DCF tell your grandma?”
“You’ve been a wonderful friend.” She pats my knee. “Especially if you give me that bottle.”
I hand it over.
“Essie, there’s still some time, if you want to walk,” Donny says.
Between chugs of vodka, she gives Donny a dirty look.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “A’ight.” Standing, he nods to Cliff. “Let’s step out, have a smoke.”
“It’s okay,” Esther says. “He can stay.” She closes her eyes again and sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you guys. I just don’t want to talk about it.” She swallows.
“If you’re gonna fight for these kids, you better get used to it,” I say.
Cliff nudges me with his elbow. “Jesus, Olivia.”
“What? It’s true.”
“She’s right.” She draws her knees to her chest, her dress pooling around her waist. She keeps the bottle in her lap. “When DCF finally took the girls out of there, they hadn’t eaten outside of school in weeks. Cierra tried to make ramen for herself and Abril. She didn’t know what to do for the baby. She ended up burning herself. Ximena’s diaper hadn’t been changed in a few days.” She shakes her head.
“Where was your mom?” I ask.
She snorts. “Bitch was right there the whole time. Just didn’t feel like it.”
“And your dad?”
Her face pales by several shades. “My father,” she says, her voice cracking. Her eyes dart toward Donny, then close. He places a hand on top of her head, his mouth a tight line.
“College was my ticket out,” she says, a pleading edge to her voice.
My hands go numb, dread pitting in my stomach. I don’t want to hear this. “Your ticket out of what?” I ask anyway.
Against my better judgement.
Because I know this story. The details might be different, but the structure is all the same. College was my ticket out, too. Still, I have to hear her say it. I can’t jump to conclusions. Not everyone’s story is like mine.
“I can’t say it.” She takes another drink from the bottle.
I want to ask her to pass it over, but I don’t. “You have to,” I hear myself say. “You keep it a secret, you give him power. Shine your light on the truth—on what he did to you.”
I’m a hypocrite.
“My sisters, and me. All the time. He’d leave for a little while, and things would be okay. My mom would slack off, but I’d pick up the pieces. She always let him come back, though. She’s just as much of a monster as he is.” Her lips tremble.
I think of Bree’s boyfriends again. Statistically speaking, they should’ve been the biggest threat to me. They never touched me. Most of them barely even acknowledged my existence. They were too busy getting high with my mom.
I lick my dry lips. “Your father sexually abused you and your sisters?” With each word I speak, my blood boils a little higher.
Esther nods. “Not the bab—Ximena. I mean, she’s five now. She isn’t his—his words, not mine. That’s why he let her be.” Her voice rises with each word, the tears flowing faster.
My stomach curdles. I want to dart into the bathroom, slam the door shut behind me.
“Jesus Christ,” Cliff says, reminding me that Esther and I aren’t alone.
I have to get my shit together. If not for Esther, then for Cliff. It’s bad enough that he looks at me so tenderly.
I don’t need him to look at me the way he’s looking at Esther. Like he feels sorry for her. He can never, ever look at me that way.
