Elizabeth Barone's Blog: Elizabeth Barone's Blog, page 10

Girl code

What am I even doing here? I thought, backed into the dark alcove by the swarm of men, one of them armed. I really, really shouldn’t be here.

The foyer was huge but the house old and quirky with its oddly placed nooks. The one I occupied let me keep an eye on my fallen elderly neighbor without getting in EMS’s way.

At the moment, I couldn’t see her over the tops of the EMTs’ heads. The young one with the ponytail was saying he could give her a dose of something to keep her calm, and then they could transport.

“Let me know,” the responding officer said, and I begged my brain and body to please, please unfreeze.

I knew it was 2025, that I was standing in the foyer, that the person on the floor was my neighbor, not Mike lying unresponsive on the bottom of the stairs. My neighbor was deaf but otherwise very much present.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she told the EMTs.

“We might have to dose her.”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, my anxiety growing.

“I want my niece!” my neighbor wailed.

“Let me see how far away your niece is,” our other neighbor Carrie said, already redialing.

“If there’s no family or power of attorney,” the younger EMT was saying again, “and she can’t respond to questions, we have to take her.”

It was 2025, and not Mike, but something about the situation was eerily familiar. It wasn’t til later that I figured it out. When they were talking about taking her in even though she’d been loud and clear that she wanted to wait for her family, my brain cut to all the times I’ve been in the ER, fighting to advocate for myself or Mike to providers who don’t (for whatever reason) listen. Most recently, he’d fallen again due to an issue with his legs from the initial TBI in December 2023. We went to the ER by ambulance, and many hours later, when I went home to get some rest, staff left him in a forgotten corner, with a fall risk bracelet, full bladder, and no one to help him to the bathroom, go over his test results, or even just check on him. When I came back the next morning, their social worker tried telling me I needed to put him in 24-hour care, and that he’d forget all about me or that he was even there.

Mike was a little sleep deprived, dealing with a migraine after another fall, and (understandably) angry that he was being ignored. Despite the shitty situation, he was fully aware and alert. Not someone you’d put in long-term care.

Lightning doesn’t strike twice—usually—but I still wasn’t gonna let EMTs dope up my neighbor and take her to the ER. Best case scenario, she’d sit for a few hours, scared and stubborn, where they might not have the patience to let her self-advocate.

97 years old now, she was still working 10 years ago when Mike and I first moved in. I remember her and Mary giving me mums they’d gotten from work, just because I’d commented the ones on their porch were so pretty. Even then, I was impressed they were both still working at the factory. Impressed, and sad, because I know how hard it is to get by.

“Family is on the way,” I reminded the eager EMT.

“We’ll take our time, then,” the older EMT said, gently rubbing my neighbor’s back. They’d finally convinced her to let them help her up from the floor and onto her bed. She refused to admit whether she was hurt, stubbornly resisting.

Not that I could blame her.

Even though she’s 97, and deaf, and can’t really see, she’s very much still with it. She will cuss out anyone and everyone, keeps her apartment immaculate, and chats with the mailman every morning. Every time I’ve had to call EMTs for Mike this past year, she’s poked her head out and checked in, worried about us.

This is her home. It was also her home with Mary, who passed away a few years ago. That night, I heard her crying for Mary and went right down to check on them. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything we could do, other than sit with her until EMTs and then family came.

I felt even more useless yesterday. Because of my lupus and endometriosis, I tend to hibernate for long periods of time. One of my neighbors once jokingly commented, “I didn’t know you drive.” At the tattoo shop Mike apprenticed at, the artists busted Mike’s balls that he didn’t really have a wife. “I do exist,” I told them with a laugh the first time I was able to visit.

My neighbor didn’t seem to recognize me at all, but thankfully she’d become familiar with our other first floor neighbor, Carrie.

“We’ll take it nice and slow, as long as it takes to keep her safe and not scared,” the older EMT said. The others acquiesced, and I finally started to come back into my own body.

“Thank you, guys,” I said, hoping I inflected my words with the deep gratitude I felt. I knew I was potentially overstepping my role as neighbor seen and not heard, but I’ve seen firsthand how people fall through the cracks in the system. Some people even get shoved through the cracks. Carrie and I were doing our best putting the pieces together for the EMTs, but we aren’t family and we don’t really know her. I don’t know her D.O.B. or her medications, for example. I don’t know who has P.O.A. or what her rights as an elderly woman are.

I do know that if I were her, I’d want my sovereignty and dignity preserved. I definitely wouldn’t want to be drugged up, carted into an ambulance, and taken to the hospital without my consent.

In certain circumstances, they have to. If my neighbor truly had no one, she’d be stuck on the floor, unable to care for herself. If I hadn’t waited to take my shower, and heard her fall and calling out, and Carrie hadn’t happened to stop home quick for her dog, she could’ve been on the floor for days. So I got why the EMTs were considering that option.

But it wasn’t necessary.

Suddenly I understood exactly why I was there.

Even in my trauma brain state, I was able to advocate for her. She made it clear she wanted to wait for her family, and they weren’t really listening—they were asking me if she had dementia. Carrie and I looked at each other and laughed; she’d just cussed out our landlord the other day, but not because of dementia!

If I’d just called 911 from upstairs and continued about my day rather than going down, if Carrie hadn’t stopped home to let out her dog, the EMTs more than likely would’ve taken her under a PEER/PREE and she would’ve sat in a forgotten corner of the ER for who knows how long before family was contacted.

Explanation of a PEER/PREE in Connecticut
(Police Emergency Examination Request)
#KnowYourRights

I kept going into freeze state with flashbacks, and evidently it was noticeable because that same empathetic EMT asked if I was okay. But I pushed through it, reminding myself that as awkward as I felt, I was there for a reason. My job, I understood, was to witness, and support whatever my neighbor wanted.

I’d enacted girl code.

It’s a thing we do, often without words exchanged. We have to, because the system isn’t structured for us. It doesn’t protect us. Often, it exploits us.

And now, more than ever, we need girl code.

So I’m enacting it, worldwide, right here, right now.

Often, we feel like, “What can I do? I’m just… well… me.”

This is what we do. We enact girl code, and we adhere to it no matter what happens. No matter how small a difference it seems. Because actually, girl code is everything.

The system pits us against each other, but girl code applies to all. I’ve seen girl code executed by and for complete strangers. Girl code defies the system. It’s the most basic resistance. We look out for each other just because.

Girl code shall be enacted from here on, for all girls and women, regardless of difference in color, race, ethnicity, ability, age, status, station, title, or identity (including transgender women and nonbinary people; girl code does not differentiate “wombyn”).

We are one.

We are legion.

This is it, ladies.

It’s go time.

Photo by Library of Congress on Unsplash

3 books you slept on in 2024

Three books I read in 2024 gave me back-to-back book hangovers.

Weeks and weeks later, I’m still thinking about each of them.

The way Nikki and Ainsley had each other’s backs in Friends with Secrets. Ursa’s quarks—little things that all come together as if meant to be—in Where the Forest Meets the Stars. How we find little ways to keep going while grieving in In An Instant.

Some people believe that books find you just when you need them most, and sometimes I’m one of those people.

All of the characters are dealing with some pretty heavy things, with unexpected friendships growing out of them. These books became unexpected friends to me in the middle of a reading rut.

(We can all agree that “reading rut” is code for depression, right?)

And now I can’t read anything else. I want to read them all again.

You probably slept on these books in 2024, so now you get to read them for the first time!

This post contains affiliate links. I chose and read and loved these books myself, and I’m recommending them to you. If you purchase them using my links, I’ll receive a small commission. Thank you for your support!

Friends with Secrets, by Christine Gunderson

Rating: 5 out of 5.

Friends with Secrets mixes humor with suspense, which I wouldn’t have thought possible, but Christine Gunderson pulled it off. It’s about the perceptions we have of each other based on how things look, with moms Nikki and Ainsley each assuming the other has it so much better. As they get to know each other, they realize not only do they have more in common than they thought, but they could be each other’s most powerful allies. After all, someone has to shut up that awful Tiffany, the Regina George of moms. And who better than the dynamic duo who take down a rapist (which you guys know is my all-time favorite unofficial trope). There’s a bit of romance thrown in, two, with each woman resolving conflicts with her respective husband. I loved every moment of this book.

Buy on AmazonWhere the Forest Meets the Stars, by Glendy Vanderah

Rating: 5 out of 5.

This is another book that defies genres, and it does so proudly with some clever magical realism. It’s written so that you become fully immersed in the most beautiful bubble. There is so much love in this book, it wraps you up in the warmest hug. This book ripped my heart out, then methodically put me back together, teaching me to look for the quarks. I can’t help but see them ever since.

Buy on AmazonIn An Instant, by Suzanne Redfearn

Rating: 5 out of 5.

I knew this book was gonna be one of those books—like If I Stay and Lovely Bones. It tells you up front that there’s going to be a fatal car accident, and our teenage heroine is going to die, young and unfinished. But I didn’t expect it when it came. Suzanne Redfearn does such a good job of getting you wrapped up in all the interpersonal issues between the members of the family, complicated relationships that only get more complex as the characters process their grief in very different ways. As each character healed and let go, I found myself healing and letting go. A beautiful love story about grief and finding your way forward.

Buy on Amazon

Which books published in 2024 were your favorites? Let us know the title and author in the comments!

A Risky Prospect, Chapter 24

“If I tell you, it’ll ruin everything,” she whispers.

“Olivia.” I hold her hands, hoping the warmth from mine finds a way into hers. “What he did to you doesn’t define you. It reflects on him, not you.”

Catch Up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 19 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 20 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 21 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 22 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 23 Chapter 24Cliff

I watch her go, chest tightening hard enough to bruise my heart. I fucked this up. I should’ve broken it to her better. I don’t know how, but better. Somehow.

“Watch the bar,” I tell Esther, then vault over the thing. I hit the ground hard, the shock reverberating up through my legs, banging around in my knees. I sure as hell ain’t eighteen anymore.

Springing up, I race through the crowd. A motorcycle revs—Olivia. I shove past the dick from Oh Vile Eye, just about knocking him over. I don’t even bother to apologize.

“Move,” I yell as I point a shoulder toward a cluster of dancing bodies. They part and I run through, their bodies stilling as they stare after me. I push through the door, bursting into the cool night air. Olivia peels out of the parking lot, her hair streaming out behind her in frizzy spirals. “Shit!”

I lunge for the Screamin’ Eagle, hands and feet working in tandem even when my brain and heart are already chasing Olivia down 63. I barely register when I’m doing. My helmet clatters to the pavement and I leave it. I go after my girl.

When I get onto the street, there’s no sign of her. I push the bike hard. I’ve got to find her. I close the distance between me and a Subaru, my front tire nearly kissing its bumper. The hippie’s barely doing 25 on a 45 mph strip. I check for oncoming traffic. Both lanes are clear, so I duck into the left lane and pass the Subaru.

Moving back into the right lane, I push the Eagle to 50, then 60 mph. I pass two Hondas, a Toyota, and a pickup before I get stuck behind an eighteen-wheeler.

I ain’t fucking with that.

I follow the truck until I’m nearly in Waterbury. Still no sign of Olivia. I pull into the Mobil at the bottom of the on ramp to CT-8 N. It’s a small gas station, so instead of taking up space in front of a pump, I pull off to the side.

Despite the cool air, sweat dampens my hair. Wish I had a bandana or one of Olivia’s hair ties. I put it up in a bun once, just to see what she’d do. She laughed so hard, her face turned bright red. I almost didn’t want to take it out, because I’d never seen her let go like that.

I put both feet on the ground but leave the Eagle idling. Now I’ve lost her—I’m not sure in how many ways. I’m not even sure where to look for her, aside from her place or Lucy’s. She might’ve just gone for a ride to clear her head.

Which means she could be anywhere.

I pat down my cut for my cell phone, but come up empty. I don’t even have any cigarettes. I left everything at the club. Luckily, I’ve got my wallet. I put down the kickstand, ready to shut the bike off and go buy a pack, when it hits me.

The house.

She called it the white box. She was only a baby when Mercy went inside, but maybe she and Bree stayed there for a while. I gave the key back to Beer Can, but maybe there’s a spare and she let herself in.

I roll out of the gas station and take a left back into Naugatuck.

I’ve only been to the house once, but I think I can get back there. If not, I’ll go back to The Wet Mermaid and get directions from one of the guys.

Before I went in and for the twenty years I served, cell phones were way out of my grasp, but it’s crazy how much they come in handy now.

I get lucky again, finding my way back without much trouble at all. It helps that when I pull up, I spot Olivia’s Street Glide in the driveway. It’s just a little crooked, but I’m grateful she made it in one piece. I should’ve never let her ride drunk. I slide in behind her bike, then shut off the engine.

If we’re breaking and entering, it’s probably better to not draw too much more attention.

A single porch light is on. No interior lights. I glance down the side of the yard. Nothing moves.

“Olivia?” I call, checking up and down the street. No one’s paying attention.

I stroll into the yard like I live here and call her name again. I don’t see her, and she doesn’t answer, but I smell menthol cigarettes. I follow the scent until I’m in the backyard.

Another porch light illuminates the yard, shining down on Olivia. She sits at a rusted patio set, its cushions long gone. She holds a cigarette between two long fingers, the light glinting off her maraschino cherry red nail polish. Smoke curls into the air, disappearing up into the night.

I take the seat across from her. Without a cushion, the metal chair digs into my tailbone, already sore from driving back and forth to Pennsylvania. I gesture to her pack of cigarettes and lighter. “Do you mind?”

She nods, eyes luminous. Her lips close around the filter and she shuts her eyes, taking a drag. It reminds me of the first time I saw her, when she lit up the second she slid out of the Uber. The only difference is, then she didn’t have a care in the world. Right now, in this dim backyard, she looks ten years wearier.

I light up too. “I’m sorry,” I say on the exhale. Those two words are hardly enough. I should’ve made Mercy stay.

Maybe he thought she didn’t need him anymore. Maybe he didn’t want to face her after leaving her for the club—after leaving her to the care of strangers. I should’ve made him see that she needed him to stay, at least for a little while.

I try to find the words to say all of this—words that don’t sting. There are none.

I reach across the table, but her arm is wrapped around her torso, her fingers clutching her ribs. Her other elbow rests on the table. She’ll have the mesh pattern from the wrought iron imprinted on her skin later.

“If I’d known Mercy was gonna pull that shit, I wouldn’t have brought him here,” I say. “I would’ve brought him straight to the club.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not that,” she says, her voice scraping her throat. She laughs. “Well, it is that. Too. Two.” She brings the cigarette to her lips.

“What else?” I ask softly.

“I mean,” she continues, sliding down in her seat a little, “I guess he didn’t miss me as much as I missed him.” She flicks her finished cigarette into the grass. Then she lights another. “He goes after my mom? They haven’t even been together since I was born. What the fuck.”

I drum my fingers on the table. “Maybe she reached out to him before he got out.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “Lord knows she’s always running to the club for help. God, the two of them. Why the fuck did they even have me?”

This is a conversation for Lucy. I don’t know the right things to say. Not because I think it’s a woman’s job to deal with another woman’s feelings, but because Lucy has fourteen years of Olivia experience on me.

I wasn’t there when she lost her parents to the life.

I can’t relate to having both my parents walk out on me, but I do know what it’s like to have lost them.

“I don’t think they know what they’re doing at all,” I tell her. “I’m glad those two fuckups had you, though.”

“You should talk,” she scoffs. “Your father makes mine look like Santa fucking Claus.”

“You’re not wrong.” I stretch, reaching for the sky. “I’m pretty sure he killed my mother.”

“Get the fuck out.” She taps her lighter against the metal. “You never told me that.”

“It’s more of a hunch. The official cause of death was a suicide, but I’ve always wondered. Mom didn’t have any trouble with depression. She wasn’t even on medication or anything.” I take a long drag, blinking away the memory of her lying in the tub, fully clothed. “They didn’t bother to look into how she got ahold of the fentanyl and Ambien in her system.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

I need to close that door. I change the subject. “It’s kind of romantic that Mercy went after your mom, in a way.”

“In a psycho circus kind of way.” Olivia sighs.

“He taught you how to shoot. And ride. That’s got to count for something,” I point out.

“But I must’ve made that up,” she says. “Or remembered it all wrong. How could he have taught me any of those things when he was inside this whole time? I don’t even know what he went away for. Maybe it was really bad. Our dads are best friends, after all. No offense.”

“Were,” I correct. “Mercy told me he was going to kill Bastard if I hadn’t.”

“The plot thickens.” Olivia’s gaze drifts into the dark corner of the yard. She bursts into laughter. “What a shit show. You and me, Cliff. I just, wow.” Her giggle thickens into a sardonic laugh. “Nothing good comes of our blood.”

I want to say that a lot of good could come out of us. I don’t.

She scoffs. “We’re like oil and water. Fire and gasoline. Napalm and . . .” She taps her lip.

“Napalm,” I suggest.

“Napalm and napalm.” She finishes her cigarette, tossing it into the dark. “I’ve got daddy issues.”

“Don’t we all?”

“That’s probably why I can’t move in with you. That and Greg.”

I straighten in my seat. “Greg?”

“I’m going to kill him,” she promises, her voice so cold, I fight off a shudder.

“Who is he?”

“My ex.” She reaches for her pack, then frowns. “This is really more of a tequila discussion. Or something stronger than tequila. He’s the lead singer in the band Mark hired.”

“The one at the bar?” The guy I just about knocked over.

“Yeah, the redhead.” She flips open the pack as if she expects cigarettes to materialize. “It’s too bad no one actually lives here,” she says, glancing at the sliding glass door. “I’d break in and hunt for smokes. Or weed. This is definitely a weed conversation.”

“He comes off as a shit head.” I flip back through all of my conversations with Lucy about Olivia. She never mentioned a musician ex.

“He’s just as bad as Sebastian.” Her eyes meet mine.

“You mean Bastard?” I ask, voice hushed.

She nods, just once.

“He hurt you,” I say.

“Yes.” Her lips tremble, and my heart shatters.

I push back the chair and go to her, falling on my knees in front of her. “I’m here. If you want to tell me, or if you don’t. I’m right here.” I take both her hands in mine. Her fingers are so cold.

“If I tell you, it’ll ruin everything,” she whispers.

“Olivia.” I hold her hands, hoping the warmth from mine finds a way into hers. “What he did to you doesn’t define you. It reflects on him, not you.”

“It might not define me,” she says, “but he polluted me. I killed Eli because of him. Because of him, I can’t even be in the same room with a man without questioning his motives.”

“Eli was coming after you,” I remind her. “He was going to hurt you. You didn’t have a choice.”

“He’s got family, Cliff. There’s a silver alert out for him. The semester ended and somebody realized he didn’t walk that stage.” She turns her hands in mine, laces her fingers through mine. “Regardless of what he did, someone loves him and has no idea what happened to him.”

“Come here.” Pulling her into my lap, I ease us down into the grass, damp with evening dew. “No one is going to find him. You’re safe.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Cliff. He’s someone’s son. Someone’s brother. Someone out there has no closure. They’re like me, wondering where Bree is. And now Mercy, too. I did that to someone.”

I wrap my arms around her. I never thought about who I might be hurting by killing Bastard. In my uncle’s eyes, I took his brother from him. My aunt and uncle didn’t believe Lucy, and I’ll never forgive them for that.

There is always collateral damage.

“And it’s not the first time,” she continues.

“What do you mean?” Cupping her chin, I stroke her skin, my hand almost larger than her face.

“Greg got married.” Her voice is so low, I have to strain to hear her. “Her name is Cami, and right now, his hands might be around her neck. Or he’s having sex with her when she doesn’t want to.” She tenses in my arms. “I let him do this to another woman.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice, then boils. Every muscle in my body contracts, straining, fingers itching to wrap around his neck. My fists feel hot and heavy, battering rams attached to my arms. “He raped you.”

“That sums up all of the awful things he did to me, yes.”

I’m torn between staying here with her and flying back to the club. I want to yank him off that stage, bludgeon him with his own guitar. Then it hits me.

She told me.

She trusts me.

I can’t break that by racing off to kill him. Olivia let me in—something I never thought would happen. I’ll be damned if I leave her here now.

I pick her up, carrying her to our motorcycles out front. I sit her on mine and straddle it, her arms wrapping around me. She nestles into my back, and I take us back to her place with the heat of her body keeping me grounded. Keeping me with her.

In her bed, I tuck her into my side and hold her until she falls asleep. I don’t sleep at all.

All I can think about are the thousand ways I will kill him the next time I see him.

Thank you for reading Chapter 24 of A Risky Prospect, Book 2 in the River Reapers MC series.

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A Risky Prospect, Chapter 23

All I have to do is tell Cliff, and the man who hurt me is a dead man.

But.

If I always let men solve my problems for me, I’d never keep my power. I am small, and I’ve been a victim, but I am not weak.

I’ll take care of him myself.

catch up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 19 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 20 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 21 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 22 Chapter 23Olivia

From the hall I watch Glace throw her hands up over and over, her lips barely pausing for breath. Diane leans on the edge of her desk, her arms crossed, head bobbing with everything Glace says.

I’m so fired.

I turn away, but my view of the cubicle maze isn’t much better. Everyone in the office either openly stares at me or they keep glancing over, trying to be inconspicuous but failing. This is probably the most entertainment they get. Maybe they even throw bets down on how long each newbie will last. I remember reading somewhere that there’s a high turnover rate of DCF social workers.

Not everyone is cut out for this, and apparently neither am I.

The door opens. I straighten. If I’m going to get fired, I can at least do it gracefully.

Glace slips out, holding it open for me. As I pass, she smiles, her lips tight. Not a good sign. I step into Diane’s office, not sure whether I should take a seat or remain standing.

Glace shuts the door behind me.

I lift my chin, clasp my hands in front of me. It’s better to make the first move, give myself the advantage. “I was out of line today,” I tell Diane. “I was only supposed to observe, and I overstepped.”

I don’t say that I’m sorry, because I’m not.

“You’re damn right,” Diane says from her perch. “Glace said you weren’t even in there for five minutes before you started yelling at the mother.”

I cross my arms. “I told her like it is.”

“Glace said you made her cry.” Diane gives me a stern look.

I refuse to wither. I won’t apologize. She can fire me if she wants, but I know I did the right thing. Because of what I said to Renee, she and Rhett will stay together.

“Renee called Glace to set up a therapy appointment for this afternoon,” Diane says.

“Good.”

“It’s very good. Glace has been trying to crack that woman for months. Because of you, we’ll be able to close the case soon.” She gestures to the chair in front of her.

I put one foot in front of the other on my way to it. It’s got to be a good sign that she hasn’t kicked me out of her office yet.

“Your approach is . . . not something we use here,” she says. “We’re supposed to follow protocol, nothing more. I should be firing your flaca blanca ass right now, but you’ve got heart, and we need that now more than ever. We’re about to be inundated with cases, and I’m going to need people who’ll fight for these kids. While not going off script, of course. Do you think you can handle that?”

I nod, because I don’t want to make any promises. I’m not exactly sure I can keep them. Not if we have more parents like Renee, who just need a gentle kick in the ass and a little bit of empathy in a system run by checklists. “I just want to help,” I say instead.

“Good.” Diane pushes off from the desk and returns to her side of it. She passes me a folder. “Let’s get those tax forms handled.”

Taking the folder, I glance up at the standard issue clock on the wall. Cliff and Mercy should be back by now, maybe knocking back shots at The Wet Mermaid. I’m supposed to work tonight, but I’m sure the guys are throwing a party, so maybe they’ll let me off the hook.

As I write my last name on the form, I try to imagine what it’ll be like to have a beer with my dad after so long. When the Demmels adopted me, I could’ve taken their name but I didn’t. I didn’t know who he was or where he was, but I liked to hope that one day, my dad would be back for me.

I could never count on Bree, but I know I can count on Mercy.


I clock out for the day and stop at home. I need to wash the stuffy, mildew tinged scent of working for the state off of me. I can’t believe I’m working for the same people who were once my enemies. I hope Mercy understands the same thing I’ve come to realize: I can do more from behind enemy lines than I ever could from without.

“Hi, Esther,” I shout to her closed door. I nudge the front door shut with my foot and scoop Dio from the floor. He’s almost perfect, minus the little crook in his tail. If it weren’t because of Eli, I’d think it’s cute.

Esther moans from her bedroom in response. I smirk. Must be Donny in there. In my hurry, I must’ve missed his bike outside.

“I’m taking a shower. You all set with the bathroom for a few?” I settle Dio into one arm and march into my bedroom.

“Oh God, yes,” Esther yells in response.

Jealousy wraps around my spine, tightening its grip. Esther and Donny have it so easy. They just . . . are. Neither of them have any misgivings about moving in together. Hell, Donny’s even willing to play house and help raise the girls. Cliff, I know, would do the same for me.

The only thing standing in our way is me.

I’ve already broken so many rules with Cliff. I can’t give in any further. Right now I’ve got to focus on my career, on repairing things with Mercy. Maybe get fully patched if I’m lucky and don’t kill anyone else.

“What do you wear for a father/daughter reunion?” I ask Dio. I stare at the clothes in my closet. A dress feels so childish. Besides, I’ve got to ride. I run a hand along crop tops—perfect for pulling in tips while serving drinks and drugs, but probably not for hanging out with my dad. I want him to think . . . I don’t know. There’s so much I want to tell him, so much I need to ask.

I need him to be proud of me.

Dio squirms out of my arms and jumps down nose first—a kitty kamikaze. He gives me a heart attack every time he does that. Just like every other time, he lands on all fours.

Cats are incredible little aliens.

He parades through my open bedroom door and into the bathroom like a prince. He’s probably just going in there to use his litter box, but still, he’s got a point.

I need to just get in the shower and stop procrastinating.

Once I’m clean, I blow dry and straighten my hair. With my luck, it’ll frizz up outside anyway, but at least I can say I put in my best effort. I grab my box of makeup and pull out mascara and concealer, then put it back. My teeth sink into my lower lip. I don’t know why I’m so indecisive. I should just be me, do my regular thing: a little cat eye and some lip gloss. I reach back in, fingers pushing past eyeshadow palettes and tubes of lipstick before I find my gel liner.

Grabbing a brush, I dip it into the pot, coating the fibers. Gel liner is magic, now that I’m used to it. It glides right on and it doesn’t run or smear throughout the day.

Naturally, I completely fuck up my first attempt.

Hand shaking, I draw the flick too thin and too long on my left eye. Scowling, I put the brush down and start hunting for makeup wipes.

“You coming out of there?” Esther raps her knuckles on the door. “I’ve gotta pee before I get a UTI or pregnant. Or both.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. I raise my voice so she can hear me. “Don’t you have enough kids to worry about? Donny needs to wrap that thing up.”

“I like the rush,” he says in his velvet baritone.

I fuck up the flick on my other eye.

“At least let me in to pee!” Esther rattles the door knob, but I locked it. I trust Donny, but I always lock the bathroom door when men are around.

Scowling, I reach over and let her in.

“You look nice,” she says as she waddles over to the toilet, thighs pressed together. “Oh, damn! What the hell happened to your face?”

I rub the liner off with yet another makeup wipe. “Nerves,” I mutter.

“That’s right,” she shouts over the stream she’s unleashing. “Your daddy’s back!”

“Please don’t call him my daddy.” I pick up the brush and take a deep breath. I can do this. I’ve painted on this pinup look a million times. Tonight should be no different.

“Speaking of daddy issues,” she says, flushing the toilet, “did you get anywhere with mine today?”

I close my eyes. Shit. After my chat with Diane, I completely forgot about Esther’s case. “I’ll pick Glace’s brain tomorrow.”

Esther’s shoulders fall. “Oh. Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It was a crazy day.”

“I get it.” She smiles, her face lighting up. “I really do.” Plucking the brush from my hand, she makes a turn motion with her index finger. “Close your eyes.”

In just a few strokes, she gives me the perfect wings. She even finishes it off with mascara.

“Don’t want you to smear it all over your face, Nervous Nelly,” she says.

Guilt sends a bubble up my throat. I let her down, yet she’s still a good friend to me. “Thanks. Are you guys stopping by The Wet Mermaid?”

The door opens a smidge. “Everybody decent in here?” Donny asks.

I glance down at the towel wrapped around me. “Sort of.”

He pokes his head in. “Essie, I’ve got Church.” His eyes flick to me, then back to her. “Can I take your car? Olivia, you’ll give her a ride?”

Her eyes go as round as saucers. “You want me to ride with her? The girl who can’t even draw eyeliner?”

I swat at her with a hand towel. “I’m an excellent rider.”

Help me, Esther mouths to Donny.

He kisses the top of her head. “I gotta go.” Without another word, he sprints out of the apartment.

“Where’s his bike, anyway?” I ask, putting away my makeup.

“Shop. Some asshole backed into it in a parking lot. Let’s get you dressed.” She dances into my bedroom, humming to herself. I love that a good lay is all it takes to get Esther singing.

After a few minutes of careful consideration, Esther picks out a gray duster cardigan, maroon tank top, and black jeans for me.

“Keep it simple, stupid,” she intones while I dress. She passes me several delicate silver chains of various lengths and I put them on.

I don’t even bother looking in the mirror. At this point, I’ve got to trust that I look all right for this occasion. Otherwise I’ll never get there.

I take us over to The Wet Mermaid, riding extra careful because if I put so much as a scratch on Esther, Donny might put me six feet under. We head inside, Esther’s cloud of curls catching the rainbow lights strobing through the club. A familiar voice croons from the stage. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat.

Oh Vile Eye is playing.

“He’s a piece of shit if he doesn’t love you,” Esther says, putting a hand on my arm.

I put my hand on top of hers and give it a squeeze, more so for my own reassurance than out of appreciation. We walk like that to the bar, my heart slamming painfully into my sternum. I can’t work here if he’s going to keep playing here. All I have to do is say the word to Cliff, and Oh Vile Eye is a band of dead men.

But.

If I always let men solve my problems for me, I’d never keep my power. I am small, and I’ve been a victim, but I am not weak.

I’ll take care of Greg myself.

The strip club is full of the club’s hangarounds and regulars—we’re still open to the public. Usually, when we throw a party, it’s friends of the MC only. I frown.

My frown deepens when I see Cliff standing behind the bar. “Where the hell is Trish?” I say into Esther’s ear.

“Who?” she shouts back.

“The little tart who’s always fucking up my shelves.” I tug her up to the bar with me. There’s no telling how much organizational damage Cliff has done. As much as it pains me to say so, Trish is probably a better bartender than the guy who’s only just recently had tequila for the first time. “What are you doing back there?” I ask Cliff.

He slides me a shot of tequila. “Sit,” he says, mouth drawn.

I glance at Esther. She shrugs.

Cliff slides her a shot, too, then pours one for himself. “You’re gonna need this.”

I sit on a stool as if my body was made of wood rather than flesh and blood. Oh Vile Eye pulses through me, Greg’s voice wrapping itself around my spine and cerebral cord, infiltrating every part of me. I need to focus on the present, not the past. I glance around for Mercy. “Where is he?” I ask Cliff.

“They’re all MIA,” Esther observes, holding up her shot. “Except you.” She nods to Cliff. “¿Que pasó?”

In response, Cliff knocks back his shot, his eyes never leaving mine. “Mercy isn’t here.”

I don’t even blink. “Where is he?” I ask again.

“He had me drop him off at his house.”

“The white box?” I salt my hand and grab a lime, then down the shot. “He’s there?” I climb down from the stool. He probably wants to look at my baby pictures or something silly like that.

“No, Olivia.” Even though he has to yell over the music, his voice is soft.

I turn back toward him. The ache in his eyes sends my stomach plummeting.

He pours me another shot. “He got on his bike . . . and left.”

“He left?” I shoot the tequila without even bothering with the salt and lime. “Where did he go?” My voice wobbles, and I nod to the bottle.

Cliff obliges, his eyes sad as he pours. “He went to find Bree.”

I blink. “My mother?” Eyes watering, I squeeze them shut while I knock back the next shot.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He reaches across the bar and entwines his fingers with mine.

I slam the shot glass on the bar. Esther flinches, then gulps down her tequila. “He couldn’t even stop in to see me first?” I reach for the bottle, but Cliff puts it back on the shelf.

“He’ll be back,” he soothes.

I wrench my hand away. Even under the fuzzy blanket of tequila, my anger and betrayal burns. “Is that why the club had Church last minute?”

He nods. “We decided to let him go.”

I scoff. “Of course you did.” Shaking my head, I take a step toward the end of the bar where there’s an opening for whoever’s tending. I’m taking that bottle of tequila and holing up in Cliff’s room.

Mercy can go fuck himself.

“Hey,” Greg croons two inches from my ear.

My entire body freezes. I turn in slow motion, keeping my eyes low so I don’t have to look into his.

Greg stands so close within my personal space, I could slip a knife between his ribs if I’d thought to bring one. I sidestep him, shoving down memories.

“I’m out of here,” I call, then stumble out the door. Before I can think about what I’m doing or where I’ll even go, I hop onto the Street Glide, then peel out of the parking lot, far away from The Wet Mermaid and all of the men who have ruined me.

Thank you for reading Chapter 23 of A Risky Prospect, Book 2 in the River Reapers MC series.

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A Risky Prospect, Chapter 22

It’s taking me the whole trip to work up the balls to ask Mercy about my father. About Olivia. We’ve mostly been listening to the radio and trading prison stories. Biker small talk.

catch up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 19 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 20 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 21 Chapter 22Cliff

“So,” I drawl, lighting a cigarette. I hold out the pack to Mercy.

“You mean, I can have another cigarette that ain’t stale?” He plucks one out and sticks it between his lips. “Red Dog, you’re spoiling me.”

I roll the Jeep toward the only toll booth on the way back to Connecticut. Naturally, it’s the one closest to home. Now that it’s afternoon and all the rush hour traffic has cleared, we’re making just as good time as I made coming down.

It’s taken me the whole trip to work up the balls to ask Mercy about Bastard. About Olivia. We’ve mostly been listening to the radio and trading war stories—that is, stories about Lewisburg.

“Did you know it only takes twenty minutes to boil water using one of the pipes in the SMU cells?” Mercy exhales smoke while he talks.

“Never had a craving for ramen while I was in seg,” I say, pulling up to the toll booth window. “Hand me those singles in the center console?”

“Sure.” When the attendant announces the fee, Mercy counts out the ones and passes them to me.

I hand the money to the attendant. She waves me through, and I press down on the gas. Tolls are one of the worst things about living in the tri-state area. Can’t go anywhere without paying out the nose in gas and tolls.

I drive in silence for a few minutes, continuing along 84 and crossing the Connecticut state line. “I’ve gotta know something, Mercy,” I say finally.

“You’re gonna get off at Straits Turnpike,” he says.

“Straits Turnpike? Don’t you want to go to The Wet Mermaid?”

“Nah.” He flicks the remainder of his cigarette out his window. “I wanna go home. See my dog.”

“You’ve got a dog?”

He laughs. “Yeah, a Red Dog.” Reaching across, he clasps my shoulder. “It’s good to have someone to talk to who gets where I’m coming from.”

“To think, we’d have nothing to talk about, had you not gone inside for me.” I shrug his hand off. “Why, Mercy? Why would you do that?”

“I told you. Bastard was my best friend. I was his VP, for Christ’s sake. Who do you think initiated the vote to take him to the river? The goddamn club, though . . .” He reaches for my pack and holds it up in question.

“Go for it.”

“The vote had to be unanimous, and some brothers thought we made up the story about Bastard so I could be Pres. They’d rather believe that than believe their precious Bastard was molesting a little girl.” He spits out his window. “I could’ve killed them all, the cowards.” He flips the Zippo open and lights the flint, then snaps it shut without lighting his cigarette. It dangles between his lips, wiggling and jutting from his mouth as he speaks. “You took the burden off Ravage, Mark, Beer Can, Donny, and myself. No more internal fighting, thanks to you. But there were a lot of brothers who weren’t happy about a boy killing his own father, either.”

I mentally flip through all the faces from my time at Lewisburg. “Guy with the long, nasty white hair? Scar running down his cheek?”

He grips my shoulder again. “That greasy old fuck wants you dead, Red Dog. Lucky for you, he’s going to rot in there. Serial rapist, across four state lines, I believe. He had a thing for mothers and young daughters.” He spits again. “He and Bastard were cut from the same cloth.”

Grimacing, I reach for the cigarettes and light my own. There isn’t enough nicotine in the world for this conversation. I need a drink. “Why would you want to watch my back? Why would you leave—” I almost say “Olivia” but catch myself last minute. “—the club for a kid who isn’t yours?”

“I love my club,” he growls, patting his cut. His palm slaps the leather, the sound reverberating through the Jeep. “I was fucking VP, Red Dog. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into that club—literally. But I knew that if you were gonna live long enough to take your father’s place—take your birthright—someone had to keep you alive. You’re not cut from his cloth, Cliff. I knew that even back then. I hope you know it, too.”

I concentrate on the road. I know I’m not my father. I’m some other kind of monster. Bad things run in my blood.

He lights the Zippo again, holding the flame to his cigarette. “You’re gonna be Pres someday, kid.”

I say nothing. I need to clear my head.

“Straits Turnpike,” he reminds me, pointing to the upcoming exit.

He directs me to a white Cape Cod style home. I pull into the driveway, brows pulled together.

“This is really you?”

“My pride and joy.” Opening the passenger side door, he extends a hand to me. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Will I see you later at the club house? I’ve got a shift tonight. I think your daughter does, too.” I can’t wait to hear about Olivia’s first day at DCF. I’ve got no idea how we’re going to work this whole thing now, especially with Mercy around, but that doesn’t change how proud I am of her.

“Nah.” Mercy climbs out of the car, his brown paper bag tucked under an arm. “I’m gonna hit the road. Thank Beer Can for watering my plants for me, will ya?”

It takes a second for my mind to catch up. I imagine Beer Can coming to this house every week for the last twenty years, keeping the house in shape for when Mercy returns. My chest tightens. Despite my initial misgivings about the MC, I’ve walked into a real family.

Then the other thing he said hits me.

“Hit the road?” I repeat.

Mercy unlocks the door to the one-car garage. Placing the brown bag on the ground, he hoists the garage door open. There’s no car inside, only a white, chrome, and black Softail. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

I get out and approach the garage. “To think they gave me a Screamin’ Eagle when this baby was sitting out of commission.”

“Hey, be grateful,” he says, flipping on a light so I can see better.

Before the club folded me into its arms, I never would’ve considered myself a motorcycle guy. Looking at the Softail, I think I might be turning into one.

This thing is sleek. Classic, even. To my uneducated eye, the Softail is the definition of a motorcycle. My eyes roam over the exposed gears, the low handlebars, the sort of caps that helmet the wheels. I don’t know what to call them.

“Oh, I’m grateful,” I say, walking around the Softail in a circle. “I’m grateful I’ve got a job so I can save up for one of my own.”

Mercy straddles the bike and flips up the kickstand. He turns the starter and gives it some throttle. The Softail roars to life. Unhooking the house keys from his bike key, he throws them to me.

I catch them with one hand.

“You water my plants,” he says, pointing a finger at me. Then he puts both hands on the handlebars, a smile creeping across his weathered face.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “Don’t you want to see Olivia?”

“I’m going to find Bree,” he shouts over the engine. With a final nod, he rolls out of the driveway. Then he takes off down the street, disappearing out of my sight.

I stand there, rubbing a hand over where my beard used to be. How the fuck am I going to explain this to Olivia?

Thank you for reading Chapter 22 of A Risky Prospect, Book 2 in the River Reapers MC series.

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A Risky Prospect, Chapter 21

“There’s really nothing else we can do?” Through the windshield, the sky is heavy with gray as we head to another woman’s home, to take away her child.

“Can’t help someone who won’t help themselves,” my new boss says with a shrug. “This job can eat you alive. I suggest you don’t get too attached.”

catch up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 19 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 20 Chapter 21Olivia

My new supervisor, Diane, wastes no time getting me settled in.

“We’re overloaded,” she says the second I sit down in her office. “I wish I could take some time and teach you the ropes, but I don’t have time to hold your hand. I’m putting you with Glace. She’s been with us for seven years. You’ll pick up everything you need to know just by watching her.”

Someone knocks at Diane’s door.

“Come in,” she calls.

I turn in my seat to see the newcomer. A curvy woman with long curly hair and copper skin leans in through the doorway. Behind purple frames, her brown eyes are warm yet observant. In just a few seconds, I sense her taking in everything about me, from my clothes to my own curls to the scuffs on my riding boots.

“Glace,” Diane says, pronouncing it like a shortened version of “glacial,” “this is Olivia, your new trainee.”

“Hello.” Glace waves. “I hope those boots are comfortable. We’ve got a home visit in twenty.” Without another word, she turns and bustles from the office.

My mouth falls open. “I thought I had paperwork to fill out.”

Diane waves a hand at me. “Stop in later, we’ll get those tax forms handled. Go.”

Pushing back my chair, I hurry to catch up with Glace. She works her way around cubicles toward the entrance, pausing only long enough to say hello to a few of the other social workers. From behind, I study her gray jeans and long sweater.

I might’ve overdressed.

Glace bursts through the double doors, holding one open for me. I slip through and follow her to a blue Hyundai Elantra.

“State vehicle?” I ask, glancing at the plates. They look normal to me.

She gives me a funny look. “Yeah right. Hop in.”

“Where are we going?” I ask as I jog to the passenger’s side.

“A home visit,” she says, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.

“Yeah, but where?” Opening the door, I slide into the seat. Her car smells like vanilla. A Yankee Candle air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror.

“Mapleridge Drive.” Glace gets in and starts the car, air conditioning blasting out of the vents. “Disabled kid, depressed mom. I’m trying to help them out, but the mom makes it really hard.”

Mapleridge is in one of the few remaining nice neighborhoods in Waterbury—not the kind of place that usually comes to mind when I think of DCF taking kids.

“How so?” I ask as she pulls out of the parking lot.

“The kid is a wheelchair user. Nice. Quiet. He won’t go to school, though. He’s been truant for so long, pretty soon we’ll have to place him with someone. The mom’s husband up and left, and she pretty much gave up.”

“Damn,” I say. Even middle class people have their problems. “So what can we do?”

“I’m holding out as long as I can, but eventually I’m going to have to start the paperwork for placement. I tried setting her up with therapy. She won’t go. I tried having someone come for in-home services. When they knock, she won’t answer.” Glace sighs, a long, weary sound that rattles my bones. “Not only is he missing school, but he’s also missed a year’s worth of doctor’s appointments. They’re behind on bills. Facing eviction. She even let her food stamps go.”

“There’s really nothing else we can do?” I stare through the windshield, watching the city pass as we head to the East End neighborhood in Waterbury.

“Can’t help someone who won’t help themselves,” Glace says with a shrug. Flicking on her turn signal, she glances at me while she waits for traffic to pass. “This job can eat you alive. I suggest you don’t get too attached.”

With those words, she turns the car up Meriden Road.

We lapse into silence. I knew being a social worker wouldn’t be easy, but I’m already frustrated. When DCF took me from Bree, I didn’t like it, but I got it. Bree left me for days at a time, often without food in the house. All for her flavor of the week. This mom that Glace describes sounds like someone who’s just fallen on hard times—someone the state should be helping, rather than punishing.

Glace pulls into the driveway of a green single-family home. It’s all on one floor—perfect for a child with a disability. My fists curl at the thought of a landlord tossing a single mom and her disabled child out onto the street.

Opening her door, Glace steps out of the car. “Grab those files on the backseat for me,” she says, walking to the front door.

I lean over the center console and find a black laptop bag stuffed to the brim with folders. I buckle it closed—barely. Wrapping my fingers around the strap, I yank it toward me. It practically sinks into the backseat.

“What does she have in here, rocks?” I mutter. I yank the bag free, hoisting it onto my lap. Apparently part of my duties as a trainee is lugging around heavy files.

It’s not much different from being a Prospect.

I didn’t expect to be given a case on my first day or anything like that, but I went to school for four years and got licensed so I could help people, not so I could be someone’s bitch for a day. Squaring my shoulders, I carry the bag inside the house.

The first thing I notice is how normal everything looks inside. The living room is tidy, and the scent of apple cinnamon wafts through the air from candles on the coffee table. It’s nothing like Bree’s house, that’s for sure.

The mother sits on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. Her son sits in his wheelchair, an Xbox controller in his hand. On the TV, a game sits paused, the sound on low. Once again, I’m struck by how completely normal it all is. This isn’t a case of child abuse. It can’t be. I stand in the living room and fix my gaze on the framed photos on the entertainment center rather than staring. Most of them are of the kid, from infancy to now, his teen years.

“Renee,” Glace says, “this is Olivia. She’s just started her training with the department, so she’s going to observe. Is that okay?”

Renee shrugs. “As long as she isn’t here to take my son.”

Glace opens her mouth, but I interject.

“I’m not here to take your son, Renee.” I take a seat on the other end of the couch and drop the bag on the floor. “We don’t make the rules, do we, Glace?”

Glace blinks at me, stunned. “No,” she says. “We don’t.” She pinches her eyebrows together and narrows her eyes at me.

Rifling through the bag, I pull out the Thomas file. I tap the manila with a fingernail. “On our way over here, Glace briefed me on your situation. Renee . . .” I let my voice trail off, hold my eyes to hers. Let her see me. “I was a foster kid. The state does the best it can, but it was still hell for me. At his age and with his condition, your son—” I flip the folder open and scan the names inside. “Rhett will probably be placed in a group home.” I slap the folder shut. “Do you want that for your son?”

Rhett lets out a low, guttural moan.

Eyes wide, Renee places a hand on his shoulder. “No one is taking my baby.”

“That’s my point,” I snap. “Do you think you’re the only case we’ve got?” I pick up the bag and drop it onto the couch for emphasis. It sinks into the cushion, the whole couch shaking as it lands. “Glace has been extraordinarily patient with you, but it’s just about out of her hands. The state is stretched thin as it is. They’re not going to keep working with you. Do you understand me?”

Tears spill from Renee’s eyes. She shakes her head. “Please,” she sobs.

“You’ve got to meet us halfway,” I tell her.

“No,” she cries. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You didn’t,” I soothe. “I know your scumbag of a husband took off and left you with a child who needs around the clock care because of his Lou Gherig’s disease. I know you can’t work because no job is going to fit your needs. I know you’re heartbroken and you feel like you’ve got no one on your side. But I’m telling you, right here, right now, that Glace and I are all you’ve got. So are you gonna let the therapist come in here and talk to you? So we can check this box off on our list, and close your case?”

Renee’s eyes meet mine, hope blooming in them. “Okay,” she breathes.

“And are you gonna send your kid to school?”

“I can’t,” she says through tears. Her face reddens in splotches.

“Why the hell not?” I demand.

“Olivia,” Glace warns.

“They’re awful to him,” Renee cries. “He’s not even learning anything there. I know—” A hiccup cuts off her words. “I know there’s not much they can do for his condition. It’s degenerative. I know that. But all they do is let him play on an iPad and give him candy. That’s not school.” She buries her face in her hands, shoulders heaving.

I glance at Glace. Her eyebrows reach her hairline. “I had no idea,” she admits.

“Glace, are there better programs we can look into for Rhett?” I ask.

“Absolutely.” She pulls her phone out of her purse and holds it up. “I’m going to call Diane, pick her brain. Just give me one moment.” Pressing the phone to her ear, she steps outside.

I slide closer to Renee and rub her back. “I’m sorry. I know you’re hurting. I can’t promise you that it’ll stop, but I can promise you that if you do what Glace has been asking you, things will get better.”

Lifting her face from her hands, Renee reaches out and squeezes my hand with a soggy hand. “Thank you,” she whispers.

I squeeze her hand back. I probably just got fired myself on my first day, but at least I know I made a difference.

Thank you for reading Chapter 21 of A Risky Prospect, Book 2 in the River Reapers MC series.

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A Risky Prospect, Chapter 20

I’m driving all the way to Pennsylvania for her—and she still stood me up.

I don’t know if we’re still on or what. She’s been hot and cold from the beginning. She’s not the kind of girlfriend who needs reassurance and insurance. She’s more like a cat.

I’m not even sure she’s my girlfriend.

catch up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 19 Chapter 20Cliff

The sun bleeds over the horizon just as I cross into New York. I grab my sunglasses from the dashboard and don them against the light. I’ve been on the road for almost an hour; the drive there should take just under four. I thought I’d hate being trapped in a cage for so long, but I don’t mind it. I drive with a wrist draped over the wheel, just me and the road.

Until I hit morning rush hour traffic.

Against my better judgement, I took I-84 W. Even with all the road work and traffic, it’s still the fastest route. It’s also the most frustrating. So far, though, I’m enjoying the peace of the road.

It was a long night.

I tossed and turned, so first thing, I grabbed a big ass coffee with three espresso shots. I wish Olivia didn’t have this effect on me, that I could sleep like a baby without worrying that I’m driving all the way to Pennsylvania for nothing. Yeah, it’s for my club, but I offered to do it for her—and she still stood me up.

I don’t know what it means, if we’re still on or what. She’s been hot and cold from the beginning. I knew who she was when I got into this. She’s not the kind of girlfriend who needs reassurance and insurance. She’s more like a cat.

Hell, I’m not even sure she’s my girlfriend.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but I’m not sure of anything anymore.

My phone buzzes, the vibration inching it away from me across the dashboard. Keeping one hand on the wheel and an eye on the road, I stretch out my arm, closing my fingers around it.

I know the laws about texting and driving in the tri-state area. I also know the statistics. But there’s a good chance it’s Olivia, or Lucy, or the club. I right myself in the driver’s seat and drop the phone into my lap. The last thing I need is to get pulled over for texting. It’d also violate my probation, and that’d land me right back in the pen.

Except this time there’d be no Mercy looking out for me.

It’s weird, knowing that for twenty years there might’ve been guys inside with me who wanted me dead. I have a lot of questions for Mercy. I know the club was split over whether or not to kill my father for what he was doing to Lucy. There were a lot of people who loved Bastard, devil or not. Growing up, I remember my father always surrounded by friends. I need to know that there isn’t anyone else inside or out who wants a bullet in my head.

My phone buzzes again—the two-minute reminder, I think. Unless someone’s rapid texting me. I scan the highway for cops. All I see are other cars. It’s times like these I think Lucy’s right, I should learn how to use Siri. There’s just something so unnerving about talking to a computer.

I unlock the phone with one hand and open up my texts. There’s just one.

Olivia: Be safe.

No way I can type with one hand, so I toss the phone onto the passenger seat. Maybe I’ll call her when I get to Lewisburg.

Maybe I won’t.

Seems like playing it cool is working in my favor.

Even then, I want to tell her to have a good first day. I want that kind of relationship.

Lucy’s words echo in my head: Be careful with Olivia. She’s not the marrying type, but you are. She’s right. The longer I’ve been out of prison, the more I see that. By all right and reason, Olivia and I are no match for each other. But I can’t let go.

For better or worse, I love her.

I just need to decide whether I can live with that.


Lewisburg is just as forlorn as I remember it. From this side of the barbed wire and in the sunshine of May, it should be less depressing. Behind the gothic arches and carvings is a hell I’m still trying to forget.

A hell I’m about to walk right back into—this time as a visitor.

Dread makes my limbs heavy. I sit in the Jeep Wrangler that Mark let me borrow and smoke cigarette after cigarette. I don’t even have to walk those halls, past the D block cages that I once called home, but I can’t make myself go in. Part of me holds this silly fear that they’ll take one look at me and realize they made a mistake.

I have to do this. For the club. For Olivia. For myself.

Just the thought of the narrow solitary cell I spent most of my time in sends a chill down my spine. In the pen, you’re either predator or prey. My size and crime made me a wolf, but there were many men inside with me who weren’t strong enough to defend themselves.

See, it’s not just rapists and murderers that go to fed. There are a lot of nerdy guys who used the internet to steal money, a few accountants who got caught up in RICO cases but couldn’t prove their innocence. There are a few men who need medication in order to function, who did something bad but have no memory of it, and after a few years inside, they don’t know up from down anymore. Guys who wouldn’t hurt a fly—really.

Then there are the animals who enjoy the hunt. They don’t care who those men were outside. All they care about is establishing dominance, showing the rest of the pack that they’re not to be fucked with.

So they pick on the dweebs.

I couldn’t stand for that.

I spent a lot of time in seg for it.

The doors to the cells in SMU—the Special Management Unit—are so narrow, I had to walk sideways to get in and out. The ceilings are so low, even inmates of average height have to crouch to take a piss. Each cell was built for one person, but often they’d cram two or even three of us into one.

I can still hear the screams of men who saw things that weren’t really there. I can still smell the blood, taste the fear. After twenty-four hours in seg, even guys without schizophrenia start to lose their minds.

Dropping my fourth cigarette out the Jeep window, I shake away the memories. I’ve got to go in. I don’t have to go far. The visitor side is by far nicer than the rest of the place. I just need to meet Mercy, then I can get the fuck out of here.

And drive four hours back to Connecticut, trapped in a cage with Olivia’s father.

I open the car door and step onto the pavement, asphalt I haven’t set foot on ever since climbing into that taxi last winter. In some ways it feels like ages have passed. In other ways, it’ll never be long enough.

From the outside, Lewisburg looks like a nice place—a cathedral or a museum, even. It kind of reminds me of the old train station turned newspaper in Waterbury. If you ignore the thirty-foot wall and barbed wire fence. Instead of a clock tower, there’s a watch tower. I pass under brick with angels carved into it, move through an arched doorway. Armed COs patrol the compound grounds on foot, while still more sit inside eight gun towers.

I pass through a metal detector and get patted down by still more COs. Seems they’ve added a few to the roster since I left, because I don’t recognize these guys. They’re younger, eager. Probably young enough that they still think they can make a difference.

Inside, I step up to the desk, protected by bulletproof glass. On Mondays, there’s no visitation. At least I don’t have to wait in line.

“Back so soon?” CO McKennan asks. His dark bald head gleams under the florescent light.

“I’m here to pick up Mercer Reynolds.” I try not to look as uneasy as I feel. My fingers twitch for something to do, my feet itching to move.

He picks up a clipboard and scans the list of names. There aren’t many. Picking up the receiver of a phone, he punches a few buttons. “Yeah,” he says. “Inmate Reynolds’s ride is here.” He hangs up. For a moment, he eyes me up and down. “You look good, Demmel. Still getting into fights?”

“I’m a bouncer now.”

He laughs. “That’s a good fit. Have a seat. Reynolds will be out shortly.”

I sit on the hard wooden bench, a fixture that’s probably been here since the prison opened in the 1930s. Most of Lewisburg is original, except the cameras they added. When I was inside, inmates couldn’t scratch their asses without someone seeing. Those cameras made things really hard for the entrepreneurs among us.

A lock clicks and the heavy metal door opens. I glance up from the red tile. A man with hair as black as Olivia’s—what hasn’t gone gray yet, anyway—fills the doorway. Brown eyes hard as steel appraise me. I know those eyes.

Olivia is the spitting image of her father, only a hell of a lot prettier. Her bones are finer, too. They have the same eyes, the same lips, and the same cheekbones.

Standing, I hold out my hand. “Cliff,” I say.

“Red Dog,” Mercy rasps. He clasps my hand. “I know you.” He releases my hand and shakes a finger at me. “You don’t recognize me?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s been a long time.” He shifts a brown paper bag to his other arm. “Your old man was my best friend.” Saluting CO McKennan, Mercy turns and strolls toward the exit. “Get me the fuck out of here, Red Dog.”

I lead him out to the Jeep, letting him hang back, enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. I remember that feeling all too well, the knowledge that there are no longer walls and guns keeping you inside.

Unlocking the Jeep, I reach into the backseat for the things Ravage gave me. “Your cut,” I say, tossing it to Mercy.

He catches it with one hand. Putting down the paper bag, he shrugs into the cut. It hangs a little loose on him. “Guess I’ve got some burgers to eat,” he says with a grin. “You got my house keys, too?”

I grab them from the backseat and pass them over.

“All right,” he says with a nod. “Let’s roll.” He picks up the bag and strolls to the passenger side.

I climb in too and start the engine, mind reeling. I don’t know where to start. My father was his best friend. Even more questions funnel through my head.

It’s just as well. We’ve got four hours to kill. That’s plenty of time to get some answers.

Unfortunately, it’s also plenty of time for him to grill me.

Thank you for reading Chapter 20 of A Risky Prospect, Book 2 in the River Reapers MC series.

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A Risky Prospect, Chapter 21

A Risky Prospect, Chapter 19

He has family, people who have no idea what happened to him. As much of a monster as he was, I know exactly how his family feels. Every time my mother left me, I worried it’d be the last time I saw her, that someone would find her dead somewhere.

catch up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18 Chapter 19Olivia

I sit up in the darkness of my bedroom, gasping for air. No, not darkness—it’s pitch black. I widen my eyes, glance toward the window, but there’s no light. I’m not even sure there’s a window. My lungs tighten as if someone’s fist squeezes around them, releases for a second, then squeezes again.

“Calm down,” I tell myself. “The street probably lost power.”

I grope for my phone. I fell asleep reading my favorite novel, Lex Talionis by S.A. Huchton, so it’s got to be here somewhere. My fingers brush sheets, sheets, more sheets. If I dropped the thing on the floor, I’ll never find it. I keep patting the bed, pleading with my mattress to give it up.

My hand lands on a furry, wet mess, still warm.

I scream, mouth wide open, tears running down my face. The light turns on, bathing me in harsh bright white. I glance down at my sheets, my hand, but there’s nothing there.

“Hello, Olivia,” Eli says, and I scream again.

I sit up so hard and fast, the room sways around me. At least I can see. My T-shirt sticks to me, cold and clammy against my skin. I take a big gulp of air, the squeezing sensation still in my chest but fading. This time, when I reach for my phone, I find it right beside me.

Four a.m.

I have to be up in two hours if I want to eat, shower, and tame my hair. Drawing my knees into my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs, resting my face on my knees. I breathe in slowly, let it out just as slow.

“You’re okay,” I tell myself over and over.

I should have stayed at Cliff’s.

I figured I’d get a better night of sleep in my own bed. Guess the joke’s on me. I’d probably be sleeping like a baby in his arms right now, if I’d stayed.

If I hadn’t stood him up.

My phone buzzes in my hand with an alert. Glancing down at the screen, I almost scream again.

There’s a Silver Alert for a twenty-five-year-old Elijah Moretti from Naugatuck, Connecticut. I guess someone is missing him, after all.

Each breath exits my lungs in a ragged whoosh. I try to keep it slow and steady, but the vice is back.

Someone is looking for Eli.

He has family, people who have no idea what happened to him. As much of a monster as he was, I know exactly how his family feels. Every time Bree left me, I worried it’d be the last time I saw her, that someone would find her dead somewhere.

I really should’ve gone to Cliff’s.

I can still go now. I can hop on that Street Glide and slip into bed beside him. Even in sleep, he’ll wrap his arms around me and make me feel safe, if only for a moment.

Someone is looking for Eli.

If they find him, I could go to prison. If they don’t find him, they’ll always wonder what happened to him.

Shivering, I reach for the quilt I keep folded at the foot of the bed. I cocoon myself in it and sit up against the wall that my bed hugs, staring into the dim darkness of the room, tinged with orange from the streetlights.

“Olivia?” Esther calls with a knock. “You okay?”

“Come in,” I reply.

The door opens and Esther tiptoes inside, glancing between her feet for Dio. He darts out from a hidden corner of the room, running between her feet and nearly tripping her.

“You should’ve named him Diablo,” she mutters, climbing into bed with me.

Dio ricochets and hops up, too, prancing across the sheets and plopping down in my lap. His purr reverberates through my body. Absently, I rub the top of his head with the side of my thumb.

“Another nightmare?” Esther asks, snuggling up.

I want to tell her everything. How Eli stalked me, that he was the one who hurt our cat. How I asked Donny for a gun, just in case, because even then I didn’t feel safe. The night that Eli came after me, and I killed him.

Instead I just nod, then rest my head on her shoulder.

“It’ll be okay, nena.” Esther strokes my hair, oh so gently. The last thing I think before I drift off is how good she’ll be for those girls.


The chorus of “Bitch” blares through my bedroom, jolting me awake. I rub my sore eyes, the nausea from lack of sleep already setting in. Showing up exhausted on my first day is not how to make a good impression.

“Morning,” Esther says, slipping into my room with two mugs of coffee. She passes one to me and I smile gratefully.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t forget that.” She perches on the edge of my bed. “Are you ready for today?”

“Ugh.” I take a long sip of coffee, wishing I could just attach an IV and be done with it. I set the mug on my nightstand and grab my phone. The Silver Alert is still out. I sigh. Silver Alerts are supposed to be for the elderly, but for some reason the state of Connecticut randomly uses them for younger people all the time.

A lot of people who go missing are never reported. Maybe it’s because no one cares enough, or maybe it’s simply that the explanation isn’t one they can give to the authorities.

If this were any other morning, I’d open Facebook and see what I can find out about Eli’s family. If I don’t get moving, I’m going to be late, so I put my phone aside and scoot out of bed.

“You know,” Esther says while I grab my outfit, “you don’t have to fix this thing with my sisters. You’ve got a lot on your plate already, and I don’t want to pile more on you.”

I turn, holding up a hand. “This is exactly why I became a social worker, Essie: to help people like you and me. Let me help.”

She beams. “You called me Essie.”

I smile back. “I’ve gotta get in the shower.”

“And I’m going back to bed.” Squeezing past me, she pads across the living room to her own bedroom. “Have a great day, dear.”

“Have fun being unemployed and sleeping in, dear!”

“I have a job!” she fires back before shutting her door.

As much as I’d love to tease her more, I really do have to get ready. I trudge into the bathroom, hoping that the rest of the day will be easier than last night.

Thank you for reading Chapter 19 of A Risky Prospect, Book 2 in the River Reapers MC series.

Continue Reading A Risky Prospect, Chapter 20

Tattooed Heart, Chapter 2

She talked so fast, I could barely follow. The whole time, she had a dreamy smile on her face, nude painted lips parted, pearly white teeth exposed. Her eyes had a distant, whimsical look in them.
She was even more beautiful when she talked about teaching art to combat depression.

Catch Up Tattooed Heart, Chapter 1 Chapter 2: Your Mom’s BasementBenton

At exactly five a.m., my alarm went off. I strode into the kitchen where my best friend’s mom handed me a cup of coffee. My Italian mom, who gave me a place to land both times life hit me with a wallop.

“Thank you, Mama M,” I said in a low voice, taking an appreciative sip. As a teacher, she had to be up early, too, and we usually had our coffee together.

“Who are you going to see this morning?” she asked, giving me a knowing look.

“It’s Tuesday, so it’s Tula day,” I said.

“Which means you’ll be having vindaloo for lunch, so you don’t need this lasagna I packed.” She slid the container on the counter closer to her than me.

“Oh, I definitely need that lasagna,” I said, sliding it back to me. “Tula’s next-door neighbor just had a baby, and she doesn’t do curry. This’ll make the perfect lunch for her. I wanted to talk to her about signing up for WIC and SNAP. Her husband’s hours got cut—that’s what these programs are there for.” I slipped the container into my bag.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Mama M asked. “Or will this be one of those nights?”

“Probably gonna be one of those nights,” I admitted. I almost never made it home for dinner. “The renter’s rebate applications started coming in, and I want to stay on top of them.” I really needed an assistant, but there was no such position. A second social worker would work wonders, but tightwad Mayor Gregory Allen Matthews III—he always made sure to include his whole ass name—would never cough up the budget for one.

Mama M gave me a look.

“I know,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Have a good day.”

“Tell my son to come for dinner tomorrow night,” she said, “and you and Goldie better be there, too.”

Since there were finally buds on the trees and I wouldn’t freeze my balls off, I walked over to Tula’s. The Shahs only lived a quick fifteen-minute walk from the Mosconis, in the condos behind the post office.

I knocked on Mrs. Shah’s door—Tula, she insisted. Before she started slinging tikka masala out of her kitchen, she and her husband ran Naan of That, the best thing to ever happen to Stagwood Falls. I used to go there just for their cinnamon and sugar naan. Life changing, that stuff. For four beautiful years, they ran that restaurant, just the two of them and their teenage daughter after school. The Shahs were older parents and barely kept up with the restaurant when their daughter went away to college, and when the pandemic hit, they had no choice but to close. Between tuition and inflation, they were struggling to get by, which was how they started selling to-go meals out of their back door. Technically, they didn’t have a license, but what the mayor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And I wasn’t about to snitch. I needed my vindaloo fix.

Besides, in a small town that was still very white, black and brown stuck together.

“How are you doing, Tula?” I asked as I settled into her cozy kitchen. Most people were still sleeping, but she rose early to start cooking. It was the only time I could catch her before she headed out to make her deliveries. It suited me just fine, because I was an early bird, too.

Passing me a cup of turmeric ashwagandha, she sat across from me. “Drink up. It’ll help your stress.”

“Who says I’m stressed?” I took a sip anyway. Tula was very serious about her tea. She swore if I drank it every day, it’d cure all my problems. “Anyway, I’m here for you.” I tugged the wrinkled pamphlet out of my bag.

“This again.” She waved a hand at me. “I told you, this is our home.”

I looked around at the kitchen, the vase of fresh tulips on the counter, the bowl of mangos, the Buddha sitting by the sink. “It is,” I said gently. “Senior living isn’t so bad, though. It’s like a little condo in a community full of people your age…and it goes by your income. I just don’t want you to struggle anymore.” I took her hand in both of mine.

“Oh! That reminds me.” She jumped up and gave me a bowl of sliced mango. “You need to eat something other than coffee in the morning.”

How lucky I was, to be surrounded by mothers. I took a grateful bite, moaning in appreciation. Tula’s mangos came from her sunroom grove of bonsais and were the sweetest I’d ever tasted. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to leave her home. It made no sense that senior living couldn’t offer a stipend for people who already had housing.

“Same time next week?” I asked her, tucking away the pamphlet.

“Your vindaloo,” she said, giving me the container. “And I—”

“Need this back. I know.” I hugged her tight. “Tula, if you need anything—”

“Just you and your handsome smile.” She patted my face. “Keeps my blood pumping.”

I chuckled. “Are you saying you only keep me around for my good looks?”

“Those cheekbones, that smile,” she gushed. “My daughter is in pre-med school, you know. She’ll be a doctor. She’s also very beautiful.” She nodded to a photo on the refrigerator.

“You remind me every week. I think she’s a little young for me, though.”

“She won’t be too young by the time she graduates,” she said with a wink.

“All right, Tula. Be easy.” I walked into the morning sunlight with a smile. I almost always did, after seeing Tula.

I knocked softly on her neighbor’s door, in case the baby was still sleeping, and gave her Mama M’s lasagna with an application for SNAP and WIC. “Just so you have it,” I said before she could argue.

She gave me a tired smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll pick it up next week. Remember, it’s your tax dollars. It’s there for you.”

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Wish Grocery takes SNAP,” I reminded her, “and Grandma Wish would never give you a hard time for it. Trust me. I grew up on SNAP. David, too. She’ll probably even load you up with some extra if Gardner Farms oversupplies her.”

“Is that how you got to be so handsome?” she teased. “All those fresh veggies.”

I headed to the office, greeting people getting into their cars on my way. Daffodils and tulips were popping up everywhere, chasing away the winter blues. It’d been a long one, for me anyway. Mama M treated me like one of her own, and David was my brother from another mother, but I felt more disconnected than ever, especially since David spent more and more time with Goldie. I mostly saw him at work, sometimes at The Main Idea. Our weekly game nights were becoming our only guy time. To take the edge off the loneliness, I dove deeper into work. If the shoe was on the other foot and I was one of my clients, I’d gently suggest to me that I might have some abandonment issues leftover from my parents.

Tula was right. Not about me marrying her daughter—we were on too different paths of life for me to ever consider it—but I should get back out on the market. I just didn’t have anything to show for myself.

On my way through the building, I passed David’s empty office. He used to show up early like me. Now he had a life. He had a beautiful girlfriend he’d probably marry, and they’d make even prettier babies, surrounded by their warm, loving families. He’d probably be city planner until he retired, which meant his beautiful home up in the Stagwood Heights neighborhood was going to be his forever, a place to raise his family.

Family could mean so many different things, something built from scratch or something built in. I knew I was lucky to be surrounded by so many people who cared about me. Part of me felt like they were just being nice, though, handling the defect who couldn’t get his life together with kid gloves.

I stepped into my office and almost ran into Sabella—beautiful, beautiful Sabella, the woman who’d once invited herself back to my place after drinks and I’d messed that up by not having a place to take her to. Then she’d laughed at me.

No wonder she was single.

“Good morning,” she said, handing me a coffee.

I looked at it and her suspiciously. “Good morning,” I repeated. She wore her long black hair parted down the middle and straightened, framing her face. It skimmed her waist, or at least I thought so. Her hair blended into the oversized Touch of Gold hoodie she wore over leggings. Black, black, and more black. Even first thing in the morning, no makeup or anything, Sabella was stunning. “You’re the real life Morticia,” I blurted.

“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than that,” she said. “Morticia Addams is a compliment. She’s a Latina queen.”

“It was a compliment,” I said, “but now I take it back. What are you doing here?”

“You can’t undo a compliment. And I already know you want to hit this,” she said sweetly.

“Wanted,” I corrected. For all her beauty, she had zero filter. I liked that I couldn’t predict her, and did not like how sharp her tongue could be. “So what do you want?”

“Your help,” she said, sitting in the visitor’s chair at my desk. “I want to put aside your heartbreaking rejection and ask for your help with a proposal—”

“No way,” I interrupted.

“—for my community art program,” she finished. She folded her hands in her lap, and I spotted dainty tattoos on her fingers before she moved them again, gesturing. “So? Are you going to help me? Pretty please. With sugar.” She batted long lashes at me. “It’s for the community. For mental health. Art therapy is—”

“Come on, we talked about this at David’s,” I said. “I’ve got too much on my plate. The timing—”

“Is a little crazy, I know, but hear me out. Don’t you think the town needs something exactly like this right now?” She blinked up at me, big brown eyes suckering me in.

We just kept looking at each other, her gaze inquisitive and soft, and mine… Well, I probably looked dopey as hell, staring at her. I couldn’t help it. From the moment I saw her at The Main Idea a year earlier, I hadn’t been able to look away. She was all bronze skin and legs, with more tattoos than I could possibly process, up and down every inch of exposed arm, leg, and even her neck. Most of them were roses. Sabella was covered in roses. The red complemented her skin, and the flowers only enhanced her beauty.

“Won’t you let me at least give you my pitch? I’ve been practicing in the mirror,” she pleaded.

“Fine. Give me your pitch. I’m not making any promises,” I warned.

She clapped her hands together, breaking the spell. “¡Wepa!” As she pulled a folder out of her bag, it snagged on the zipper and ripped the corner.

This girl was a beautiful tornado. A walking work of art. And I’d foolishly rejected her, probably taking out any chance of ever really getting to know her, never mind date her.

“In a perfect world, I want to do class twice a week for six weeks—eight, really—with a show at the end of it. A big festival. Outdoor, probably, with vendors and live music, and—”

She talked so fast, I could barely follow. The whole time, she had a dreamy smile on her face, nude painted lips parted, pearly white teeth exposed. Her eyes had a distant, whimsical look in them.

She was even more beautiful when she talked about teaching art to combat depression.

I dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk, my legs a little weak. Everything she was saying was exactly the reason I’d become a social worker. Like her, I wanted to reach out and give people a little lift. Life was hard. Most people were weighted down by poverty or chronic illness, either physical or mental—hell, sometimes both. I’d grown up with separated parents who had me young and never grew up themselves. I was used to coming home to an empty home, my mom at her second job. Dad wasn’t around much, but he made sure I got everything I needed. Money was still tight, even with social services. There were programs Mom didn’t even know about that she found out about through friends. I wanted to make sure everyone knew about these programs, and even make some new ones that everyone had access to.

Sabella was speaking directly to my soul. Our eyes locked again, two souls communicating without words. We wanted the same thing for Stagwood Falls, a place that’d been hit hard by both recessions in our lifetime. People in town were suffering, and only a handful of them came into my office. Some were too prideful or even ashamed to ask for help. An art program would draw people in, and by talking to them throughout the program, I could gauge their needs and make casual suggestions.

“We could do so much together,” I said at last.

“That’s what I’m saying!” she said with a grin. “So are you in, homeless Benton?”

“I already told you I’m in, and don’t call me that,” I said.

“Sometimes in my head I call you Señor Serio,” she said, dropping her voice and exaggerating a serious expression.

“Don’t call me that either,” I said.

“See? So serious. You’re gonna get frown lines right here.” Standing, she reached across my desk and touched the spot between my eyebrows. Heat bloomed where the pads of her fingers met my skin, radiating through me. Her hands on me felt like the kind of good I’d never get enough of.

The kind of good that wouldn’t matter because I had nothing to offer her.

I caught her hand in mine. “Let’s just focus on the program, cool?”

“Cool,” she said with a shrug, but I didn’t miss the disappointment in her eyes. Maybe she’d felt it, too. Maybe she hadn’t. It didn’t matter.

If I helped roll out her art program, I’d have a foolproof reason for Matthews to give me a raise. Then I’d finally get out of David’s old bedroom, and I’d have something real to offer a woman like Sabella.

I rolled up my sleeves.

Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of Tattooed Heart, Book 2 in the Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink series.

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“The small town vibes are impeccable”
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“I love how she writes so real”
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Sabella makes a living covering up people’s bad tattoos, creating art out of regrets and mistakes. When she finds herself separated from her high school sweetheart turned heartbreaker, she doesn’t just go into hiding; she takes her best friend up on an offer for a fresh start at her new tattoo shop and runs all the way to Stagwood Falls, an idyllic town reinventing itself after its own heartache. It’s the perfect place to hide, and it’s where she finds a new purpose: teaching the healing power of art to a community that’s desperate to move on. Unfortunately, to put her plan into action, Sabella must enlist the help of one sexy, sensitive town social worker, Benton Rhinehart—AKA the guy who wants nothing to do with her after their first encounter ended in hurt feelings and a wounded ego.

Benton gives everything to the people of Stagwood Falls, but the bank still took all he had when the recession hit. Instead of rebuilding himself, he eagerly dove headfirst into solving other people’s problems. So when Sabella comes to him with her community art program plan, Benton doesn’t hesitate to throw himself fully into it, even if that means working with the woman who shamelessly snubbed him the first time they met.

Despite their rocky start, it’s hard to ignore that Sabella and Benton make a great team. Their business relationship quickly turns into a friendship they both desperately need. Even though they’re better off as friends, the more time they spend together, the harder it is to ignore that there’s something much deeper going on. But when Sabella’s ex comes to town saying everything she wants to hear, she has to choose between her heart and her dream. Both feel like the same thing, and choosing wrong is one mistake she won’t be able to cover up.

“Scorching hot passion”
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“Great miscommunication trope book”
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Photo by juriymaslak / Depositphotos

A Risky Prospect, Chapter 18

I nearly stomp on the brake.

I love her.

It’s a whole-body realization. The road tips upward, the bike falls down into the sky. I float for a moment, fingers and toes tingling. Then I slam back into my seat, the bike firmly on the road. Somehow I still have my balance.

catch up A Risky Prospect, Chapter 1 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 2 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 3 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 4 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 5 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 6 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 7 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 8 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 9 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 10 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 11 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 12 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 13 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 14 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 15 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 16 A Risky Prospect, Chapter 17 Chapter 18Cliff

Pressing the doorbell for Olivia’s place, I step back. Only the porch light is on. No light shines from inside. I can’t imagine she and Esther are already in bed. I raise my fist and knock, a soft three-tap, just in case.

From the other side, I hear a soft meow: Dio.

“Hey buddy.” He meows again. I picture him rubbing his cheek against the door. “I guess no one else is home. I’ll see you later.”

Turning, I chuckle. Olivia’s got me talking to her cat now.

She’s got me doing all kinds of things—like picking up her father. I wanted to see her before I left, even if only to wish her luck for her first day at DCF. Maybe see if there’s anything I should know before meeting Mercy, or if there’s anything she wants me to scope out before she meets him.

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