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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 17

After tonight, I don’t think any less of her, but I’m not so sure she feels the same about me. We’re past the point of walking away, though. Whatever happens next, this night has bound us together.

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

The shrill ring of my phone jerks me out of a dead sleep. I sit up in bed, sweating. The club rooms are hot, as if the hormones from downstairs rise, permeating the ceiling that separates the two floors. Swinging my legs over the edge, I get up and crack a window. Cold air rushes in. Heavy lidded, I tip my head back and enjoy the wave.

My phone rings again. Silently cursing Lucy for choosing such a bone shattering ringtone, I scoop it from the nightstand.

The name on the display makes all of the blood drain straight out of my head. Before I even answer, I already know. Something is wrong.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Cliff,” she gasps. “Please.”

There’s no need for her to say any more.

I pull on clothes as I make my way through the small room, shrugging into my cut almost as an afterthought. I pound down the stairs and fly out the door. It’s as if my body has taken control, leaving my brain in my bed. By the time my head catches up, I’m flying down 63.

I ignore the speed limit and get to Olivia’s in under ten minutes. It’s probably more like five. Practically knocking the motorcycle over, I dismount and break into a run.

The apartment door is unlocked. I push my way in and look around wildly for her. My brain processes the scene in small increments.

Blood on the carpet in the entryway.

Shattered knick knacks strewn across the floor.

Olivia huddled next to her bedroom door, a gash oozing from her temple.

The Glock in her lap.

A man splayed in the center of the living room, a hole between his eyes.

I rock back on my heels, the wind knocked out of my lungs. Memories assault me: another house, another body on the floor, another girl curled into a corner. Shaking them away, I go to her. My hands cup her face, turning her head gently so I can see the wound. “What happened?” The flesh at her temple is split wide open, blood pulsing from within. She’ll need stitches, and it’ll probably scar, but it doesn’t look life threatening.

The chalky pallor of her face is what worries me. Her eyes slide from mine toward the body in the middle of the floor.

Following her gaze, I realize I recognize him. “That’s the guy from the gas station,” I say, turning back to her. “Olivia. Tell me what happened.”

“What are we going to do with him?” Her voice is eerily calm. Those eyes burn into mine, pupils constricted to tiny pinpricks.

For the first time, I notice the tiny punctures marring her neck, arms, and legs. I take her wrists, holding them up. Her limbs are limp in my grasp. “What the fuck happened, Olivia?”

She gazes down. “Oh, those. I had to yank the barbs out.” She laughs. “I don’t know how the fuck I crawled around with those things in.”

“Okay.” I pull her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her. “You’re in shock. It’s okay.” Stroking her hair, I press safety into her.

My mind whirls. Distantly, I think that I may be in shock, too. Again I look at the body. Another gunshot wound pierces the hand curled next to his face. My Olivia did this. Sending her away only dragged her in deeper.

It’s all my fault.

Jaw flexing, I consider my options. There’s no question. I have to take care of this. Too much time has already passed. I lift the gun from the floor, nodding when I see the filed-off serial number. If we call the police, they’ll quickly conclude that this was premeditated, not self-defense. My girl will go away.

Coiled nerves clamor for a cigarette. Lifting Olivia into my arms, I stand and carry her into the bedroom so that we can smoke without having to look at the body. I sit her down on the bed. Then I light two and pass her one.

“Breaking all kinds of rules today,” she says with a sigh.

I lean against the vanity, thinking. I can send her away, to the store or something. Call the police and tell them that I was waiting for her to get back when this motherfucker broke in. He came at me, and I had no choice. But the crime scene is set up all wrong, and their forensics team will discover the truth.

Olivia will still go to prison.

I can re-stage it, take the fall. I don’t want to go back in, but she has so much more to lose. It was probably only a matter of time anyway. Still, it would separate us. There would be no one to keep her safe. The club might be looking out for her, but they don’t care for her like I do. And I’m of no use to her buried under all of that concrete.

There’s really only one option here.

I think of Bree, the bruises around her neck and her cavalier attitude. “No one. Not anymore,” she said. If the River Reapers can make a long line of abusive men disappear, they can manage one more.

But I’m not sure. The men who beat on Bree were nobodies. Probably alcoholics, at least unemployed. The kind of people who are easy to erase, people so toxic, no one will miss them. Not this guy. Eli was a college student, a guy who worked at a gas station. There are plenty of people who will notice he’s gone.

“Fuck,” I mutter. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Olivia tips her head back, those intense eyes meeting mine. “You have to call Donny.”

She’s right. As the club Enforcer, he’ll know what to do. I may only be a Prospect, but I’m already a part of the club. It’s only a matter of time. And since the club considers Olivia family too, via her connection to me and who her father is, this is official club business.

The price we’ll pay will be heavy, though.

I call Donny, hoping his ringtone is just as annoying as mine. Lifting the cigarette to my lips, I suck in a drag, but it’s gone out. I relight it, counting the trills on the other end of the line.

He answers on the third ring. “What is it?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

“We have a . . . situation over at Olivia’s,” I say.

Several seconds slip by. “Fuck.” He exhales sharply. “All right, Red Dog. You’re gonna stay put and wait for me. Comprende?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” he says again. “How bad is it?”

I stick my head out of the bedroom, re-sweeping the scene. “Some blood. Mostly a clean shot. She did good.”

He sputters. “She? Shit, man.” He grunts. “I’ll be right there. Stay put.” Then he hangs up.

My eyes meet Olivia’s. “Donny’s on his way.”

She nods once. “My head really hurts.” Raising her hand to the gash on her face, she presses the pads of her fingers to the split flesh. A wince scrunches her face. “Right.” Her hand flops back into her lap.

“Head wounds always bleed so much more than limbs do,” I say, eyeing it. The bleeding has slowed, which is a good sign. But every time she moves her face, a fresh wave gushes out. “You’ve got to try to stay still.” I start hunting for something to compress it.

I find towels, rubbing alcohol, and a mostly useless first aid kit in the bathroom. There aren’t even any butterfly bandages. All she and her roommate have are finger-sized Disney princess Band-Aids and a few large bandages. Still, I take it all with me back into her room.

“How do you feel?” I ask while I clean her up.

“Fine.” Her eyebrows furrow. “I think.”

“You’ve got to stop moving your face.” I press a wadded up towel to the gash on her temple, using all of my weight. “Are you dizzy at all?”

“No.” She closes her eyes, her face becoming a smooth mask. “I feel . . . a rush.”

“Yeah.” I bow my head, heart seizing in my chest. I know exactly what she’s talking about. Maybe there was no stopping this, but I feel responsible. Like I should have just stuck around.

Her eyes open, latching mine. “Do you still want me to stay away?” Her voice is low, a caress across my soul.

I shake my head. “I do want you to stay still, though.” Gently, I hold her chin with my free hand.

She rolls her eyes, but a tiny smile lifts the corners of her mouth. “You should’ve been a doctor.”

“Right.” I peel away the towel. The bleeding has stopped, but I’m pretty sure it’s just going to split open again the second she lifts an eyebrow. Which will be any minute now, knowing my expressive girl. I dab rubbing alcohol on it. Even though it has to sting, she takes it all in stride, even as I smear Vaseline on it.

“That was all we had, huh?” She sighs softly. “I really need to invest in some Neosporin.”

I stick one of the large bandages on it, trying to contour it to her hairline. “We’ve gotta find someone who can give you stitches.”

“I’m not going to the hospital.” Her chin juts out at me.

“I wasn’t suggesting that.” My gaze softens. Even gushing blood, she’s the most headstrong person I’ve ever met.

A knock sounds at the front door. “Honey, I’m home,” Donny calls.

“In here.” I take Olivia’s hand and give it a squeeze. “Don’t worry. It’s gonna be okay.” Pressing a kiss to her lips, I stand and meet Donny in the living room.

But it isn’t just Donny.

Beer Can drops a huge duffel bag at my feet. He nods in greeting.

“Let’s get to work, boys,” Donny says.

Stepping over the body, he leers down at it. “Not a lot of blood. Good. That’ll be easy to clean up.” He lifts the hand that Olivia shot. “And look, part of my job is already done for me.” Looking over his shoulder, he grins at me. “Grab me that tarp from that duffel bag.”

Hunkering down, I unzip the bag. Before I look away from Donny, though, I realize he’s wearing a patch I’ve never seen before. “What’s a Sludge Specter?”

He just smiles and goes back to examining the body.

I carry the tarp over. “So what are you going to do?”

“Me?” Donny’s eyebrows lift. “This is a team effort. It takes a lot of muscle to dismantle a man. It is a little easier if you saw at the joints, though.” He winks.

Grimacing, I take several bone saws out of the duffel bag. I hold one out to Beer Can.

He shakes his head, holding up his hands. “I’m just the cleaning lady.”

“What can I do?” Olivia asks from the bedroom door.

Both of the men gape at her.

“Jesus Christ,” Beer Can says in a low voice.

The bandage on her temple is already soaked through.

I try to see her through their eyes. With half her face covered in sticky blood, her T-shirt damp and wrinkled with sweat and more blood, and body pocked with barb holes, she’s a pretty ghastly sight. But long, bare legs extend from underneath that T-shirt, and hard nipples press against the cotton. Those luminous eyes tunnel through me, and all I want to do is kiss those soft, full lips and solidify my claim to her.

But we have work to do.

“I’ll call Ravage,” Beer Can says, pressing a phone to his ear.

“Liv, you probably shouldn’t see this.” I step in front of her, blocking her view.

She snorts. “Because it’ll be traumatic? Cliff, I did this. I shot holes through a person.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And you know what? I liked it, just like you said. It felt good. Right.”

“Yeah.” Taking her by the shoulders, I lead her to the couch. I press down, coaxing her into a sitting position. “You’re bleeding, Olivia. Ravage will come and stitch you up.”

“Come on, Red Dog,” Donny calls. “I need a hand getting this tarp under this fucker.”

“Stay put,” I order her. Joining Donny, I pull on the gloves he passes me. He shows me how to roll the body from side to side while he inches the tarp underneath. Then he nods toward the duffel bag. I grab the two bone saws and hand him one.

“Nah,” he says, taking the other from me. “This one has a better handle. Fits better to my hand,” he explains. I wonder how many times he’s done this, but I don’t ask. I probably don’t want to know.

Donny demonstrates how to separate an elbow, angling the saw into the soft inside of the joint. “This is where the tendon connects.” He thrusts it forward, using his weight to drive the serrated blade into the flesh. “Skin and muscle cuts like butter,” he says, watching as blood puddles below the arm. “But you need a little more force to get through the joint.” He drives in, the muscles in his arm bunching. The blade makes a sickening wet popping sound as it slides through the joint.

I stare, feeling as if I’m watching all of this from outside myself. It’s partially fascinating and also kind of disgusting. And, if i’m being honest, it’s unsettling how someone as warm and friendly as Donny can do this so easily. Like it’s second nature.

He beckons to a leg. “Join the party, Red Dog.”

We get to work.

I feel myself disconnecting as I grip the calf and twist until the back of the knee comes around. The hip pops out of socket almost too easily. Pressing the bone saw into the back of the knee, I tell myself this isn’t real. It’s just something I have to do and can forget about when it’s all over. I separate what I’m doing and my real life into halves as cleanly as I’m dismembering joints. Time becomes irrelevant as Donny and I work side by side in silence.

I don’t even hear Ravage come in.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, we have a pile of bloody limbs, skin hanging from all ends in tattered shreds.

“All right,” Donny says. “That’s the easy part. Now we’ve gotta break these down. Convenient pieces, brother. Fun Size.” Laughter dances in his eyes, his grin wide.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I grunt.

Before I dive back in, I glance at Olivia. She’s sitting crosslegged on the couch next to Ravage, who hands her a cup of tea. Neat stitches line her temple, and her face is clean. She looks human again.

I look down at my own hands. The gloves only come up to my wrists, so my arms and everything I’m wearing is soaked in blood. Now I look like a monster.

Donny pulls a giant pair of industrial cutters out of his magic bag. He scissors the blades, metal clicking against metal. Following his lead, I hold body parts while he cuts them down. Blood splashes my face. After a little while, I stop caring. The whole time, I feel Olivia’s eyes on me.

What will become of us when this is over?

I don’t think any less of her, but I’m not so sure she feels the same about me. We’re past the point of walking away, though. Whatever happens next, this night has bound us together.

All of us.

“I’m going back to bed,” Ravage says, lifting a hand in parting. “Call me if you run into any problems.” He strides out the door as if we’re just mopping floors in here.

Donny was right. Sawing through joints is much easier than it is to go through straight bone. There’s beauty in that stubborn strength, though. I feel a new appreciation for my own body as I get down on one knee and drag the bone saw back and forth.

Two more hours pass with Beer Can brewing us coffee and sitting with Olivia. Despite the late hour, I’m not at all tired. From the looks of the others, neither are they.

“So where’s Esther?” I ask Donny, swiping sweat from my forehead with a bloody arm. It doesn’t even matter at this point.

“Essie?” His face drifts off, dreams in his eyes. “She’s at the hotel. I told her I’d be back sometime tomorrow.”

“Sorry I ruined your weekend,” Olivia says from the couch.

“Nah.” Donny gives her a gentle smile. “I’d do anything for you, girl. You know that.”

Beer Can grunts in agreement.

Finally Donny declares the chunks an appropriate size. Even the smell doesn’t bother me anymore. I hold a giant, heavy duty Ziploc bag open while he tosses them in.

From the duffel bag, Beer Can pulls out an industrial blender.

“Fuck me,” I mutter.

He plugs it into the wall, putting a clean tarp underneath it. Then he motions for me to get started, as if gesturing for a lady to go first through a door.

More pieces of me fragment as I feed chunks of Eli to the machine. Donny holds another Ziploc open for me to pour the puree into. When I’m done, I sit back on my knees, breathing heavily.

“You got this?” Donny asks Beer Can.

“Never underestimate a Virgo,” Beer Can says, shooing us away.

I reach for the duffel bag.

“Leave it.” Donny shakes his head. “Beer Can’ll bring it back to me when they’re done.” He beckons for me to follow him.

Outside, we climb into his truck. The seats and floors have been covered with tarps, the steering wheel and shift wrapped in kitchen plastic wrap.

I whistle. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“It’s my job,” he says, backing out of his spot.

We drive deep into the woods of Naugatuck, to a piece of property tucked away from civilization. Carrying the bag, I follow Donny through an unmarked and overgrown trail into a clearing. A bonfire is already going in a large pit.

“Throw it in.” He yanks off his bloodied clothing and tosses it onto the flames. “You too. Everything but the cut.” Then he goes to the truck and collects the tarps.

This night can’t get any more bizarre.

As the flames lick the dismembered flesh, a pungent stench fills the air. I stand naked next to an equally bare Donny, wearing nothing but our leather vests, huddling near the flames for warmth. The ground is cold on my feet, but after a while they go numb. I wish I’d thought to bring cigarettes, but I guess I’ll have plenty of time to chainsmoke the night away later.

It’s another hour, maybe two, before the fire burns out. Donny scoops the ashes into another big Ziploc using a shovel, then tucks the bag among the roots of a tree.

The sky begins to lighten.

“So what now?” I cross my arms, feeling more cold than I want to admit. I need sex, whiskey, a cigarette, and a long dead sleep.

Headlights dance through the trees. My spine stiffens. I look at Donny. He turns toward the incoming truck, shoulders relaxed.

The truck parks next to Donny’s and a hollow-eyed man jumps out. Within minutes, he erects a showering tent and connects a tank of water to it. He hands me a fresh bar of soap. “In you go, son.”

The water is surprisingly hot. Almost scalding, actually. I scrub blood from my skin and underneath my nails, washing my hair three times before I’m certain that all of the chunks of flesh and bone are gone. When I step out, the unnamed man hands me a bundle of clothing and work boots. They’re even the right size.

Donny showers next.

I watch as our friend collects the bag of ashes and throws them into the back of the pickup. “What are you gonna do with that?” I ask him.

He snuffles and hawks a wad of spit. Instead of blowing it out, though, he swallows. “Gonna mix it into my manure,” he says.

Joining us, Donny slings an arm around me. “He’s our local manure man.”

“Thank you for supporting a small business,” the man says. He pours the remainder of the water in the tank, rinsing the shower. Then he takes a bucket from his truck and dumps some kind of cleaner all over the tent. It’s too dark to make out what it is. “I’ll air this out at home.”

Donny claps him on the back. “Thanks, man.” He motions for me to get in the truck.

We drive back to Olivia’s in silence. My eye twitches every few seconds, an old signal that I’ve gone too long without sleep. I think of all the dirty secrets that tie Olivia and me together, and wonder if that’s enough of a bond for a real new beginning.

Thank you for reading Chapter 17 of A Disturbing Prospect.

Take Cliff & Olivia with You

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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 18

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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 16

He’s fucking with me. Probably out there right now. I stare at the blinds. If I peek through, will I find him standing out in the yard?

catch up A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 3 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 4 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 5 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 6 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 7 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 8 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 9 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 10 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 11 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 12 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 13 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 14 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 15 Olivia

By the time Lucy gets home from work, I’ve composed myself. I’ve even fixed my makeup and fed Dio some canned tuna. Watching him wolf it down soothes me in more ways than I can list. I sit at the table reading for one of my classes on my phone when she walks in.

Despite my efforts, though, she takes one look at me and clucks her tongue. “I’ll kill him. What did he do?”

Big sisters always know.

I’m not even sure where to start. I look down at my hands. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought a date.” I nod to Dio, who’s passed out in a heap of towels on the floor.

Lucy’s face transforms from concerned sister to laser-shooting rage dragon. “Cliff did that?” She looks from me to Dio, appalled.

“No,” I say, beckoning for her to sit down. I suck in a deep breath and steal a glance at my purse.

“Go ahead,” Lucy says, rolling her eyes.

I light up, grateful, but consider busting Cliff for smoking in his room. Not that it matters. He isn’t coming back.

I slump back in my seat.

“Out with it, kid,” Lucy says. “I’ve had a long day. Six-year-olds are exhausting. It’s like they can sense spring vacation coming up.” She eyes my cigarettes, which is odd because I’ve never seen my sister smoke, or heard her mention it. And we tell each other everything.

I envision myself telling her all about Eli, how he initially seemed cute but worked his way up to creeping around my apartment and nearly killing my cat. But I can’t tell her all of it, because then she’ll never let me go home. And I can’t even use Esther and Donny as a compromise, because my roommate texted me earlier to let me know that she and Donny are going away for the weekend.

They’ve been dating for less than a week, and they’re already going away together. I hate to admit it to myself, but I desperately want that with Cliff.

Lucy whistles. “Okay, Olivia, come on out of the rabbit hole.”

I sigh again. “Dio got out and a car hit him,” I say, waving a nonchalant hand. My stomach twists with guilt. I should be telling Lucy all about how angry I am. Instead all I can think about is Cliff, just up and leaving me here because he’s “too dangerous.” My lip curls.

My sister stands and pulls a bottle of wine out from the refrigerator. “We’re going to play a game,” she says, grabbing two wine glasses from a cabinet. “And I really hope I don’t lose, because I can’t afford a hangover on top of first graders.” She sets it all down on the table.

Pouring us each a glass, she announces the rules. “Every time I have to prompt you, you have to drink. And every time you give me details without me asking, I have to drink.”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “That is the worst game you’ve made up. Ever.”

She shrugs. “I told you I was tired.” She clinks her glass to mine. “Let the games begin.”

I stare at her. “Luce, you do realize that all we have to do is not talk and the whole thing collapses . . . right?”

“Fine.” She takes a sip. “We just drink. And you talk. Now.”

It takes me two gulped down glasses before I’m lubricated enough to spill everything that’s happened today. I’m sober enough that I can easily leave out everything about Eli. I tell her what Donny told me about my father, and she refills both of our glasses without asking.

Then, without meeting her eyes, I tell her about my conversation with Cliff.

“He told me what happened,” I say slowly. “Why he went to prison.” I sip wine to continue avoiding looking at her.

Out of the corner of my eye, though, I see her mouth make a tiny O. Her chest rises as she chooses her next words.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say quickly. “I guess he was trying to reciprocate. Or push me away. Or something.” I polish off my third glass. I’m now comfortably buzzed, enough so that the words start flowing and tears prick at my eyes. “Fuck.” I dab at them with the corner of my sleeve. “I just fixed my makeup.”

“Livvie,” Lucy says, her voice full of sisterly sympathy. She pushes a box of tissues toward me. This girl is so together, she has tissues in every room. And she never runs out of things like toilet paper or milk.

It’s almost hard to believe that someone could hurt her the way that Cliff’s father did.

My eyebrows scrunch together. I fucked the direct spawn of the man who molested my sister. In a way, that’s seriously fucked up. Or maybe that’s the wine talking. My frown deepens.

“Liv,” Lucy says gently.

I look up, meeting her gaze.

“Cliff is . . . kind of like a twenty-year-old kid. He has no idea what he wants. He’s just figuring everything out for himself.” She blinks several times, and I realize my sister is on the verge of tears. “He’s missed the most important years of his life,” she whispers. “He’s, like, emotionally stunted—and it’s all my fault.”

I grab her hand, squeezing. “No. It’s not your fault! Cliff made that choice himself.”

“He did it for me!” Her voice breaks. Tears rolls down her cheeks.

It kind of freaks me out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lucy cry. I push the tissues back her way. “He’s still the one who did it. I’m sure he knew what the consequences would be.” I glower. He sure as hell better know what the consequences are now. I am never, ever letting him back in. “Asshole,” I mutter.

Lucy dries her tears. “So what happened?” she says, voice thick with emotion.

I know she’s just trying to deflect the conversation away from her, but I’m drunk and too clumsy to bat it back at her. “He went on about how he’s so dangerous and blah, blah, blah.” I roll my eyes, my voice too loud. “Basically, the whole ‘you’re too good for me’ spiel.”

“Pathetic.” She crosses her arms. “Well, his loss.”

My pursed lips twitch to the side.

“What?” Lucy peers at me. “It is his loss, Olivia.”

“Then why,” I draw out the word, “does it feel like mine?” I huff. This is all too weird. I’m not used to men turning my world upside down and inside out. I feel like someone’s slit my body open and rearranged all of my organs. It’s not a nice feeling, and it has nothing to do with the wine.

“You’ve got to focus on you, Livvie,” my sister says in her preachy I know better because I’m so much older voice. “You have so much to offer in a relationship. Anyone who doesn’t see that is . . . is . . .”

“Even if he’s your childhood hero?” I scowl, eyeing the bottle of wine. There’s enough left for one glass.

“Go for it.” She pushes it toward me. “Look, Cliff may be like a brother to me, but you are my sister. Hos before bros.”

Cringeing, I pour my glass. “Please don’t ever say that again.”

She shrugs. “But it’s true. And you do have a lot to give—to someone who’s really going to appreciate it.”

“A lot to give? Luce, I’ve missed like seventy-five percent of my classes this week. I’m behind on my internship hours.” I lift my voice into a southern twang. “My daddy’s in prison.” I giggle. “I’m a fucking country song.”

“Too bad college radio stations don’t usually play country,” she jokes.

“Maybe they do down south.” I tilt my head, pretending to contemplate. “I could move to Georgia or something, redo the semester . . .”

“You’re a sneeze away from graduating.” Lucy stands and puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare throw it all away over some guy.”

If only she knew.

I rest my chin in the palm of my hand. “I wish I could go back in time.” Add/drop that damn photography class. Or just never accept the camera from Eli. And definitely, for sure, not have sex with Cliff in someone’s station wagon. I fold my arms on the table and bury my face in my sweater.

“Let me drive you home,” Lucy says, rubbing my back. “It’ll all look better in the morning. I promise.”

I snort. “Like you’re even sober enough to drive.” My voice is muffled against the table.

“Pfft. How do you think I get through my week with these kids?”

Sitting up fast, I twist around to see her face. A smirk dances across her lips. “Luce, that’s like borderline alcoholism.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t drink to function, Livvie. I have one or two glasses every night, after dinner and while I correct papers. It’s my way of celebrating surviving another day in educational hell.” She sighs. “I thought this teaching gig was going to be so different, you know?”

“You,” I say, poking her in the ribs, “are ruining your own ‘graduate in time’ lecture.”

She smoothes my hair. “You’re going to find that the world doesn’t always meet your expectations. And that feeling, my friend, is called disillusionment. Learn to love wine.” She pats my back. “Now come on. I’ve got to get up early, and I’m sure your kitty wants his territory back.”

We both look over at Dio, who is happily munching away at the remainder of his tuna dinner.

“Are you sure about that?”

Lucy nods to my glass. “Chug it, woman.”

Feeling pleasantly woozy, I obey. While I’m sucking down pink moscato, I decide that I’m going to continue this warm party when I get home. I’ll draw a nice hot bath and bring a battered copy of one of my Terry Brooks novels with me. Maybe The Elfstones of Shannara, because I could really use a little Eretria in my life right now. Reading isn’t really my jam, but I have nice memories of my mom—my birth mother—reading to me when I was little. The Shannara books are all I have left of her.

For all I know, she’s dead, and I’m usually okay with that. I have my parents, and Lucy. My sister, especially, is always a comfort.

Except when she’s practically dragging my drunk ass out the door.

I juggle Dio’s carrier and my purse, casting a longing glance up the stairs where I know Cliff’s room waits, empty.

“I’ll text you if he comes home,” Lucy promises. “Now out.”

Lucy drops me off in front of my apartment with another bottle of wine and a kiss on the cheek.

“Take care of that kitty,” she orders, “but take care of you, too.”

In true Lucy fashion, she waits outside until I get in and lock up. I wave to her out the front window and she drives off. Sighing, I kick off my boots, then release Dio from his prison. He waddles over to his kitty bed and promptly crashes.

“That’s looking like a fantastic idea,” I say.

Fuck the bath, I decide. And, even though another glass of wine sounds heavenly, I really should get up early and actually go to class. Talk to my department head and professors, see what I can do about my internship.

Because Lucy is right. It isn’t too late. I still have time to turn things around. I can still walk across that stage in May.

I tuck the bottle of wine into the refrigerator, knowing that Esther and I will totally make use of it when she gets back. Then I pad into my bedroom for the night, turning off lights as I make my way through the apartment. The only lights I leave on are the porch light and the lamp in the living room. Mostly because I feel bad about leaving Dio in the dark, even though he has night vision.

I undress in the black of my bedroom, trying not to think about what I found the last time I came home to an empty house. But Dio is safe. The locks are changed. My sheets have been thrown out and replaced.

Everything is fine.

Still, I flick on my light, because apparently my pleasant wine drunk has morphed into an all out paranoia. But my room is completely normal. It’s exactly the way I left it. Even the array of makeup across my vanity is the same. It looks like Esther didn’t dip into my stash before she left.

Everything is fine.

Except.

I gasp out loud, skittering back from the vanity as if it’s going to reach out and grab for me. I crash into my bed, grunting in pain as my hip smacks into the wooden frame. Shaking it off, I glance around my room, looking for anything else out of place. Human hearts, maybe. But even the closet door is wide open, the way I left it. A signal of safety.

Still.

The shiny set of keys amidst my makeup glints in the light. I already know which locks they fit into.

Chest rising and falling in rapid breaths, I swallow hard. Glance around for my purse. It’s by the bedroom door, where I dumped it. I cross the room and yank the gun out, screwing in the silencer.

Both my breath and pulse are loud in my ears. I open the door and peek out into the rest of the apartment. Dio’s bell jingles, and I lurch, running in the direction of the sound, gun pointed.

But my kitten is just drinking water from his bowl.

I suck in a deep breath. “Get ahold of yourself, Olivia.” Exhaling, I try to be logical. Maybe Esther left her keys because she’s moving in with Donny and didn’t have time to tell me.

My logical explanation has a major flaw: that’s not like Esther at all.

I turn in a slow circle in the kitchen, taking stock. Fear pumps through me, sending pulses of adrenaline into my veins. But I don’t know how to use it. I take another deep breath. The kitchen is in the same exact condition that I left it in.

Maybe I’m just losing it. Esther probably made an extra copy of our new keys and left them for me. She was the one to go to Walmart for the copies, after all.

My shoulders sag. I lower the gun. As the adrenaline ebbs, I feel ridiculous. Still, I check the entire apartment. Room by room, I make sure windows are locked. I sweep Esther’s bedroom, then close the door behind her. Then I double check the front door.

Locked.

Feeling a bit paranoid, I head to my bedroom. I pass by Dio sleeping on his back, his tummy rising and falling with each breath.

“Goodnight,” I whisper, and slip into my room.

I change into a Mindless Self Indulgence T-shirt and peel back the covers on my bed. Another set of shiny keys rests on my pillow. This time, I flat out scream.

Turning, I snatch the gun from my vanity. Tears prick at my eyes. I gasp for breath, feeling as if my chest is being squeezed. Chills dot my body. Still sucking in sharp breaths, I turn back to the bed.

They’re still there.

A whimper escapes my lips. He’s fucking with me. Probably watching through my window right now and laughing at me. Except my blinds are down, the way I usually keep them. I stare at the window, wondering: If I pull them up or peek through, will I find him standing out in the yard?

“Think, Olivia,” I whisper to myself. I can’t let him scare me. If I get hysterical, he wins. I need to flip this around on him. Take back the higher ground.

But I can barely think with my heart pounding in my ears.

My phone vibrates in my bag. I dart across my bedroom and grab it. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. It must be Eli. My thumb slides toward the green button to answer it, but I halt.

I can’t play his game. If I answer it, he’ll just keep playing with me.

I put the phone down on my bed. Then, leaving the light on and the door cracked open, I ease out of my room.

On the balls of my feet, I prowl the apartment. I tuck sleepy Dio into his carrier and close him in Esther’s room. The whole time, I hear my phone vibrating in my bedroom.

Shrouded in shadows, I park myself in a corner of the living room. I drop to a crouch, gun drawn. If he comes in—no, when he comes in—he won’t make it far.

I swallow hard, muscles coiled. My arms aren’t used to being straight out for long, and after only a couple of minutes, they start to fall asleep. I flex my elbows, getting the blood pumping again. But my eyes never leave the door.

In my bedroom, my phone stops ringing.

Every beat of my heart is a hollow echo in my ears. Tears sting my eyes, whether from fatigue or fear, I don’t know. I turn off the safety.

The door knob jiggles, the distinct sound of a key fitting into the lock cutting across the room to me. Even after seeing the spare keys he left for me, hearing it sends shockwaves of nausea through me.

He made copies of my apartment keys.

I picture him sitting in a dim cellar with an old fashioned key-making machine. My parents had one that was my great-grandfather’s. All he had to do was take the blank to my apartment, notch it in the lock, and voila. Chills ripple up and down my spine.

I’ve put too much trust into this world, even after all I’ve seen. Safety is only an illusion. One that I’ve gladly wrapped myself in.

Until now.

Time slows, and I take a long, deep breath in through my nose. As the bottom lock disengages, I form a fast plan.

I’m not an experienced shooter. I won’t be able to hit him while he’s moving. My best bet is to let him come all the way in. Let him think I’m in my bedroom. Follow him. And then close in. There won’t be anywhere for him to run.

The deadbolt clicks.

I snap to attention.

The knob turns, and the door pushes open slowly. It doesn’t even make a sound. I think of all the nights I’ve slept here, oblivious, while he probably came in and watched me. Touched my cat. Fury flashes through me. I lift my chin.

Eli steps inside. In the dark, it’s hard to make out his face, but he isn’t even wearing a ski mask or anything like that. Cocky motherfucker. He glances around, his eyes unadjusted to the dark. His head swivels in the direction of the light peeking out from under my bedroom door. I can’t see it, but I know he’s smiling, that blank clicking spinning in his eyes.

My blood freezes at the thought of it.

He heads toward my bedroom, his footfalls silent. With each pace, my nerves tighten. If I move too early, he’ll see me and it’ll all be over. But if I’m not fast enough, it’s over anyway.

Eli stops just outside my door. Silhouetted against the light, he looks like a breathing horror movie poster. He stands there for what feels like ages. I don’t know how much he can see inside, but I have a feeling he already knows I’m not in there.

I don’t think I’m going to get another chance.

I sidestep along the wall, then loop around in what I hope is his blind spot. The whole time, I have the gun drawn on him. He might be bigger and faster, but I’ll make sure I at least put a few holes in him before he kills me.

Inching behind him, I take aim at the back of his head. When I’m only a few feet away, he swivels around.

I jump back, stifling the scream in my throat. It comes out as a wheezing gasp. “Don’t move,” I say, the gun still trained on him.

I expect him to lunge at me, but he just stands there. Several beats pass. Neither of us move. Eli doesn’t speak.

“What do you want?” I ask, even though I don’t really expect an answer. It’s obvious what he wants.

The living room light flicks on, flooding my vision. I shut my eyes against the burn, taking several steps back. Eli’s laugh skewers me. Jerking my eyes open, I point the gun right at his face.

His hand lowers from the light switch next to my bedroom door. Turning his arms, he exposes his forearms to me, sleeves already rolled up.

Nausea creeps up my throat as my eyes trace the letters of my name that are carved into his flesh. The wounds are still raw, as if he did it only hours ago.

“I love you, Olivia,” he breathes. “I want to take your picture.”

My stomach curdles. “Sorry, but I’m not into modeling.” I’m impressed by how steady my voice is.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stack of photos. With one flick of his wrist, he drops them to the floor. They scatter, and I can clearly see the subject.

Dio, sitting on his haunches, big eyes looking into the camera.

Dio, bloody and mangled on my bed.

Me, unlocking my front door, my face turned to the side.

Esther’s slit tires, the Valentine’s message carved into her trunk.

Me, asleep in my bed, curls framing my face.

The air comes out of my lungs in a whoosh.

“I wanted to touch you,” Eli says, “brush your hair back. But I was afraid you’d wake up. You look so peaceful when you sleep.” The smile that spreads across his face is waxy and off balance, as if someone pinned it into place. “But I really want to shoot you while you’re awake.”

He reaches into his back pocket again, pulling out a small black rectangular object. I’ve seen enough movies to know what it is. Before I can squeeze off a round, he pulls the trigger.

Electricity grips me, convulsing through me. Despite how tightly I hold onto it, the gun drops to the floor. I crumple right after it. Shockwaves jerk every nerve and muscle in my body. Blood oozes from my nose. The pain is seemingly never-ending.

Eli looms over me. “Hmn. I may have turned that up too high.” Pocketing the taser, he grabs my wrists and drags me into the living room. “We’ll set up a studio right here.” His voice is delirious with joy. “Don’t move, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”

I hear the front door open and close. Gasping, I will my muscles to move. It’s life or death here. But they don’t so much as twitch. If I could cry, I would—but there’s no time anyway. I try to wiggle a toe, anything. Nothing happens.

I wish I’d paid more attention during the self-defense class I took as a freshman.

I focus on breathing, bringing oxygen into my paralyzed body. Breathing out the toxins from the electricity. Seconds race by. Eli can’t have much equipment. I’ve got to hurry.

The feeling in my muscles starts to creep back in. Agonizing pain grips me. Gritting my teeth, I raise myself up onto my elbows. I army crawl through the living room, sweat pouring down my face and back. It doesn’t matter. Fuck the pain. If I don’t reach that gun, I’m dead.

I near the gun. It’s only a few feet away.

The front door swings open.

Launching myself forward, I grab the weapon. Eli springs across the living room, a heavy boot kicking at my arm. I squeeze off a round, but it goes wild. The silencer mutes it, but the impact of the bullet into one of Esther’s vases is ear shattering. Glass flies everywhere, shards glittering on the floor. I swing my arms back, using my knees to retreat a few feet. I need room, but Eli reaches for me.

I pull the trigger, embedding a bullet in his hand.

He screams in pain, his other hand gripping his wrist as if the limb is going to fall off and he’d better hold on. As if sensing that I’m aiming again, this time to kill, he dives toward me.

I roll onto my side, skittering out of the way just in time. He crashes into the coffee table. Several candles in heavy jars go flying. One thuds into his shoulder. Groaning, he grabs it and chucks it at me. It slams into my temple.

The room goes gray, spins.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to stay here. Blood streams down my forehead, into my eye, cascading down my cheek. I blink away the burning pain.

Eli throws himself at me, his good hand clamping around my ankle. He starts to drag me forward, face red with exertion. “I’m going to kill you, bitch,” he laughs, “and then I’m going to shoot you. I’m going to shoot you in every pose,” he grunts over and over.

Bringing up the gun, I take aim at his face. “Fuck that,” I force out. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet slams into the space between his eyes, leaving a quiet hole. He jerks back, eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, his grip on my ankle tightens. Then he careens back. Open eyes gape up at the ceiling. He doesn’t move.

Blood seeps into the white carpet.

All at once, my entire body starts shaking. I can’t move or think. All I can see is the puddle of inky red and that perfect entry wound. Then my vision goes gray.

I slap myself, hard. I actually see stars, my cheek stinging from the impact. But it does the trick. Dropping the gun, I cling to the wall, using it to draw myself to my feet. I stagger toward the front door.

Eli left it partially open. I peer out into the night. My apartment complex and neighborhood sit in silence. It’s as if none of this has actually happened. I shut the door and face my living room.

My eyes go instantly to the body on my floor, as if magnetized. It starts to sink in. I’ve just killed a man. There’s a corpse in my apartment.

A sob builds in my throat, but I cut it off. This is no time to cry. I’ve got work to do. I have to get rid of Eli. The problem is, I’ve never done this before. I have no clue what I’m doing. Plus, my arms and legs might as well be spaghetti, thanks to the taser. I need help.

And there’s only one person I can trust.

Thank you for reading Chapter 16 of A Disturbing Prospect.

Continue Reading A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 17

Photo by MilanMarkovic / Depositphotos

A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 15

“I threw him onto the floor. My fists kept pounding into his face.” I can still hear the way they sounded, flesh connecting with raw meat. A sort of heavy, wet smacking. “Broke his nose, caved in a cheekbone. And I kept hitting him.

“I killed him, Olivia. And I’d do it again.”

catch up A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 3 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 4 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 5 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 6 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 7 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 8 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 9 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 10 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 11 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 12 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 13 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 14 Cliff

Olivia kicks against me, the ball of her foot smashing against my shin. I release her, and hold my hands up, palms out. She whips around, fists up. They drop when recognition dawns on her face.

“You did work,” I say, grinning through a wince.

She sags against the closed front door, though, face pale. She sinks to the carpet and draws her knees to her chest.

“Liv?” I cross the distance between us and sit next to her.

Blinking away tears, she shakes her head over and over again. It’s a steady hand that brushes her hair out of her eyes, though, and I know my girl’s going to be okay. Still, I wrap an around around her and pull her close.

“Sorry I scared you,” I whisper into her hair.

Her head snaps up, though, as if she’s already showed too much vulnerability for too long. Those eyes ice over—a look I’m more than familiar with. Olivia is trapped in her own prison.

She lifts her chin. “What do you know about Mercer Reynolds?” A cold, calculating gaze searches my face.

“The name doesn’t really ring a bell,” I say, “but isn’t that your last name?”

“Mercy, then?” Her face is as hard as white marble, the usual contours of her cheeks gone.

I shrug. “Olivia, what’s this about?” I hug her closer, even though her body is rigid.

“You should know.” Her voice is sharp and accusing. “You were in prison with him!” Those eyes glare up at me.

Frowning, I churn the name around in my head. During my sentence, I mostly kept to myself. I didn’t need the usual color-coded protection because I’d killed a child molester. In even the hardest criminals’ eyes, I was a hero—which meant I avoided the others. For the most part, they avoided me too.

I close my eyes and go back in time, floating through concrete halls and a blur of faces. Mercy. The name does sound familiar.

Then I remember.

“He came in after me,” I tell her, eyes still closed. “He banded up with the whites. Not the Nazis. There were a few white groups.” I remember seeing him a few times in the courtyard. He was in max, so we didn’t cross paths often. He wasn’t any taller than anyone else, but he had a presence about him. Jet black hair. And those same goddamn eyes.

My own eyes open, zeroing in on Olivia’s immediately. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it,” I mutter.

“So it’s true?” Her eyes fill up with tears, and I can’t tell whether she’s furious or what. “Mercy is alive?”

“You want to catch me up here?” I nod for her to follow me to my room. Even though Lucy has a strict no smoking policy, it’s cold as fuck outside. And I picked up this cigarette smell neutralizing spray shit the other day. It smells like crisp mountains or something equally fake.

I’ve officially been domesticated.

We sit on my bed, my back against the wall and Olivia in my arms. My legs form protective walls around her. Smoke curls into the air for several long minutes.

Then she tells me what Donny told her.

“Did you ever talk to him?” she asks, twisting around to meet my eyes.

“A few times.” I glance down at my cigarette, mind spinning. Yet another way that we’re connected. And here we sit, on my bed—the rightful heirs to the club. I suck in a deep breath. “Olivia, there’s something you need to know. About me.” And us, but I don’t say so.

She closes her eyes, a long blink. “I just want to know what he’s like. Who he is.”

“And I’ll tell you,” I promise. “But first you need to know who my father is.”

She turns in my arms until she’s facing me. Drawing her limbs into a cross-legged position, she sits with her knees touching mine. “Shoot,” she says.

“Sebastian Demmel,” I say, nearly choking on his name in disgust. “Or Bastard.” I pause, feeling bile rising up in my throat. This is more Lucy’s story than mine. It almost feels like a violation of her privacy. But if we’re going to be caught in this web, then Olivia needs to know the truth.

All of it.

“Lucy’s parents—your parents—worked a lot of the same shifts, so she was always over at my house. I loved her, Livvie. We were both only-children, and there weren’t any other cousins in the family yet.” I smile as memories of chasing Lucy around my backyard skip through my head. I take a deep breath.

“She used to stay overnight.” Grimacing, I shake my head. “I can’t give you the details, but she started having nightmares. She was so confused. She’d beg her parents to let her stay home, but she still always wanted to see me.” I light another cigarette, hands shaking. “Finally, she told her parents.”

I look Olivia straight in the eye, pain pulsing in my temples. “Sebastian,” I spit out his name, “was . . . hurting her.” The familiar searing ripping in my chest splits my heart. My fingers twitch in reflex. I bring the cigarette to my lips, pulling in a long drag until my lungs burn.

“Jesus,” Olivia whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. “He was molesting her?”

I nod, my jaw flexing. The fire rips through me. I’m standing in that kitchen all over again. “I’d been out at work. No one else believed her. I didn’t know she was coming over that night. When I got home—” My voice breaks. I turn away, staring ruefully at the wall. I don’t want to repeat what I saw before the red washed it away.

I suck in a deep breath. “I pushed him away from her and shoved her aside. I think she hit her head on the cabinet doors. But she curled up and backed into the corner. Then I lifted him off the chair.” I shake my head. “He was so much bigger than me, but somehow I did it. And—” My lips curl into a vengeful smile.

In the dying light of the bedroom, I must look like a jack-o-lantern.

Olivia says nothing, though. She just watches me, listening, her chest barely rising and falling.

“I threw him onto the floor. My fists kept pounding into his face.” I can still hear the way they sounded, flesh connecting with raw meat. A sort of heavy, wet smacking. “Broke his nose, caved in a cheekbone. And I kept hitting him.”

I look down at my hands, the cigarette limp between two fingers. “Then I wrapped my hands around his neck. And put all of my weight into it.” I blink, remembering how his legs kicked out, arms jerking. “There was still some fight in him. I snuffed it out.”

I look at Olivia again. “I killed my own father, Olivia.”

“You saved Lucy,” she begins, but I cut her off.

“I enjoyed every second of it,” I say. “I didn’t do it to help Lucy. I did it because I wanted to, because I knew it would feel good.” I lean forward. “And I would do it again.”

“It felt good,” she echoes.

“Yes.” I stub out my cigarette. “This is what I am, Olivia. This is why you need to stay away from me. Because I snap. I lose control, and the urge takes over.” I think of all the men I beat up. The ones who preyed on the quiet men, the few that dared to fuck with me. The time in seg was always worth it.

“One of the few times I spoke to Mercy,” I say, “he complimented me. He said, ‘Nice form.’ And then he walked away. He didn’t even bother asking me to join his group. He knew I didn’t need them.”

I show her my hands. “I’ve touched you with these. How does that feel?”

She stares at me with wide eyes. No fear swims in them, though. Her nostrils flare. “Like I want you to touch me again,” she whispers.

Then she’s in my lap, hands grabbing my face and crushing my lips to hers. Those long legs wrap around my waist, and she pries my lips open. “Fuck me, Cliff,” she breathes into my mouth.

And I want to—physically, anyway. Maybe even emotionally, whatever the fuck that means. But I can’t. Because I’ve now shown her who I am. Now that she’s seen a glimpse of the monster, there’s no happy ending here. We’re not going to make love and then fall asleep in each other’s arms.

It ends now.

I push her out of my lap. Not hard enough to send her flying, but enough to get her attention. “No,” I growl. I stand from the bed and pace the room.

Jumping up from the bed, she touches my arm with a delicate hand. “Cliff, you did what you had to—”

I shove her hand away. “Everyone keeps saying that.” Caging her, I back her up against a wall. I press my body into hers. “Don’t you get it?” I seethe. “You’re playing with fire, little girl.”

Her hands strain at my chest, her mouth twisted. “You’re telling yourself the wrong story, Cliff.” Those luminous eyes meet mine. They glint with lust—and something else. A fire that I can’t name. It makes me want to claim her even more, to make her mine forever.

But I can’t.

I lean in, our noses touching. “Become a social worker,” I rasp. “Get out of this town, and save little kids. But don’t ever come near me again.”

Her eyes flicker. “Don’t do this, Cliff.” She isn’t pleading. Her voice is hard. Like she’s so much wiser than I am, like she can see the future.

I have to let her go, though.

Gripping her arms, I press her hard against the wall. Lucy will be home soon. And I have to leave.

I release her, resisting the urge to kiss those lips one last time. Then, grabbing my cut, I brush past her. As I walk through the living room, I hear a tiny meow. My gaze snags on the cat carrier on the floor, wondering why Olivia would bring Dio over to Lucy’s. But it doesn’t matter. I have to get moving, get out of here before Lucy gets home and talks me out of this.

I slam the front door behind me, and Olivia doesn’t follow. Even as I stomp on the kick starter, I sort of hope that she will. But this isn’t a fucking Disney movie, and my resolve has to be solid. For her safety, and for mine.

I let the Screamin’ Eagle speak for me as I roar away, locking my heart down as tightly as the engine welded underneath me.


Pulling into the parking lot of The Wet Mermaid, I decide I really need a second vehicle. The roads were slippery, and I nearly wiped out a few times. I don’t want to outdo Skid. He can keep that title.

I find Beer Can inside, sitting at the bar. Seeing it is a stinging reminder of Olivia. Of course, she isn’t here. A woman I’ve never seen is currently serving, but that doesn’t say much. I’m still an alien here.

“You’re late,” Beer Can says without looking at me.

I sit on the stool next to him. “Yeah. I got caught up in something.” I shake my head at him. Since I’m a Prospect, I’m not included in Church or votes. I’m pretty much in the dark. But I’m seriously pissed that they sprung all of the Mercy shit on Olivia without giving me a heads up.

“Something you wanna say?” Beer Can eyes me, bloodshot and red-rimmed.

“No.” It comes out a gruff rasp, harder than I intended. But fuck it. I’m in a shitty mood.

“Can I get you something, honey?” the bartender asks. Golden hair flows over her shoulders, cascading to her hips.

There isn’t a drink in the world that is strong enough, but I order a whiskey on the rocks.

“Now that you’ve got your sippy cup,” Beer Can says, standing, “follow me. I’ve got a job for you.”

He leads me to the rooms upstairs, then knocks at a closed door. A woman’s voice answers, and he pushes it open.

She sits on the bed, black chin-length hair tucked behind her ears. I peg her at about my age. The clothes she’s wearing are a mix of a size too big and too small—a mashup of donations, from the looks of them. Bruises mar her face and neck. The clothes cover the rest of them. It’s just a guess, but from the way she ducks her head, I’d say it’s worse than that.

“Cliff, this is Bree.” Beer Can nods to us both in introduction. “She’s your job.”

Holding my whiskey, I look back and forth between them.

“Bree is a friend of the club. She needs a ride to the train station.” Beer Can tosses me a set of keys. “You’re taking the blue Chevy.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t have a license.”

“That hasn’t stopped you from riding that bike around,” he remarks.

“Yes,” I say slowly, “but we’re talking about driving into New Haven. Lots of cops. Spot checks. Shit like that.”

Beer Can laughs, crossing his arms. “Well, well, well.” His eyes skewer me. “Don’t ask questions. Just do what you’re fucking told.” He picks up a duffel bag from the floor and shoves it into my arms. “Take the lady to the train station, Prospect. When you get back, you can take her room.”

He leaves us, swaying as he heads down the hall.

I turn to look at Bree. She stands from the bed, hugging herself.

“Well,” she says, “shall we?”


I chainsmoke as I drive, eyes flitting from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors to the windshield. This whole thing makes me nervous as fuck. Strange woman, unlicensed driver. Probably an unregistered car. Maybe they’re testing me to see how loyal I am.

“So how do you tie in with the club?” I ask, stopping at one of Naugatuck’s million stop signs. My plan is to avoid the highway and 63. It’s going to take us forever to get to New Haven. At least I don’t have dinner plans.

“Oh, well, you know.” I glance at her. She smiles. “I help out here and there. They help me.” Her shoulders lift and fall.

“That’s not vague.” I light another cigarette. “Are you a hooker?”

Bree snorts. “Are you a bank manager?”

My eyebrow twitches. I check the speedometer. I’m pushing the speed limit. Letting off the gas a little, I try to put the pieces together. Donny is the club’s Enforcer. Beer Can is the Sergeant-At-Arms. Bree is a friend of the club who’s wearing an awful lot of bruises. “Who are you running from?”

The laughter dies on her lips. “No one,” she says. “Not anymore.”

Bingo.

I relax back into the driver’s seat. “Where are you going?”

“New Haven,” she replies. “That’s where you’re taking me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, the train station.” I glance at her again. She’s staring out her window, probably looking for ghosts. “How far out of state do they want you to go?”

“My, my. There are some brains behind that handsome face.” She shifts in her seat, and I notice the edge of a tattoo on her wrist. She pulls her sleeve down before I can get a good look at it.

“Sounds like this is a regular thing for you.” I hold my pack of cigarettes out to her over the center console.

She pushes them back to me. “That’s pretty presumptuous for someone who just met me fifteen minutes ago.”

“Look, I’m not looking down on you.” I rake hair back from my face. “I’m just wondering . . . Aren’t you tired of running?” I know I am.

Bree doesn’t answer.

After ten minutes, the silence starts to get to me. I turn on PLR, since I’ve recently discovered that WMRQ is no longer the alternative rock station that I grew up with. PLR mostly plays classic rock like Def Leppard and Tesla, but they slide in some Stone Temple Pilots and the like every so often.

The closer we get to New Haven, the more Bree checks the time on the dashboard. I don’t know what time her train leaves, but it must be soon.

Ditching the back roads for 63, I push the speedometer as far as I can without truly speeding. I just hope we don’t hit the regular gridlock.

Whoever designed New Haven’s network of one-way streets was an asshole with a sadistic sense of humor.

Traffic in the city isn’t bad, but it’s still slow. Bree fidgets in her seat, looking more and more like she’s going to eject herself from the car and run the rest of the way. We inch toward Union Station. I’m not the one catching the train but I’m starting to feel anxious, too. If I fuck this up and Bree misses her train, I have a feeling I’ll be losing more than my cut.

But traffic starts flowing again, and I pull in front of the station at 5:39.

Bree grabs her duffel bag from the backseat.

“Am I walking you in?” I don’t remember whether Beer Can said.

But Bree shakes her head. “My train is for 5:45. I’ve got to haul ass.” She leans over and gives me an almost motherly peck on the cheek. With one hand, she pushes open the passenger door. Then she climbs out, slamming the door shut behind her. She starts to walk away, then pauses. Turns.

I roll down the window. “Gonna give me a tip?”

A smile touches her eyes. “Take care of my daughter, Cliff.”

Then she turns and disappears inside.

Thank you for reading Chapter 15 of A Disturbing Prospect.

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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 14

I still have no idea how he got into my apartment. The thought sends chills down my spine. Maybe I am a little scared. My mind flashes to Dio, mangled and bloody in my bed. Nope, not scared. Pissed.

catch up A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 3 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 4 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 5 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 6 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 7 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 8 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 9 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 10 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 11 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 12 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 13 Olivia

The sunlight slanting in through the front windows of the veterinarian’s waiting room does little to calm me as I pace the small area. Somehow, Dio survived the night. They were able to set his tiny bones and, after several imaging tests, determined that no damage was done to his internal organs. At least, none that won’t heal in time.

I just want to see him. The assistant already warned me that he’s heavily sedated so that he can get better, but I don’t care.

I didn’t sleep last night, and not because I was scared that Eli would come back. No tiny bell tinkled intermittently, letting me know Dio was prowling the apartment. It felt strange not having him there.

My phone vibrates in my bag. I tug it free and read the text from Esther: “We found tires. Waiting for the guys to put them on. Be back ASAP.”

But my shoulders only sag with partial relief. Esther was cool enough to let my rent slide for the month, that way I could afford both Dio’s care and the tires. But between that and stopping at Walmart last night to buy a new lock set for the apartment, I’m officially tapped.

Then there’s school to think about.

I resume pacing. I should be at my internship right now. For the most part, it isn’t really a big deal. I’m already behind. But eventually I have to return to campus, and I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to handle this.

The gun is a comforting weight in my purse, but it’s not like I can shoot Eli in the face in broad daylight. Nor will he try anything during the day, surrounded by hundreds of people on campus. Besides, as far as he’s concerned, right now I have no idea who’s stalking me. He’s still the nice guy from my photography class who let me borrow a camera and hangs out with me at lunch.

Which doesn’t make any of this any less disturbing.

Nibbling on my lip, I begin my circuit of the tiny room again. Somehow I have to lure Eli out to a secluded place where no one will interrupt him. But it has to be somewhere I have the advantage. Having a gun doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be the one to walk away. He’s still bigger than me, and he’s already proven that he’s smart.

I still have no idea how he got into my apartment.

The thought sends chills down my spine. Maybe I am a little scared. I guess it’d be weird if I wasn’t. My mind flashes to Dio, mangled and bloody in my bed. A sob escapes my lips.

Nope, not scared.

Pissed.

A door opens and the assistant pokes her head out. “Come on in, Mom,” she says, her voice warm.

I pick up Dio’s carrier and follow her into the small exam room.

My kitten lays on the stainless steel table in a bundle of towels. Someone’s dressed him in a preemie-sized onesie covered in tiny ducks. Sensing my presence, Dio cracks an eye open and makes a small monkey squeak.

Tears sting my eyes. I cross the room and rub his little nose. His eyes close peacefully, body rising and falling in steady rhythm.

I face the assistant. “He’s going to be okay?”

She nods, launching into an explanation of exactly what they did and the medications he’ll have to take. I’m delighted to be sticking my fingers into his mouth and force-feeding him pills—bites be damned. Since he’s still so young and has such a strong spirit, she tells me, he should heal pretty well. But I shouldn’t be alarmed if he walks with a limp, and she thinks that his tail will be permanently crooked.

My hands clench into fists, eyes narrowing to dam a fresh well of tears.

“Ms. Reynolds,” the assistant says gently, gesturing for me to sit, “I really think we should fill out a police report. This is animal cruelty, and punishable by law—”

I scoff, cutting her off. “Do you really think the cops are going to run around chasing a cat beater?” My voice breaks.

She takes a deep breath. “It’s not just Dio’s safety at risk.” Her eyes probe mine. “Right?”

“I changed my locks.” I stand. “Can I take him home now?”

“Of course,” she says. She helps me put him in the carrier, which has a removable top. I’ve padded the hell out of the thing with T-shirts, towels, and blankets. My little prince should have a relatively smooth ride home.

The veterinary assistant runs me through his meds one more time, then reminds me of his followup appointment for the removal of his stitches. “And if you change your mind about the police report,” she says, handing me a business card, “I can back you up.” Then she returns to her work.

I text Esther, but she’s still waiting on her car. I’m dying for a cigarette, but I don’t want to take Dio outside. It’s too cold. So I resume pacing, leaving him on a chair where I can see him. I’m not letting him out of my sight—at least not for the time being.

Eventually I’ll have to leave his side again. I have to be okay with that. Life has to go on. My locks are changed and there was no sign of forced entry, so we should all be safe now.

Nibbling my lip, I think of Esther’s tires. There’s nothing stopping Eli from slashing them again. But, I remind myself as I pass the front windows, he initially thought they were mine. Esther isn’t his target.

It’s me that he wants.

My phone buzzes. “Donny’s coming to get you guys,” Esther’s text reads.

I glance out the window. I don’t want to be alone with Donny. Not because I’m afraid of him. Despite his wide shoulders and corded muscles, the dude’s a teddy bear. Esther wouldn’t be with him if he was an asshole. But as soon as we’re alone, he’s going to push for me to tell Cliff. I already know it. Maybe I’m being stubborn, but I’ve been taking care of myself my whole life. I don’t need Prince Charming to ride in on his motorcycle and shoot down my dragon. I’ve got my own gun. I’ll slay my own monsters.

Donny pulls up and jumps out, leaving the engine idling. He strides into the clinic, glancing around. His eyes land on me, then flick to Dio in his carrier.

“Oh, thank God,” he says. Crossing the room, he engulfs me in a bear hug.

I stiffen, but only because neither Donny nor any of the other guys have ever hugged me. It’s a bit awkward. His embrace is warm, though, and his cologne smells just as pleasant as it feels to be in his arms. I relax against him. It’s a purely platonic hug. Even if he wasn’t with Esther, Donny is old enough to be my father.

Not that any age gap ever stopped me from fucking Cliff’s brains out.

Still, there’s just something benevolent and protective about Donny that makes me trust him. It’s a gut feeling, and my gut is never wrong. Which is precisely why I want him to keep his mouth shut. It’s bad enough I have one River Reaper hovering around me like a nervous mother. I don’t know Cliff very well, but I’ve spent enough time with him to know what he’d do to Eli if I told him. Especially since I know he was away for twenty years.

You don’t do hard time on small offenses like assault.

Donny steps away, blinking away moisture in his eyes. “Looking at that little guy last night,” he says, moving over to Dio’s carrier, “I didn’t think he was gonna make it.” He peers in through the small holes cutout in the sides. “He’s sleeping. He looks good.”

“He does,” I agree, joining him. I lift the carrier as gently as possible, trying not to rock Dio around too much. Donny holds the door for me and we head out.

I’m not sure whether it’s my imagination or not, but Donny is driving more carefully than usual, avoiding potholes and bumps, and actually obeying the 25 mph speed limit. He follows Wolcott Street, then takes a very gentle left onto Lakewood.

“We got a good deal on tires.” He slows as we near McDonald’s. “You hungry? I told Essie I’d grab something on our way back.”

I smile at the nickname. It’s too fucking cute. Give it a few months, and these two will be planning their wedding. I wonder if Esther knows what she’s getting herself into. Donny may be a good guy, but he’s still the club Enforcer. I don’t know exactly what kind of business he handles, but it sure as hell isn’t kitten sitting.

Donny pulls into the drive-thru and orders enough food for an army. I sneak a fry out of the large bag sitting between us.

“Between you and Cliff, I’m gonna get fat.” I shake my head in disapproval.

“Red Dog? Oh yeah. Dude loves his Mickey D’s.”

I frown. “Red Dog?” My maybe-boyfriend has a weird ass nickname and I’m the last to know about it.

“Yeah,” Donny rasps, “from his time in the pen. It started off as a joke, but from what I’m hearing, it kinda morphed after he busted a few noses. He was always walking around covered in other people’s blood.”

Lifting an eyebrow, I stare at Donny. “How do you know this?”

His big shoulders rise and fall. “Aw, sweetheart.” He drives past the tire shop, heading toward the top of the hill.

“Where are we going?” My pulse thrums in my veins. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up.

Donny casts sidelong glances at me in between peeks at the road. Though it’s stopped snowing, the pavement is still slick in some places. “I’ve gotta look you in the eyes while I tell you this, darlin’.”

“Tell me what?” Now I’m on high alert. I wrap my arms around Dio’s carrier, trying to decide whether I should push open the door and bail, or if I should wait ’til we get to wherever we’re going. It seems pretty ironic that I might have to pull my gun on the guy who gave it to me.

He pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned restaurant. The tires roll over the untouched snow. Donny tucks us far enough away from the road that we won’t be bothered, but turns around so that we’re facing the parking lot exit.

“You’re freaking me out, Donny.” I slug down ice cold Dr. Pepper in a feeble attempt to cool my burning nerves.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” He puts the truck in park and turns in his seat. His eyes lock with mine. “We took a vote.”

I wait, as still as a deer.

“Ravage and I wanted to tell you years ago, but you know how it goes. We finally got all the guys to agree.” Opening the bag of food, he plucks a fry from a cardboard container.

I roll my eyes, partially in relief but also because he’s taking forever to spit out whatever it is. I grab a couple more fries, more to keep myself busy.

“See, I can’t talk to you in front of Essie because I asked her and she told me she doesn’t want to have anything to do with club business. But Olivia . . .” Golden brown eyes search mine, almost pleadingly. “You’ve always been a part of the family.”

“Gee, thanks, Donny,” I say, “but you’ve only known me for like a year.”

He grimaces. “Yeah . . . no. That’s not true. I’ve known you since you were a baby.”

My eyebrows furrow. I’m not sure how what he’s saying can be possible. My parents are completely unaffiliated with the club—both them and my biological parents. As far as I know, anyway. My eyes widen, the pieces falling into place. “No,” I whisper. Not because I’m denying it, but because it seems impossible.

Donny nods. “Yes, babygirl. Your daddy—your real father—is Mercy Reynolds. He’s one of the founders of the River Reapers. He and Bastard Demmel built this club.”

“Demmel?” I parrot.

“Red Dog’s father.” Donny’s lips flatten. “Ya’ll have some serious family history to discuss.”

Rubbing my temples, I pat around for the door handle. The air in the truck is suddenly too heavy. I shove the door open, then maneuver Dio’s carrier around in my lap until he’s on the passenger seat and I’m slipping out. I close the door and walk away several paces, lighting up as soon as I’m a safe distance away. My kitten doesn’t need secondhand smoke on top of broken bones, bruises, and lacerations.

I turn around, not surprised to see Donny joining me. I hold out my pack to him, but he shakes his head.

“Anything else I should know about?” I feel like my world’s been tilted on its axis. Up until two minutes ago, I had no idea who my birth father was. All I know is that my birth mother had been fourteen when she got pregnant. She raised me until I was eight. I remember every detail of the day the police came to our apartment and took me away, but I don’t talk about it. There was never any reason to. Lucy’s parents—my parents—have been nothing but good to me, if not a little heavy on the partying.

“Olivia, your daddy’s still alive,” Donny says quietly.

My hand stops halfway to my lips. The cigarette burns in front of me. “What?”

“Reason why we know so much about Red Dog is because he was inside with Mercy. One of us visits every so often, catches him up. And he filled us in on Red Dog.” Donny touches my arm. “You’re pale, girl.”

Hand shaking, I bring the cigarette to my lips. “So you’re telling me,” I say in a steady but dead voice, “that I was able to see him, and had no fucking idea?” I think of the week we spent in Lewisburg. I have a father. An alive father. Who is mine. And I could have visited, but instead hopped right back on the train, completely oblivious.

Donny nods. He lets me process this for a few beats. Then, very quietly, he says, “There’s more.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” I throw up my hands. “Is this why you bought me McDonald’s? To soften the blow?” I shake my head. “I don’t want to know.”

“You do, though.” Donny gently takes my shoulders. “Olivia, you do.”

I can’t believe any of this. For one, why the fuck didn’t Lucy’s parents tell me? And why did I go into foster care if I had a breathing relative? Too many questions swirl through my head, and I’m not sure I want the answers. My father is a River Reaper. That blood runs through me. The club is just as much a part of me as it is Cliff.

“Wait,” I say. “Is this why I got the job? Not because of my certification or ability to mix good drinks. But because of the fucking club?”

Donny winces. “We took a vote,” he says.

“Fuck your vote.” I hurl the words at him. “None of you thought maybe you might wanna get me up to speed?”

“Big things like that have to be unanimous,” he explains. “But your job was undisputed. The vote was more of a formality. We promised your dad that we’d take care of you.”

“Oh, enough of that bullshit.” My cigarette is down to the filter. I flick it into the snow and light another. “I don’t need your charity. I’ll start looking for something else.” Or maybe, I muse, I’ll move down to Lewisburg and take something there. Someone’s going to have to be around when my father gets out—and it sure as fuck can’t be this good for nothing club. “A vote,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“That would kill Ravage,” Donny says. “And your dad.” He lifts my chin with a gentle finger. “Don’t you get it, darlin’? You’re with us so we can watch out for you. Your daddy didn’t want you all alone while he’s behind bars.” Turning his head, he spits into the snow. “Your goddamn mother—”

I jerk away and hold up my hands. “Enough. I’m done.” Turning, I stalk back toward the pickup. I can’t deal with any more of this conversation, with anything else he has to tell me. I need Lucy. She’s older than me, but she would’ve told me if she already knew. I wonder if our parents know.

I pull myself up into the truck, careful not to jar Dio. When Donny gets in, I tell him to take me to Lucy’s. He doesn’t argue. “Just tell Esther I had some shit to take care of,” I mutter. My entire body feels like it’s been sucked dry, every ounce of life depleted from the very marrow of my bones.

Even though I know it’s not Donny’s fault, I still hold it against him. During the entire ride to Lucy’s, I keep my mouth shut. He doesn’t deserve my company. I don’t even thank him for the food. When we pull up to my sister’s condo, I grab several containers of fries and wrapped burgers, stuffing them into my purse.

The heaviest of conversations couldn’t kill my appetite.

I nod goodbye to Donny, then climb out, taking Dio with me. He lets out a mew that’s more a sigh than anything else.

“It’s okay, baby,” I soothe. “We’re just making a pit stop.”

Donny waits until I get inside the door, earning back some points in my book. Closing it behind me, I put down Dio’s carrier. The familiar calm of my sister’s home envelopes me. Then I remember.

Lucy’s at work.

Before I can check out the front window, strong arms grab me from behind.

Thank you for reading Chapter 14 of A Disturbing Prospect.

Continue Reading A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 15

photo by FamVeldman / Depositphotos

Goodbye forever

I know I’m far from alone in being utterly relieved the year is over. For me, 2024 kicked off with Mike getting a severe TBI, our marriage rocky, neverending hot twisting stabbing pain and tenderness in my pelvis, nerves, and muscles, my career stalled while I fought to get genetic testing approved so I could start treatment. The year ended with my suicide attempt.

I wanted so much for this year. I wanted to publish books, move out of our slumlord apartment, maybe have a baby. While it’s true that I say a version of this at the end of every year, at the top of 2024 my mental health was tanking because I felt like I’ve been denied my life.

Because of my complex PTSD, I have to be careful of victim mentality. But when you’re at the mercy of someone who isn’t even a doctor making medical decisions for you, denying you care, it’s hard to not feel like someone just permanently benched you in your own life.

Today things on the surface look much like they did a year ago, worse in some ways, better in others if you look closer. I’m alive, for one. Even on the very hard days when it doesn’t feel like something to appreciate, I get glimmers of gratitude for having survived. Because at least my husband doesn’t have to plan my funeral.

At least I still get to have a life.

They say suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem; I don’t think they had chronic illness, a not at all temporary problem. Much of my struggle comes from everyone around me just not getting it. What I’m learning is, they don’t have to get it; I have to.

I had a migraine yesterday that gunned me down in the middle of a panic attack—and I was coughing because I’d ironically just smoked (I use cannabis for pain management). If you’ve ever had a migraine, you know that everything makes it worse. It’s really just best if you lie down and die. Sitting there crying from the panic attack and coughing from the two hits I’d taken, I took what felt like an ax to my eyes. So then I was crying because it hurt so fucking bad. You can’t cry or cough with a migraine, so I had to shut it down quick.

Which sucks, because I like to cry out my panic attacks rather than fight or medicate them; research shows that when we cry, we dislodge different chemicals based on what emotions we’re feeling, which means that crying can literally expel toxic feelings from our bodies. I love a good cry. I actually do feel a lot better after, even if my problems aren’t solved.

In the famous words of Shrek, “Better out than in.”

I didn’t want it to go back in, though, because it needed to come out (my panic attack was part flashback from Mike getting injured a year ago and part all the feelings and fallout). I’ve been feeling like hell these last few days (which makes sense because it’s the one-year anniversary).

I laid on the couch with a heating pad on my neck and ice pack on my brow, moaning involuntarily and not in a sexy way. It was one of those migraines where every muscle in your body also, apparently, has a migraine. Thankfully I’d just taken my next scheduled doses of Tylenol and Motrin as well as smoked, so it wasn’t long before the meds, heat, and ice dialed things down quite a bit. I was still in pain and now wiped out, too, so I laid there a bit longer gathering strength so I could go lie down in bed.

Man, I have mastered the art of a nap so I can go to bed. #ChronicLife

Since I couldn’t figure out Netflix in my current state, and Mike was laid out from his own migraine the day before, I had nothing and no one to keep me company. Nobody… except me.

So I laid down with me, the way I’d lie down with the kids when they were little and sick. (I have nine nieces and nephews.) It sounds silly, but I imagined myself snuggling myself, as if I were my own loving mother. I thought to myself, I’m right here, and then I was filled with warmth and comfort.

I still had a migraine, so I went to bed. But my point is, as horrific as this year has been, I came home to myself. I’ve been struggling since I got out of the hospital, feeling once again disillusioned by the healthcare system. I’m procrastinating making followups because yeah, we’re out of a car right now, but also I don’t want to deal with anything medical at the moment. (When you have chronic illness, you also learn the art of doctor breaks.) I’ve long struggled with loving myself. I still struggle with that, but now I can feel that love again.

I was already working my own way out of dissociation using books and things I learned in therapy, but weirdly my suicide attempt knocked me out of it completely. The second I realized I didn’t want to die and chose me, I came fully back into my brain and body. It was like exposure therapy.

I really do have to do everything the hard way.

With my worst fear come true—taking a medication that wasn’t safe for me and under its influence attempting to take my own life—I don’t feel invincible, like in a manic “Nothing can kill me!” way. I just feel like, okay, I’ve been through the thing I feared most, and survived, and now I’m showing up in my own mind, body, and life.

Honey, I’m home, and I’m taking back control.

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Maietta Ink (my publishing company and signed paperbacks store) is back in action, and better than ever! I’ve got Can’t Be Killed stickers for you to show your pride with if you’re a survivor, too, or if you just want to show support for suicide prevention. (I plan on slapping one on my 2025 planner as soon as it comes.)

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I’m really excited for 2025. I’m looking forward to wrapping up writing projects, rolling out more sticker designs, and working on some new things. Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss any of it.

I hope, no matter how dark 2024 got for you, that right now you’re in peace and gentleness, that there is some light for you. I hope you’re healing, too.

See you on the other side…

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 13

I missed a meeting with my parole officer, and if I don’t get down there right now, he’ll send me back to prison. The snow drifting from the sky doesn’t care that my only vehicle is a motorcycle. I’ve got to haul ass.

catch up A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 3 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 4 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 5 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 6 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 7 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 8 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 9 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 10 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 11 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 12 Cliff

When I wake up the next morning, the house around me is quiet. Rolling onto my side, sheets sliding against my naked body, I pat around on the nightstand for my phone. It’s after ten. I haven’t slept in this long in ages.

There are no missed texts or calls, but that’s no surprise. Only a handful of people have my phone number. One of them is at work, another is in class, and the rest of them are probably sleeping off hangovers. I smirk, thinking of my brothers’ somber faces as they headed into Church last night, drinks clutched in their hands. Someday I’ll be a part of that, too.

It feels good to belong to something again.

It feels even better to belong to someone.

Even if Olivia and I haven’t exactly called it, I feel it. Maybe it sounds sappy, but there’s a connection between us that I’ve never felt with anyone before.

I force myself out of bed, bare feet padding across the floor. Lucy should be at work, but I pull on clothes before I leave the guest bedroom—just in case. The weather is calling for snow, so it isn’t a riding lesson day. And I don’t have to be at The Wet Mermaid until later. I make coffee, feeling untethered. For the first time in twenty years, there’s nowhere I have to be.

While I wait for the coffee pot to get going, I consider my options. I can surprise Olivia at school . . . but that would make me seem clingy. It’s better to wait ’til we’re at work. Since Lucy showed me how to download apps, I decide to camp out on the couch catching up on TV and apartment hunting. I know I’m going to break Lucy’s heart the day I move out, but I need my own place—especially if Olivia and I are going to continue seeing each other.

I don’t exactly smile as I carry my coffee into the living room, but it’s close. Just as I go to sit down, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I tug it out and frown as I read the display. Right. There’s one more person who has my phone number: Govender, my P.O.

“Yeah,” I say, slumping into the couch. This whole thing is just a pain in the ass. “Missing me already?”

“I miss you like a hemorrhoid,” he says, “especially since you blew me off this morning.”

I choke on my coffee. “We had a meeting?” I glance around the living room, as if expecting a calendar to appear and prove him wrong.

Govender sighs. “It’s almost cute how you all try to get away with this shit.” His voice grows stern. “My office. Now.” He hangs up, the slamming of the receiver of his phone stinging my ear.

So much for my lazy morning.

I down my coffee and grab a heavy sweatshirt. I start to put my cut on over it, then hesitate. Govender may not approve. Then again, the only transportation I have is the Screamin’ Eagle. It’s not like my P.O. won’t be able to put two and two together. Besides, I’ve got nothing to hide. Maybe my girlfriend—I grin at the label—sells coke from behind the bar, but I’m not doing anything wrong. All I’m doing is riding flank and keeping seventeen-year-old punks out of our strip club.

As I stride outside, I glance up at the sky, hoping the snow will hold off. The last thing I need is to get into an accident. I’m gonna have to start scheduling reminders into my phone like some businessman.

I haul ass out to Govender’s office in Bristol. I’m not completely sure how this whole thing works, but I know missing a meeting with my P.O. is bad. The first flakes tumble from the sky just as I pull into the parking lot. It fucking figures.

I find Govender napping in his office.

“Christ,” I mutter, knocking loudly on the open door.

He jerks up in his chair, the whites of his eyes a stark contrast to his dark skin as they open. “Well, if it isn’t Clifford ‘Red Dog’ Demmel.” He flashes white teeth at me.

This man is never vulnerable, even in his sleep.

I give him a cool look but say nothing about him using my full name. Nor am I surprised that he knows my nickname. It’s slightly odd that he’s using it, though. Red Dog was meant to be a joke. After I punched out some teeth and broke some ribs, though, they all stopped laughing.

I sit down, and Govender gets to business.

“You’re enjoying your new job?” he asks, a pen poised above a yellow legal pad. He always takes notes during our meetings, as if he’s my therapist.

Brow furrowed, I study him. My hands lay flat on my side of his desk. For a moment, I’m transported to meetings with my lawyer, the cuffs digging into my wrists. I shake the ghosts away. “Yeah,” I rasp. “But I’m wondering, why did you set me up with a motorcycle club?” I have no strategy here. I’m just curious.

Govender scribbles something down. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, son.” He peers at me with lifted eyebrows. “You’re reporting for your scheduled work hours on time?”

I shift in my seat. The crease between my eyebrows remains. “The River Reapers,” I say, leaning forward. “The strip club I bounce for is owned by the River Reapers.”

He cocks his head at me, looking stern in a grandfatherly way. He’s about that age. “Son,” he says, exasperated, “the sooner we get through this meeting, the sooner I can go back to my nap.” He taps his notepad with the other end of his pen. “Now, would you say you work about forty hours a week?”

“So you’re just going to pretend like this is no big deal?” I straighten the vest on my shoulders, the heavy leather creaking under my fingertips. “I’m a Prospect. For a potentially one-percent club. And you have no problem with that?”

“Forty hours, then,” he says, writing something else down.

I don’t know what his angle is, and it pisses me off. I stand, towering over him. “We done here?”

“Sit down.” His tone is bored.

Eyes narrowing, I remain standing.

Govender stands too, his chair moving back a couple of inches on its wheels. He’s not nearly as tall as I am, but he glowers up at me anyway. “Son, I’m going to give you a piece of friendly advice. You’re going to shut your mouth for two minutes and take it.” He places his notes and pen on the desk. “None of us can ever really grasp the inner workings of this world. When we find our places in it, we don’t try to dismantle things. Do you understand?”

I don’t know what the fuck that means, but I shrug. “Whatever.”

We both return to our seats.

“Now, next week, I’m going to need copies of your pay stubs,” he continues, as if everything about this meeting has been business as usual. “And I have here in your file that you’re staying with your cousin, Ms. Lucy Demmel. What are your long-term plans for housing?”

The remainder of the meeting goes quickly, though, and soon I’m out the door, boots tracking through a light dusting of snow. I’m starting to feel out of control again, like everyone around me is just using me in some game.

I’m not a kid. I know how the world works. But during the last twenty years, I’ve been playing a very different game. The rules were simple. The stakes were nearly nonexistent. In some ways, finishing out my sentence would have been better than all of this.

I swing onto the hog. Fuck the snow. I need a ride to clear my head.

I kick and take off, the machine humming between my legs. It probably says a lot that men like me need to ride something powerful in order to feel powerful. Pared down, the River Reapers are just a brotherhood of the broken. All of us are looking for something.

I want to get as far as possible from Bristol, but I don’t head in any particular direction. I ride slow, my headlight on, cold flakes of snow flicking into my eyes. Eventually I’ll take Beer Can’s advice and get some sunglasses or goggles. For now I just squint and lean into it.

Riding in the snow is a fitting punishment.

Wind beats at my cheeks, icy fingers tugging back my skin. I push the bike harder when I get to the freshly plowed and sanded 69. Sand, I know, is a motorcyclist’s archenemy, but I don’t care. Gloved fingers tighten on the handlebars. If I go, at least I’ll go feeling free.

Because lately I feel anything but.

Except when I’m with Olivia.

I follow 69 back down through Wolcott, dodging traffic. Connecticut drivers should know how to drive in the fucking snow, but they don’t. I weave between cars and give the finger to the ones who honk.

Cutting over Manor Avenue, I turn onto Meriden Road. It’s only then that I realize I knew exactly where I was going.

Even with the snow, Pine Grove Cemetery looks the same as it did when I last saw it. A childhood friend of mine is buried here, but so is someone else. I slow to a near crawl as I enter the cemetery, scanning graves. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral, so I don’t know where they buried him. Not that I would’ve gone, anyway. Maybe to spit on his grave.

I’m not really sure why I’m here.

I head to Devon McKennan’s grave, bowing my head and staring at the little plate that marks his resting place. I’m not a religious man. I don’t believe in any god or higher power. But I do think that the people we love look out for us from the other side. Unfortunately for me, Devon and I weren’t close enough for that kind of favor. I still felt the hole he left behind when he died, though.

I press two fingers to my lips, then touch them to the small headstone.

The cemetery is desolate in the winter, even more so underneath the falling snow. I leave my motorcycle parked near Devon and wander the rows of resting souls. I know he’s here somewhere.

As time passes, my toes grow cold and then numb in my boots. The hoodie and vest do little to keep me warm with the rapidly falling temperature, but the snow has slowed, which means I’ll get home in one piece. On the other side of the cemetery, I give up. I’m not going to find him. It’s just as well, because I don’t really have a good reason to visit.

“Fuck it,” I mutter. Turning, I start back toward Devon. My gaze snags on a fairly newer looking headstone—less dark than some of the others. Even though it’s two decades old, it’s held up nicely. I guess my aunt and uncle splurged. My skin crawls at the thought, my balls drawing up into themselves. Blood pounds through my veins.

Lucy may have forgiven them, but I never will.

The engraving reads SEBASTIAN DEMMEL, BELOVED BROTHER, FATHER, UNCLE. My blood boils. If I thought I could actually knock it down, I’d kick the fucking thing. Instead, I step forward.

I tower over it, staring at the photo set under glass or plastic—whatever the fuck it is. His bald head gleams, those dead eyes looking directly into the camera. Guess they couldn’t find a better picture.

“Hello, Sebastian,” I growl in a low voice, even though there’s no one around. Only the dead. “Looks like I’m still standing while you’re on the floor.” I smirk. “Or six feet under.”

There should be some grand revelation here for me, like maybe I’ll suddenly be able to let go of all this anger inside of me. But none of that died the day I killed him. If anything, it only backdrafted, igniting every inch of me. I burn like an underground coal mine.

“I’m going to take your fucking club,” I tell him, nodding. “That’s right. I’m gonna be President. You’ll see, Bastard.” His old nickname. I don’t even really want to hold office, but it seems poetic enough. After all, I’m technically the prince—heir to the biker throne.

I’m just grateful that my father’s reign didn’t last long enough to destroy it.
Straightening the cut, I leer down at the grave. “I’d kill you again. Over and over.” I turn and walk away.

The last grave that I visit is on an opposite end. Her final wishes insisted that she not be buried near him. Devon’s, my father’s, and my mother’s graves all make a triangle, maybe even the kind that will suck me in and hold me prisoner. I find her easily enough. I always have.

I dust off snow from the small rectangle that marks her. She didn’t really have family, so there wasn’t anyone to splurge. There’s barely enough room for her engraving: RUTH WOOD, MOTHER. Now that I’m out and working, I’m going to change that.

“Hey, Mom,” I say gently, tracing the letters with a finger.

Where thinking of my father turns my blood to lava, the thought of my mother dissolves me, returning me to the little boy who found her in the tub. Her hands were still warm. The investigation was open and closed immediately after, because the coroner found a high dose of fentanyl and Ambien in her blood. Technically she passed out before she drowned. But my father was too cavalier about the whole thing, and I’ve always wondered.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here.” I pause, taking a long, deep breath in through my nose. The guilt is suffocating. I should have come sooner. “You should see Lucy,” I say, because I can’t think of what else to tell her. My mom always adored my cousin. If she’d been around, I think she would’ve been the one to kill my father.

“And,” I continue, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile, “you should meet her sister. Well, sort of. She’s adopted.” I click my jaw back and forth. “She’s great, Mom,” I saw softly. “You’d like her.”

And she would. She’d also be able to give me some pointers. My mom may’ve had me young, but she had a lot of class. She took the shit everyone gave her with a blissful grace, letting their comments roll right off her. Which is why I can’t imagine her purposely overdosing on painkillers and sleeping pills, then stepping into a bathtub. She’d never so much as spent a day in bed, never mind slipping into a suicidal depression.

It just doesn’t add up.

Sometimes I miss her terribly, especially now that I’m out. Not only was she my mom, but she was also a mother to Lucy, whose own parents lived in a coke-induced bubble. Still do. I’m honestly surprised that DCF let them adopt a little girl—especially after what they let happen to Lucy.

My blood is simmering again, so it’s time to go.

“See ya later, Mom,” I whisper, leaving her a kiss. The stone plate is ice beneath the pads of my fingers. I try not to think of her, trapped in a box in that cold ground.

I jump back on the Screamin’ Eagle and head home to Lucy’s. Today has been all over the fucking place. It was probably a bad idea to go to the cemetery, but sooner or later I would’ve had to.

I’m nearly home when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling over, I press it to my ear.

“Prospect,” Beer Can grunts, “we need you here at the club house.”

I frown, blinking snowflakes off my eyelashes. “What’s going on?” I was really looking forward to warming up in the living room with a hot cup of coffee.

“Club business.” Beer Can sounds exasperated. “You don’t need to know the whats and the whys. I say jump, you hop onto that club property that we were so kind to give you, and you just get your fucking ass here.”

Someone’s in a mood. “Yes sir,” I intone. I hang up, tucking the phone back into my pocket. For several seconds, I stare up into the gray void of the sky. I need a break before I step back into the fray, but apparently I’m not going to get it. Letting my shoulders drop, I roll my neck back and forth. I probably look strange as fuck, standing on the shoulder of the road, my bike between my legs, staring up at the sky. But I have a feeling that it’s the last moment of peace I’m going to get.

Thank you for reading Chapter 13 of A Disturbing Prospect.

Continue Reading A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 14

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“I Have to Tell You Something” | River Reapers MC Summer Miniseries: Part 6

“I have to tell you something, something you can never, ever repeat, because the whole club and everyone else we love would be at risk. It’s just—” She blinks away tears. “I can’t hold this secret, not on my own. I promised, but I just can’t.”

author’s note

You’re reading the latest episode in summer 2024’s River Reapers MC miniseries. If you’re already caught up on all six episodes, stay tuned.

If you’re just coming in now, you don’t need to read the books to follow along, but you do need to catch up on Parts 1-5!

catch up “Echoes from the Past” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 1 “Mother ” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 2 “Take Me to Church” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 3 Part 4: “Wasn’t He Married?” | River Reapers MC Summer Miniseries Part 5: “I Think We’re Alone Now” | River Reapers MC Summer Miniseries Cliff

Something is wrong. I can tell by the way Olivia shrinks into Lucy’s condo, making herself smaller with each step inside. She closes the front door and leans against it, rose red lips sighing softly. I don’t want to push her but I don’t want to leave her lonely in whatever she’s going through. I don’t want to scare her, either—last time I startled her in Lucy’s living room, she went all MMA on me. Which was hot, not gonna lie. I love that my girl can take care of herself.

Sometimes I just wish she’d let me take care of her, though.

So I stand real slow and say, real soft, “Hey.”

She walks into my open arms, resting her head and its soft curls against my hard chest. In prison, there wasn’t much else to do other than workout and read, so I went in scrawny and walked out stacked, with a lot of interesting but ultimately useless knowledge.

They don’t exactly want people to better themselves, not really.

“Something happened,” I say more than ask.

She nods, the slightest movement that I wouldn’t have caught if her head wasn’t right on my chest. My heart slams against my sternum and I know she can hear it. All I can do is pray to a god I don’t even believe in that the something that happened isn’t the something I fear most.

There are now three women in my life that I love more than anything: the fiery redhead who I still think of as my baby cousin, her green-eyed daughter who is no longer a baby but will always be Baby, then there’s Olivia, my baby, the love of my life, the one I want to build a future with. If anything happened to any of them, I’d rip the earth apart with my bare hands until I’ve beaten everyone responsible back to dust.

Olivia pulls away from me but slips her hand into mine, leading me back to the couch. “I have to tell you something, something you can never, ever repeat, because the whole club and everyone else we love would be at risk. It’s just—” She blinks away tears. “I can’t hold this secret, not on my own. I promised Ravage, but I just can’t.”

A growl rises in my throat. I’m sick to death of Ravage and his secrets. So much so that I’m wondering if maybe it’s time for a change in leadership. Because we can’t all keep fumbling in the dark, not if we’re going to survive. Not while he keeps all the club’s secrets, only telling the rest of us when he deems it necessary. Someone’s going to get killed that way.

Maybe even one of the women I love most.

But I swallow my rage and say to Olivia, “Tell me.”

“The club makes its money three ways: flesh, drugs, and guns. Ravage, Mercy, and your father Bastard wanted to do better than other MCs. Instead of helping sell women and children into sexual slavery, they founded The Wet Mermaid, where women of age could voluntarily dance for a living. We work with Shannon’s Haven, offering jobs to survivors of sexual and physical abuse in not just dancing, but also bartending, waitressing, and management. We essentially give survivors a way to reclaim their power. I’m proud of that. I’m proud to be a part of it.

“We also sell drugs, literally under the bar counter. I’m… I’m not so proud of that. My foster parents—Lucy’s parents, your aunt and uncle—are big cokeheads, and they get their coke through us. Not me—they don’t ever come in here when I’m working. But they’ve always been a part of this club, all while pretending to look down their noses at it.

“I’ve sold coke, pills, and weed at that bar, while pouring drinks. I’m not proud of that, not at all, and if I was President or even VP of this MC, I’d change that in a heartbeat.

“But it’s not so simple.

“Because we also deal in guns. Every single one of us has a piece. Even you, Cliff. The serial numbers have been filed off, making it obvious they weren’t acquired legally. The Wet Mermaid not only serves as our clubhouse and a licensed strip club, but also as a front for laundering that drug and gun money. And today I learned where those drugs and guns really come from.

“Just like I learned what happened to Tommie’s mother.

“Ravage was dating her—well, I say ‘dating’ loosely. Shannon had kicked him out because he was fucking this other woman: Tommie’s mother. She was one of the club hangarounds. She really liked her coke, Ravage says.

“So my first thought, when we were sitting in his office and he told me all this, was that maybe she died of an overdose. Maybe she accidentally OD’d and he panicked and dumped her body. But that… that’s just not Ravage. I know he’s a killer. I know what he’s capable of. I know he can be colder than ice. But he’s not that cold. Not at all.

“No, what really happened is so much worse, Cliff. So much worse.

“Because we’re in bed with the mafia. The Violante family, specifically. And Tommie’s mother saw something she wasn’t supposed to, all because Ravage couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. So they got rid of her. They got rid of her, Cliff, and then Ravage and everyone else pretended they’d never even heard of little Tommie’s mother.

“Tommie went into the foster care system,” Olivia says with a sob. “She went to horrible people in horrible homes who did horrible things to her, and she never ever knew what really happened to her mother. But I know. Ravage knows. And now you know, too.

“And we can never, ever tell her, because the Violantes will make us all disappear. Us, and Lucy, and even innocent little Bunny. Tommie, too. All because Ravage couldn’t keep his dick to himself.

“And now I’m not proud at all,” she finishes with tears flowing down both sides of her face, and my heart breaks, the cracks filling in with rage, burning through me until all I can see is red.

To be continued…

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A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 12

My hands are too full to put on my hips. “Dude, my father taught me how to shoot.” I don’t remember our dad ever taking Lucy or I to a shooting range. I hadn’t thought I remembered anything about my biological parents, but maybe I do.

catch up A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 1 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 2 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 3 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 4 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 5 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 6 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 7 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 8 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 9 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 10 A Disturbing Prospect, Chapter 11 Olivia

Cliff’s lips press to mine, an exchange of warmth. He smiles against my lips. I can’t help but smile back. I step away, though, the late night tugging me toward bed. I really do have an early morning ahead of me, but it helps to play hard to get. If I’m going to do this—really do this—I’m going to do it right.

As right as I can, anyway.

Sliding him one last smile, I unlock my door and step inside. Cliff drives away as I close the door behind me. I lock it and lean against it, still smiling. If someone ever figures out how to bottle this feeling, they’re going to be rich.

The apartment is mostly dark, lit only by a lamp in the living room area. Esther is either still at work, or out with her new boyfriend Donny. He picked her up earlier, since she still has no tires. He’s nice—I get why she likes him. Tall with deep bronzed skin, he has a kind smile, but there’s a bad boy edge to him. Something in those eyes. The guy could be a model.

I hum to myself as I make my way through the apartment. Esther and me, the two most unlikely people to ever fall in love. I stop in my tracks, shaking my head.

No, no. Not love.

“Damn it, Olivia,” I mutter.

I correct myself as I push open my bedroom door. We’re the two most unlikely women to ever settle down into actual relationships.

There.

The smile slides from my face as I flick on the switch.

Bright light floods my bedroom, but the only thing I can see is

blood

so much blood

on my bed

and a tiny, matted form underneath all of it.

I rush over to Dio, but hesitate over him. Mumbles of protest tumble from my lips, tears blurring my vision. Mascara and eyeliner sting into my eyes. I cup my hands, bending over the kitten. My fingers and palms shake on my wrists like loose leaves on a tree branch.

“No, no, no,” I whisper in a strangled, breathy voice that isn’t mine.

I don’t know the first thing about first aid for a human, never mind a tiny ball of life and laughter. I’m afraid to move him, but I don’t know what else to do.

My mind whirls. I can’t breathe. Sinking to my knees, I can’t look away from Dio. I rock back and forth on the floor, panting and grunting.

One of Dio’s eyes cracks open. He utters a short, plaintive mewl. Then his eye closes again.

My heart shatters into pieces, the sensation jerking me into action. I pull my phone out of my bag and dial the first number that comes to mind.

“911, what’s your emergency?” a calm, bored sounding woman asks.

“My cat,” I sputter. “Someone broke into my house and—”

The phone drops from my hands.

A chill crawls down my spine, traveling through my legs.

Eli.

I glance around, checking the window in my bedroom. It’s intact, still locked, even. I start to move toward the living room, to check the other windows, when the dispatcher’s sharp voice brings me back to what’s important.

Dio.

I grab the phone and press it to my ear, and pace the room.

“Ma’am, is there someone in your house?” the dispatcher asks.

“I don’t think so. Not anymore,” I stammer. “But my cat, he’s hurt, he’s been attacked—”

“Okay, ma’am, you need to take your animal to a vet.” Through the phone, I hear her typing on a computer. “I can give you the phone number to the closest twenty-four-hour emergency animal hospital.”

“Okay.” I swallow several times to coat my dry throat. Then I grab a pen off my dresser, poising it over the palm of my hand.

The dispatcher rattles off the phone number. “Ma’am, if you’re more comfortable with me sending a patrol car over, I can certainly—”

“I need to get him to the hospital,” I sob, and hang up.

I call the emergency vet, who sounds like a grandfather who was dead asleep. Small wonder, since it’s just about four in the morning. He walks me through picking up Dio, telling me I probably don’t need to put him in his carrier.

“But Olivia?” The vet says my name hesitantly.

“Yes?” I choke out, searching for a clean T-shirt to wrap Dio in.

“I wouldn’t rush, sweetheart. It’s probably too late.” His voice is too kind.

“Don’t say that,” I snarl through a fresh stream of tears. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Get dressed and do your fucking job.” I hang up on him and throw my phone into my bag.

Then I turn to Dio.

My stomach clenches. Moving him could be the last straw. Tears continue gushing down my cheeks. I choke back another sob and get to it. Being a baby about it isn’t going to save him.

I place a thick, soft sweater on a shoebox lid. The sweater was his favorite. He loved kneading on it.

I scrunch up my face.

Is.

Loves.

He’s not gone yet.

Gently, I slide the lid underneath him inch by inch. He doesn’t even protest. His tiny body rises and falls in rapid jerks. My heart breaks again and again.

“I’m sorry,” I soothe. “You’re gonna be okay, Dio. Just hang on. I’m here. I’m here.”

When I finally have the lid all the way underneath him, I tuck the sweater around him. Then, grabbing my bag, I pick him up as carefully as possible.

I hurry outside, the blast of cold air clarifying my thoughts. As I stand on the front walk, I realize I have no car.

My eyes close in despair.

A war wages within me. There’s no time to call an Uber. And there’s no one I can call. No one, I realize, except Cliff. But he’s at least ten minutes away, which tacks on twenty minutes to the veterinary hospital. I glance up and down the street in desperation. I can jack a car. It can’t be that hard.

I start toward one. As I’m crossing the street, headlights flood my vision. I stop dead on the double yellow line, wondering if Eli’s come to finish the job.

“Olivia?” Esther calls out the passenger window. “What’s wrong? What are you—? Oh god.”

Donny hits the brakes, but Esther’s out before the car is even fully stopped.

“Get in,” she says, shooing me into the back seat, her eyes filling with tears.

I hug Dio in my lap the entire way over. Everything in me wants to rock back and forth, to sooth myself. But it’s all I can to do keep him stable as Donny attempts to navigate the potholes that pock every inch of the Naugatuck streets.

He pushes the car until he’s doing sixty, in an attempt to get us to the Waterbury address in under ten minutes. None of us speak.

Somehow Dio holds on. I fling open the door and rush him inside.

“Please save him,” I whimper as I hand him over to the veterinarian’s assistant.

She gives me a sympathetic look. “We’ll do our best,” she says, but I know that face. I press a stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills into another staff member’s hands—everything I have. Fuck Esther’s tires. I’ve got to save my cat.

Donny, Esther, and I huddle in the parking lot, chainsmoking and glancing through the window every ten seconds, as if we can see straight through the walls into the operating room.

“Olivia, what happened?” Esther asks after I’ve smoked my way through my pack.

I tell her everything, filling her in on how I figured out that Eli was the one who slit her tires. I’d texted her earlier to tell her that Donny wasn’t the problem, that I had my own stalker. But I hadn’t had the chance to catch her up.

When I’m done, I’m exhausted. I sag against Donny’s car, limp. My mind keeps flashing to Dio, crumpled on my bed.

“Who the fuck would do this to a little cat?” Donny seethes, echoing my thoughts.

I glance up at him. For the first time, I notice that he’s wearing a River Reapers cut. His badge reads ENFORCER. I really look at his face. Then I recognize him.

I don’t see him often. He’s usually out on club business. Or, apparently, working with my roommate. Every once in a while he stops in to The Wet Mermaid, mostly for Church. When he does order a drink, which is rare, he tips me excessively well.

“Donny,” I ask slowly, “what is it that you do for the club?”

His jaw tightens, his lips clamping shut.

Pushing off the car, I stride up to him. I clasp my hands together. “Donny, please. I need to talk to Mark. I know,” I tell him.

“Christ,” he swears, rubbing his temples. He lights a cigarette, glances at my empty hands, then tosses me his pack.

Esther reaches for it, too, her eyes wide and haunted. Guilt scrapes at my stomach. Because of me, my mousey roommate’s sense of safety has been rattled. I wrap an arm around her waist, and she rests her head on my shoulder.

“Donny,” I say, my eyes burning into him. “I’m everybody’s bartender. I know about the guns.” I don’t know what’s on my face. If it’s anything like what I’m feeling, it’s raw desperation. I lift my chin. “I need one, Donny. I need a gun. I need to talk to Mark—”

“Okay,” he hisses, glancing around. “Hush, woman.” He gives his head a shake.

Still wrapped in one of my arms, Esther hugs herself. Her forehead creases, and she chews on the inside of her cheek.

Donny presses a flip phone to his ear—a burner. “Mark,” he says. “I’ve got a situation.” He shoots us a look that tells us to stay put, then steps several paces out of earshot.

I’m too pumped up with adrenaline to realize that he barely put up an argument. The club has always given me special treatment, so I’m pretty used to it. Still, Donny’s fast yes is almost unnerving.

I hug Esther tighter.

“I hope he isn’t going to tell Cliff,” I mutter.

“Why the fuck not, pendeja?” She curls her lip. “If I were you, I’d have him stomp in that motherfucker’s head.” Her face pales. “How the fuck did he get in, anyway?”

I move my head back and forth. I don’t know. I just know one thing: I’m going to kill him. I don’t know where or when, but I am. It’s one thing to follow me to class or key my roommate’s car. Those are the oldest tricks in the stalkers’ guide for dummies. But now he’s overstepped his bounds.

My blood boils as I move away from Esther. I exhale a cloud of smoke and walk through it toward Donny. He leans against his car, arms crossed. Watching me, a look of awe on his face.

“How come you’re not on your bike?” I ask him.

He blinks, surprised by my question. “Because the roads are shit right now.”

“But the rest of the club rides year-round.” I hug myself against the cold. The shock is wearing off.

“No, they don’t, babygirl.” He glances at Esther, who’s playing on her phone. He nods to me. “Come around to the trunk.”

When he flips open the lid, at first I only see a neatly folded blanket and some random tools. He lifts the rug-covered cardboard divider that ordinarily separates the storage space from the spare tire well. Fitted into the hole where his donut should be is a circular wooden crate.

I lift an eyebrow. “I’m already impressed.”

He rolls his eyes and opens the crate, exposing rows of carefully packed handguns. “Glock 34. It’s a nine millimeter,” he says, lifting one from its foam padding and handing it to me.

Its weight presses into more than just my hands.

“Serial number’s been filed off,” Donny continues. “The kick isn’t too violent, so you should be able to shoot it.” His eyebrows furrow as he looks down at me. “You do know how to shoot one, right?”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Of course I do.”

He hands me a threaded barrel. “Silencer.”

“I know what it is,” I say, threading it in.

“You’ll need a holster. Connecticut ain’t open carry.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Look, Donny, I’m not brand new.”

“You’re so much like him,” he mutters.

“Who?” I twist off the silencer.

Donny hands me several boxes of rounds. “Nobody, little one.” But this time his head shake is affectionate. “This is between you, me, and Mark. And Esther.” The corner of his lips twitches in a half grimace. “Please don’t shoot yourself in the foot or anything like that.”

My hands are too full to put on my hips. I tilt my head instead. “Donny, my father taught me how to shoot.” My brow furrows. I don’t remember our dad ever even owning a gun, never mind taking Lucy or I to a shooting range. I hadn’t thought I remembered anything about my biological parents, but maybe I do.

Putting muscle memory to test, I dam my thoughts behind a wall. My fingers do the work, loading the clip and turning a round into the chamber. I screw the silencer back on and take aim.

“See that beer can on that concrete block?” I ask Donny.

He follows my gaze.

“I’m putting one right in it.”

“Right here? Out in the open, huh?” Donny crosses his arms.

I take a deep breath. Lick my lips. Then I squeeze the trigger.

The bullet flies into the can, knocking it off the construction block. The sound is so low, it’s undetectable to the veterinarians working on my cat. My heart squeezes at the thought of Dio. I turn to face Donny, an eyebrow lifted.

“You just got lucky,” he says, but he’s smiling, almost proudly.

“Fine,” I say, and scan the parking lot for something else to shoot. A tag sale poster hangs on a telephone pole. I pivot my body toward it.

“That’s too easy.” Donny points to a banner hanging across the street, announcing the city’s message of love and hope to all who drive by. “Put a hole in the R,” he says.

So I do. Every letter that he calls out.

Donny finally relents. “All right, all right. I’m impressed.” He squeezes my arm gently. “But Olivia, you know all you gotta do is say the word.”

My eyes snap to his. “I knew it,” I say sadly.

He moves his head slightly to the side in a sort of shrug. “But you’re like your daddy,” he continues. “You’ve gotta take care of everything yourself.”

I blink in response. Then I take apart my gun, put the safety on, and put it in my purse. Nestled among pens, packs of gum, and spare lighters, it fits right in.

The realization doesn’t scare me at all.

In fact, it feels like I’ve come home.

Thank you for reading Chapter 12 of A Disturbing Prospect!

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Does horror belong in romance?

The infamous Butcher & Blackbird ice cream scene broke the internet. In the scene, our hero Rowan accidentally eats ice cream made from human semen. A little later, they find the maker of this confectionery nightmare eating it on purpose. The ice cream only has a brief cameo, but it ignited an age old debate. Should romance be gory?

In mainstream romance, we focus on the cute moments in life packaged in prose revised to Hallmark perfection. If there are any corpses, they’re reduced to a more palatable mention.

Sometimes that escape from reality is desperately needed. We slip into picturesque struggling towns that won’t really go under, and even if someone dies, their death serves as some kind of lesson for our main characters. We will never, ever see our hero eat cum ice cream. The only thing he’s eating is our heroine’s pussy.

Or our other hero’s cock. Whatever works!

I love when dark romance marries romance with horror. It’s a personal gripe of mine that the dark romance section is packed with titles that contain little to no romance. Often they’re actually vengeance stories, our heroine getting her just desserts. I love these stories, too; it’s so healing to read a badass woman killing rapists. But when I pick up any romance, it’s because I’m in the mood for romance, ya know?

That’s why I loved Butcher & Blackbird so much. Brynne Weaver balanced revenge with a slow burn love story and plenty of gore for the triumvirate of dark romance. There’s a running bit where our hero busts our heroine’s balls for always doing a bad job gouging out the left eye of her victims. At first she’s annoyed by this wry observation. Then it becomes an inside joke, evolving as their relationship does.

The semen ice cream scene is such a brief one, yet clearly made an impression because people are still talking about it. It doesn’t read like the shock value I too often see in dark romance. It’s set up like a comedy bit, which is a smart move on Weaver’s part because comedy and horror are closely related. There’s a reason why Jordan Peele of the Key and Peele comedic duo went on to become a horror king: both genres are all about timing. The creme de cum serves as an opportunity for the reader to feel Sloane’s and Rowan’s shock. As horror fans, we’ve seen a lot of cannibalism, so the usual stuff won’t work for us. Weaver gets that. When Rowan takes a bite, we’re not just grossed out, we’re laughing in horror because omfg, he for real ate it, and most of us can recall the taste and texture of both ice cream and semen, so we’re both horrified for him and laughing in relief that it isn’t us.

In case you can’t tell, I’ve got a bit of a writing crush on her.

The scene is about as skippable as spicy bits; you can skim if you’d prefer and you won’t miss much, other than the two main characters bonding over this tragedy.

I want to see more dark romance like this: books that blend all the feels of horror with the rush of falling in love. The weirdo who made the ice cream isn’t what really scares our MCs. It’s the notion of giving away their heart to the other person, and that’s what they really have to vanquish to get their HEA.

What are your favorite romances that blend in horror elements? Tell us the title and author, please!

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Two weeks after trying to kill myself, I got dumped by my therapist

Rage is my new favorite emotion. Where it once terrified me, it now fuels me.

Before I got discharged from the hospital, I knew I’d have to go into inpatient. There really wasn’t any getting out of it—I’d swallowed an entire bottle of pills, with the intention to kill myself (except I didn’t mean it, mean it). Even if I didn’t sign myself in, the doctor would definitely sign me in under a physician’s certificate, and I’d lose all autonomy for a minimum of 72 business hours. Imagine stripping away bodily control from someone with a history of sexual assault and chronic illness. Imagine doing that to anybody. I knew how that story ended, from my time in Catholic psych. Even in the best of facilities, depending on the providers, mental health care is often controlling in its methods at worst, or too lax at best if the provider is burnt out or overbooked.

I couldn’t do inpatient at that hospital because a family member worked on that floor, and it’d be a violation of all kinds of HIPAA. So my only option, it seemed, was to transfer.

Except that meant being an hour away from my support system.

Catch Up It’s been one week since I tried to kill myself by Elizabeth Barone November 22, 2024 I turned me off and then back on again, and it actually worked by Elizabeth Barone November 24, 2024 How I know I’m not dead (or hallucinating all this in a coma) by Elizabeth Barone November 26, 2024

Even though my sister-in-law and Mike had the car, there was no way he’d get out there to visit me every day. It was already hard for him to get to our local hospital. My sister-in-law takes care of their disabled brother and I didn’t expect her to also drive my husband back and forth.

I could do inpatient, completely isolated from my loved ones. It’d be hard, and I’d hate every moment of it. Inpatient isn’t trauma informed, not yet.

After multiple conversations with the medical doctor on my floor and the director of the behavioral health program, we decided to discharge me to an intensive outpatient program, or IOP. Hanging out the window on the drive home home, soaking in the sunshine and fresh air, I realized nowhere in my paperwork had there been an appointment time. Just a number to call, highlighted in green.

When I called the next day, it rang and rang, then went to a robotic voicemail that repeated the number I’d dialed before inviting me to leave a message. It never stated what department I’d even reached, or who I was leaving a message for. I left my name and number, said I’d just been discharged and was looking to schedule an appointment for my IOP, and no one ever called me back.

Fine. That was fine. I’d left a voicemail for my therapist while in the hospital, catching her up quick and letting her know I’d be in touch soon. She’d tried calling me back at the hospital but due to HIPAA they wouldn’t patch her through. (Apparently I only gave permission for Mike to call me; even my best friend couldn’t get through.)

I texted her, letting her know I’d left a message for IOP. She replied, and I think it was Saturday or Sunday morning that she called and left a message to tell me she’d be available at 8 p.m. that Sunday night if I wanted to have a session on the phone (before our biweekly telehealth coming up that Wednesday, I thought). I thought the call was an emergency session so I could start processing everything. She’d mentioned we’d discuss next steps, but during our actual call, as I tried explaining what happened the night I tried killing myself, she steered me back to The Plan.

IOP was four days a week, she said, and there was such a thing as too much therapy. Effective immediately, I wouldn’t be seeing her biweekly anymore. I’d maybe see someone monthly. Someone in person, in-office, for my safety.

My heart sank. I felt like she was passing me off. I’d been so relieved to finally find someone who took Medicare. Biweekly and telehealth worked for me because I am chronically ill, often in too much pain to drive, am now the primary driver because of my husband’s seizures, and my days are usually booked solid what with all the chronic illness.

Also, I hadn’t realized IOP was four days a week, three hours a day. Even via telehealth, that’d be a lot. I had no idea how I’d drive myself back and forth and take care of myself. When would I eat? How would I also get Mike to his doctor appointments? How would I make it to my own appointments after such intensive mornings?

She had some clinicians in mind, and we’d discuss them in my next session. She let me go long before my hour was up.

I’d thought I was getting an emergency session, and I’d nodded along with her as she talked me through all this, but once I got off the phone, that nagging feeling persisted. I’d needed to talk about things, and I hadn’t got that. Instead, it felt like she’d just covered her and the office’s asses, “for my safety.”

I wanted to be safe. I didn’t want to go through that hell again, nor put my loved ones through that again. What I kept telling everyone, though, was that I needed that deep processing, or reprocessing, or whatever I needed to do to finally properly heal all my traumas. She’d explained that IOP was mostly medication management and skills teaching, not at all trauma informed or even talk therapy.

I sure as fuck wasn’t taking any medication like that ever again, and I needed to talk.

Still, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, because she was just doing her job.

Wednesday came along and I went down to the car for my scheduled session, anticipating talking through all the things swirling through my head, but again she breezed right to The Plan.

They had a male clinician, she said, who did intensive trauma therapy several days a week, in person (reminding me about my safety). I nodded along, irritated but determined to be patient and advocate for myself.

“The whole reason I needed telehealth to start with is because of my conditions,” I reminded her. “Some days I’m just not able to drive, but I can still get down to my car for a session.”

She nodded, and continued talking about in-office sessions and safety and how I needed a local provider, and how she wasn’t even local and able to see me at the hospital if I needed to go back (a few minutes later she referred to a local event I was planning on attending).

“Yeah, and, also, not for nothing, I’m a rape survivor, and right now I really need a female clinician while I’m processing all this.”

She told me they had two female clinicians available, assuring me that the office would work with me to take my insurance. Funny how, months and months ago, when I desperately tried getting into therapy specifically so I wouldn’t end up in the hospital or worse, they didn’t take my insurance, so sorry, and couldn’t work with me, so sorry, but here’s a list…

I thanked her for them being willing to work with my insurance. She said one of the clinicians did EMDR for deep processing, and she’d reach out to both to confirm their availability, but at least one of them should be available.

I could reach out to my old therapist, too, I offered. I didn’t know her schedule or if she’d still be able to set up a private practice just for me like she’d once offered, but I could at least reach out and see. Between both our efforts, I told her, I knew I’d land in the right place, that I’d be in good hands.

I really actually believed that.

On Wednesday December 4th, I expected to hear from her or figured I’d reach out. She texted me first, and I eagerly opened it. I couldn’t wait to start.

The office didn’t have any female clinicians available, her text said.

I’d landed right back where I started.

Shit happens. Everything books fast these days. There’s a shortage of health and mental health care workers, and too many patients who all deserve quality care. I knew that, and still it was a crushing blow.

I’ve been doing this dance for years. My health and quality of life depend on it. When things book up and I find myself overwhelmed with all of it, I take a short break from all things medical. The patient burnout struggle is real, and it’s important to rest and refill your emotional well.

The timing is never good when you’re not well, but it’s especially bad when you just tried to kill yourself.

She wanted to know if I’d I made contact with the two counselors I’d mentioned. I’d only mentioned one. She was the one who was supposed to reach out to two therapists who supposedly already had quite a bit of availability.

I’d been looking forward to trying EMDR, to keeping this post-traumatic growth momentum going. The last thing I wanted was to rebound; it’s a thing with suicide survivors, and even though I don’t remotely feel suicidal, I’m maybe too aware of that. With EMDR, I’d get to finally experience that deep processing and healing, all under the care and guide of a professional.

She’d given me the impression that two female clinicians were available. She’d also cut two sessions short on me, back to back.

The system was failing me yet again.

I spent the next week in self-care mode, focusing on my physical and emotional needs. I continued processing everything on my own. I get sick of me sometimes, but at least I always listen.

A week later, I’m regrouping. The damp, cold weather has my pain levels higher and my energy needing constant refueling. I’m a shitty iPad battery. I’m working through things on my own, hurrying to journal when my hands aren’t too sore to write.

The system has never worked for me. Not because I’m special, but because it doesn’t really work for anybody. If you’ve ever needed to see a doctor while working nine to five Monday through Friday, you have somewhat of an idea of how, the way things are now, this system isn’t systeming.

I’m not in any way saying that doctors and therapists have no place in treatment. When the provider is collaborative, open, and empathic, magical things happen. The best providers empower and support patients.

Everyone needs people. We also need to be our own best friends.

When you’re desperate to save your own life, “I’ll just do it myself” becomes less of a trauma response and more of a battle cry, a decree, a return to old ways forgotten, new ways unfound, your ways unfolding.

Thank you for reading Chapter 6 of my suicide memoir, Can’t Be Killed.

Author’s Note

The excerpt you just read is currently Chapter 6 in my suicide memoir, Can’t Be Killed. If you’re feeling like I skipped forward a bit from the last chapter I posted, that’s because I did. I’ve been writing this memoir like no one’s ever gonna read it, which is how you want to write a book. That said, a few people are reading it! To make sure I’m staying on track and meeting my intentions for this book, I may be skipping posts until the first draft is complete and self-edited. If you need me to fill in any blanks, please leave a comment.

If you’d like to support me in writing this memoir, Can’t Be Killed stickers are now available in the Maietta Ink shop!

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