Elizabeth Barone's Blog: Elizabeth Barone's Blog, page 16

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

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

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

Author’s Note

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

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

Catch Up: Part 1 | Part 2

Part 3: “Take Me to Church”Cliff

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

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

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

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

Olivia bites her lip.

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

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

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

“You heard me,” he snarls. “Slag.”

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

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

He snarls in response.

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

For now.

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

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

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

“Not for me, either,” Beer Can says.

“How ‘bout you, Skid?” I ask.

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

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

No one moves.

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

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

“Hold it,” Olivia says.

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

Almost.

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

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

And fear.

Just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amazon reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mother ” | River Reapers MC Miniseries: Part 2

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

Author’s Note

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

Catch Up: Part 1

Part 2: “Mother”Olivia

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

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

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

“Define ‘involved,’” she mutters.

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

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

Bree never baked. She liked to get baked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” I wave him off. “It’s okay.”

He pauses, head tilted slightly.

“What?” I ask.

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

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

“Ravage?” he repeats.

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

Tipping his head back, he groans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just finished reading this spicy, slow burn, small town romance

Wild Card by Staci Hart has some pretty memorable scenes: the rooftop, the pond, the water tower (iykyk). I love a Staci Hart novel, not just for the spice but also for the slow, sweet way she writes sex scenes. With Wild Card, she really kicked it up a notch. “Duchess” (Jessa) and Remy seemed determined to get caught, what with all the public places they banged in.

I really appreciated how lighthearted this book was. Off-page, pre-book, Remy cared for his mother while she went through cancer treatment, and she survived. (She even assists a little, behind the scenes.) The most serious thing that happened was when his giant dog muddied up Jessa’s clothes (and it was nothing a little dry cleaning couldn’t fix). It was a couple hundred pages of witty banter, Remy dirty-talking, and Jessa falling in love with not just Remy but also the town. In other words, it was exactly what I needed.

I finished this book with a big ass grin on my face, squealing in happiness when I read Epilogue 2 at the end. Wild Card reminded me a lot of Bad Penny, the first Staci Hart book I ever read, because there was such a bounce and sauciness to her writing. (Penny’s nipples, lips, and dick theory has lived rent-free in my head ever since.)

Hart was much missed and I’m so glad she’s back in action. I can’t wait for Cass and Wilder’s book—I’m a sucker for second chance romance, and the ending of Wild Card set things up nicely for their story.

In the meantime, if you like small town romance, Wild Card is a fun summer read.

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

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

Note from the Author

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

Olivia

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did great. You can handle this.”

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

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

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

“Yes?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“The hotdogs. They have to be Deutschmacher—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

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

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

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

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

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

Like I said, history repeats.

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Yes, and… Let’s Stop Self-Censoring

For fuck’s sake, “sex” isn’t a bad word.

A few years ago, people started a trend of hate-reporting in the book/author community (similar to the one-star bombing of ye olde days). Basically, a petty person reports another post for abuse, getting it taken down while the social media person (or bot) reviews it. It devolved from there; with the explosive growth of social media during the pandemic and shutdowns, it was getting too much to manage, so companies started deploying AI to handle reports. If you’ve ever been in Facebook or Instagram jail, you know how poorly this system works.

Case in point: A couple weeks ago, one of my private accounts got banned from commenting. Whether I’m on my public persona (author) or personal accounts, I make it a point to always leave positive comments (or say nothing at all). So I truly have no idea what I said to upset the bots. (The comment that automatically got flagged and subsequently got me banned from commenting was, and I quote: “I swear the door only squeaks at night!” For context, the Reel was about how daytime sounds are a million times louder at night.) Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of similar stories akin to war tales about how various friends “got Zuck’d.”

We did this to ourselves.

To bypass the petty reports and bot flags, authors and readers alike started self-censoring. I get it; no one wants to deal with the hassle of a jailed account, especially if you get a high volume of engagement. Social media is now viewed as a currency nearly more valuable than actual money. It’s incredibly frustrating to watch your hard work get Zuck’d by AI that doesn’t understand context or nuance or sarcasm. The problem is, AI learns by what it consumes. Once we collectively started self-censoring, we unwittingly confirmed that “sex” is in fact a bad word.

As an artist, this really bugs me.

As a romance author, this enrages me.

Especially as a writer with a small social media following.

It was already challenging to get views on posts. It’s harder than ever now. I’ve noticed that when I post excerpts using any of the “dirty” words, I don’t get flagged, I’m just quietly stifled. Posts that perform well on one platform barely get 100 views on another. I refuse to self-censor to appease stupid AI or puritanical people. “Sex” is not a bad word. These platforms were created for adult use—most of them require users to be 14 years of age, and I know damn well my 14-year-old niece has heard worse than “seggs”—aimed at Millennials as we aged out of high school (RIP, MySpace). Facebook was originally made for college Millennials. TikTok, formerly known as musical.ly, was specifically created to share music (a form of art).

Books—yes, even romance, haters—are an art form. When authors and readers share excerpts, it’s a form of expression. When we self-censor (for example, turning “sex” into “seggs”), we’re stifling that expression. It also just looks ridiculous. (The irony of grown adults reading spicy romance while unable to bring themselves to type out the word “cock” doesn’t escape me.)

It’s gone so far, even Ariana Grande is self-censoring.

In her latest single, “Yes, And?”, she sings “say that shit with your chest and / be your own fucking best friend” in the uncensored version. In the same explicit version, she purposely bleeps out the word “dick” in the line “Why do you care so much whose dick I ride?”

This is an interesting choice since, just a few years ago, she released a song with the lyrics “wrist icicle, ride dick bicycle,” with the word “dick” loud and proud in both the explicit and radio-friendly versions of the song. It’s a sudden pivot from someone whose entire discography revolves around fiercely proud sexuality and lyrics to match.

It’s weird that Gen X and Millennials, who grew up flipping off the establishment, are now the biggest proponents of self-censorship, falling into line behind Gen Z (who seem overly sensitive to offending anyone, including AI).

I grew up in an era of fierce artistic expression. It kicked off in 1990 with the fight against Parental Advisory labels, continued with Prince changing his name to a symbol so that no one could own him, and escalated with gamers protesting the ESRB ratings brought on by the media blaming video games for violence. I so passionately believe in artistic freedom, I’m not even sure I love the wave of discreet romance covers. (Why are people ashamed to be reading romance and erotica in 2024? Ignore the haters and enjoy the smut!)

Maybe it’s because I’m an ’80s baby who cut my teeth on the ’90s no apologies attitude, but I just can’t get on board with self-censorship.

Fuck that.

Featured image via studiostoks / depositphotos

The Stairs Between Us, Chapter 2

A full year had passed since we separated, and six months since the divorce was finalized, and still just the sight of her knocked the air out of my lungs. I fought the urge to embrace her. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t get used to the phrase.

Levi

Wind whipped around the corners of the house, creating an eerie howling effect. I sat in the kitchen, listening more to the wind than to the guy I called my best friend. Guilt picked at my stomach, making it acidic. I should’ve been making an effort to be there for him. The only thing I could focus on, though, was the time ticking closer on the wall.

“I think it might be stress,” Theo said in his soft-spoken voice. It was hard to believe that a nearly seven-foot man could have such a gentle voice. He spread his dark hands. “Pamela’s got her hopes so high, and she gets so frustrated.” He cleared his throat.

My gaze snapped up from the kitchen table. I met his brown eyes across the table. “Sorry, man.”

“Is Noah dropping off Joey this morning?” he asked.

I nodded, rubbing the back of my head. “Any minute now.”

“I guess there’s no chance in me stealing you for a run.” Theo grinned, and for the first time I realized he wore his running gear.

I glanced down at my long-sleeved henley and jeans. Maybe I would’ve been better off throwing on sweats. I no longer had the effect on Noah that I’d had on her in college, but I still tried.

It was pathetic.

“A run might help get your mind off things,” Theo said, his voice returning to that lulling level.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I can’t leave Joey.”

“I’m sure Pamela wouldn’t mind looking after him.”

I laughed, the sound bitter. “And have it get back to Noah that I dropped my kid off on someone else the second he got here? No thanks.” I rubbed at my beard. “How did I get here, man?”

“It takes time.” He stood to his full height. After over ten years of friendship, I was used to him towering over me. At UConn, people called us Sully and Mike when we walked around campus together. He’d go to basketball practice and I’d head to my pre-med classes.

Or the poetry class where I’d met Noah.

Together, though, Theo and I were a duo. When people threw parties in their dorms, they told each other: “Make sure you invite Sully and Mike.”

College. Those were the good days.

The doorbell rang, yanking me out of my thoughts. Standing, I tried to arrange my features into what I hoped was a relaxed expression. Instead, my brows rested heavily over my eyes as I made my way to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I swung the door open wide.

“Daddy!” Joey threw himself into my arms.

I scooped him up, hugging him to my chest. “Hey buddy.” Over his head, I glanced at her.

Noah.

A full year had passed since we separated, and six months since the divorce was finalized, and still just the sight of her knocked the air out of my lungs. She lifted her angular chin, sapphire eyes looking at Joey and me but avoiding my gaze. She nibbled at her full, pink lips.

Releasing Joey, I fought the urge to embrace her, too. My ex-wife. I still couldn’t get used to the phrase.

“Uncle Theo’s in the kitchen,” I told our son.

Joey’s eyes lit up. Dropping his backpack in the entryway, he took off toward the kitchen.

“This isn’t a dumping ground!” Noah called after him. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, though.

A year earlier, this had been our home. Yet there she stood, in the doorway, half out of my life.

“Want a cup of coffee?” I asked, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Cold air swirled around my bare feet.

“I should go.” She jerked a thumb toward the car idling in the driveway. When she left, she didn’t even keep the car I’d bought for her. She drove a brand new Toyota Camry that she was probably leasing—and paying out the nose for every month.

I didn’t get it. She could’ve kept the Jaguar. I’d bought it for her.

“It’s cold,” I said. “Just come in for a few. Run me through school?”

For a second, her eyes lit up. Then her lips tightened. “I’ve got lesson planning to do.” She turned, low ponytail whipping around through the bottom of her beanie.

I closed my eyes. I’d meant Joey’s school, forgetting entirely that she’d started grad school—all while caring for our son and teaching English at the high school. “Wait,” I called. “How’s business school?”

She paused, boots crunching over the salt on the shoveled front walk. Turning, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. Her eyes lifted, but still didn’t meet mine.

When I breathed in, my chest ached. Without her in my life, I rattled around in my body, in the big empty house we’d once shared. Though she haunted me, I was the ghost.

“Demanding,” she said. “I’ve gotta go.” She hesitated as if she had more to say.

“Noah . . .” A thousand questions burned on my own lips. Even after all those months, I still didn’t know why she left me. I’d thought we had a good thing going. Sure, my job could be demanding. I was the best pediatric urologist in the region. Those kids needed me, and I couldn’t exactly ignore my pages. I knew Noah wanted me home more, but I thought she understood.

Until I came home to a dark house.

“Can you drop him off tomorrow night?” she asked, eyes on my beard.

I suppressed a grin. She’d always liked when I went without shaving for a few days. I was pushing dress code at work, but seeing the look in her eyes was worth it. “Of course,” I said, voice soft.

“I would just get him myself, but it’d buy me some extra study time.”

“It’s no problem.” I swallowed, and stepped onto the porch. “Look, Noah, I can take him for the week, if that helps.”

Those triangular eyes narrowed. “Our current custody agreement works just fine.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “I just meant, if you need me to step up to sixty/forty custody, just to give you more time for school—”

She laughed, a short, bitter bark. “How exactly would that work? Are you going to take a vacation?”

I licked my lips. “I’m trying to help.”

“Or are you just going to send him to your mom’s?” She clenched her keys.

Jaw tightening, I sucked in a deep breath. “I’m just going to finish my coffee,” I sat flatly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Great,” she said. She turned, boots scraping against the ground. Her heel spun, sliding over a small patch of ice that the snow removal guy had missed. Legs flying out in opposite directions, she started to fall.

I jumped down from the porch, bare feet slapping against the freezing cold walkway. Pebbles of salt bit into the soles of my feet. Arms outstretched, I reached for her. I hooked one arm under her bottom, wrapping another around her shoulders, and drew her into me.

We both went down.

I landed hard on my back, the air exiting my lungs in an icy whoosh. My body absorbed the impact, and I cradled Noah in my arms. With a grunt, I met her eyes.

Only inches separated us. Those blue eyes stared into mine, both wonder and fear mingling in them. I frowned. She had nothing to fear from me. I would never hurt her. Both the oaths I’d taken bound me from harming her: the Hippocratic Oath, and my marriage vows.

Even though our marriage was technically over, I’d never break them.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. Her breath warmed my face.

“Yes,” I rasped. I tried to suck in a deep breath, but my lungs were still in shock.

A strand of hair escaped her beanie, caressing my cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, lips so close to mine, all I had to do was lift my head.

“Good thing,” I panted, “I’m off today.”

“Good thing you’re a doctor.” A corner of her mouth lifted. “Tell me what to do for you, Dr. Wester.”

Come home, I wanted to say. As my lungs started working correctly, though, I realized my arms were still around her—my hand still on her ass. I loosened my grip, releasing her.

She brushed snow out of my hair. “Thank goodness your head landed in the snow.”

I glanced around. Sure enough, we’d twisted as we fell. The snow wasn’t exactly soft, but it’d saved me from cracking my head open on the pavement.

Noah rolled off me, and my body instantly went cold without her. I sucked in a deep breath to salve the ache in my chest. She stood, holding her hand out to me.

Reaching for her, I braced my elbow against the walkway, pushing off as her hand closed around mine. I outweighed her by at least 100 lb. “Thanks.”

Biting her lip, she walked around me, evaluating. “You look okay to me, but you fell hard, Levi.”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Really. It’s nothing a little Advil can’t fix.”

Most of the damage wasn’t physical, though. All of the painkillers in the world couldn’t help me, not with Noah out of my life.

“Theo’s inside, too,” she said, as if reminding herself that she had no obligation to stick around and nurse me.

“He’s going to be devastated to hear that I won’t be running with him for a while.” I shooed her. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Her eyes flicked up to mine for a moment, then darted away. Without another word, she moved carefully down the driveway.

Just like in our divorce, I’d absorbed the impact. Noah always got away clean, leaving me to lick my wounds. Before she left, all I’d wanted was a family and a career, but I couldn’t juggle the two. After, I’d thrown myself into work, dropping the ball as a father in an effort to save my patients and give my son everything he wanted. Sometimes I thought I’d never find the right balance.

The Stairs Between UsBuy Now

The Stairs Between Us, Chapter 1

No matter how much time passed, part of me would always long to be back in that house. I wanted the man I’d married. The man who looked at me as if I was his whole world, his eyes filled with the dreams he had for us. The Levi who saw the whole picture and wanted to keep looking.

That Levi was gone. I didn’t know how to get him back, so I left.

Noah

The early morning glow filtered through the blinds—the wrong kind of light. It should’ve tipped me off, but it never did. I rolled onto my side to face him, a hand automatically stretching out. My fingers touched cool sheets.

Empty bed.

No husband.

There were still mornings when I woke, half expecting to find myself in my husband’s house, in our bed. Most mornings, actually. I should’ve been used to it, but somewhere between sleep and the land of the living, my brain kept glitching out.

Levi always kept blackout curtains in our bedroom. Those sheets never saw the light of day. With his odd hours, he needed to be able to sleep no matter what time of day.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself back to that bedroom, to that life. To the person that I was. The velvet inside of my eyelids glowed red from the diffused light, the illusion shattered.

Even though I’d divorced my husband, I still missed him.

No matter how much I missed him, though, I’d had to leave.

I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand. I didn’t have to get up for another fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. My brain already ticked through each thing I had to do for the day, a perpetual running list that never shut up—even while I slept.

Running feet pounded the carpeted hallway as my six-year-old son zoomed toward my room. He flew through the open door and bounded into bed with me.

“Good morning, Momma!”

Pushing away all of my worries, I snuggled him into my arms. “I love my cup of morning Joey.” I inhaled the scent of his mousy brown hair, breathing in the scent of sleep and berry kids’ shampoo from his bath the night before.

“Am I going to Daddy’s today?”

“Tomorrow, buddy.” I hugged him tighter. “Today’s Friday.”

Joey giggled. “No, Momma. Today’s Saturday.”

He was right. I threw on a smile to hide my grimace. “Are you sure? I can still bring you to school.” My fingers found his ribs, tickling lightly.

He squealed, wriggling away from me. “No school. I want to go home. I mean, to Daddy’s.” He studied my face with dark eyes that were so like Levi’s, waiting for my reaction.

“Daddy’s house is your home, too,” I reminded him. My heart throbbed with guilt. What I did hadn’t been easy on my son. As much as I missed Levi, I knew Joey missed the three of us being together even more, no matter how much of a brave face he put on.

“Why . . . ?” His voice trailed off.

“What, buddy?” I sat up in bed, tendrils of dark hair reaching down my back, tickling my skin as they tumbled over my shoulders.

“Never mind,” he mumbled. His eyebrows remained pinched together, though.

“Honey? Talk to me.” I stroked his smooth, creamy white cheek with my thumb.

“Why can’t we go home?” Those round brown eyes stared up at me.

“We are home.” I gathered him into my lap. “This is my home, and Daddy’s house is his home, and both of those places are your home. Remember?”

Twisting in my arms, Joey came face to face with me. “Seems like a lot of homes.”

I chuffed a tiny laugh through my nose, a smile touching my lips. That was another way that Joey was like Levi. They both thought logically. All of the pieces needed to fit, no room for arguments or emotions. Sometimes I wondered if this boy was even mine. The only physical feature he’d inherited from me was my chin. My sapphire eyes skipped him, and his genes took off running after his father.

“Sometimes mommies and daddies need to have more than one home.” I patted his leg.

“Yes,” he said, as if explaining to a toddler, “but one home costs less money.”

“I know you want things to be the way they used to be, but we’re still a family.”

Joey slid out of my arms and off the bed. “We have a lot of bills.” He turned and padded toward the hall in his bare feet. “Can we have pancakes?” he asked over his shoulder as he ambled out of sight.

I sighed. Even though he was only six, he saw and heard everything. He noted the bills piling on the table, some with red PAST DUE stamps, and assembled the pieces. Just like he saw Levi’s empty kitchen table, the mortgage already paid off and the bills automatically withdrawn from his checking account.

Leaving my husband had cost me more than I’d been prepared to lose.

Life went on, though. It had to. If I spent too much time assessing my decision, I might doubt it. And I didn’t have room in my life to start second-guessing myself.

The damage was done, as they said.

I climbed out of bed and wrapped myself in my thick flannel bathrobe, tucking my feet into slippers. As I moved through my room, I glanced out the window. Part of me hoped that I’d see snow on the ground, January continuing its pattern of dumping snow on our small New England town just so I could keep Joey for one more day. No such luck, though. Both the sky and streets were clear.

That soft morning sunlight kept on shining.

On Saturday mornings before it all fell apart, Levi let me sleep in. I’d wake up to coffee in the carafe and my husband flipping omelettes on the stove. I’d hop up onto the counter, he’d hand me a plate, and I’d wrap my legs around his waist. Then I’d feed us both little bites while we talked about our dreams and laughed.

Sometimes dreams can turn into nightmares, though. You can become consumed by what you think you want, until your view of everything around you slowly narrows and you lose sight of what’s important. The people you leave behind are forced to pick up the pieces, to make the hard decisions.

I couldn’t explain these things to my son, though. At only six, his world view was simple: mommies and daddies stayed together. At least, his were supposed to. No matter how many times I read him children’s books about divorce, or how many kids in his first grade class told him their parents separated too, Joey would always want us back together.

I couldn’t blame him.

No matter how much time passed, part of me would always long to be back in that house. The days I longed for, though, weren’t the later years of our marriage. I wanted to return to before Joey was born. Not because I didn’t want my son, but because I wanted the man I’d married. The man who held my hand on our walk over to campus, who slipped sweet little notes into my backpack.

I wanted the Levi who looked at me as if I was his whole world, his brown almond-shaped eyes filled with the dreams he had for us. The Levi who saw the whole picture and wanted to keep looking.

That Levi was gone, though, replaced with a cold lookalike who barely saw me when he bothered to come home. The doppelgänger who came home from the hospital hardly glanced at our son, ignoring his pleas to “Come play dinosaurs with me, Daddy.”

I shuffled into the kitchen where Joey already stood on a chair at the counter. A mixing bowl and the box of pancake mix sat in front of him.

“I waited for you,” he told me.

Kissing the top of his head, I grabbed a measuring cup. He was already six. There weren’t too many pancake mornings left, fewer still afternoons spent playing with dinosaurs in a sandbox.

Whether you paid attention or not, time kept moving forward.

“Wanna stir?” I asked my son. He nodded and I handed him a rubber spatula. “Go for it.”

“Momma,” he began as I poured water into the mix.

I paused, holding the measuring cup over the board. “Yeah?”

“You’re putting too much water.”

Peering at the pancake mix and the water already in the bowl, I shook my head. “Honey, I’ve been making pancakes since before you were born.”

“Momma,” he said again. “It’s a two to three ratio.”

I blinked at him. “It’s a do what now?”

Joey sighed. “It’s one and a half cups of water for every two cups of mix.” Gently, he took the measuring cup from my hand and set it down. Then he grabbed the box and pointed to the chart on the back. “See?”

Shaking my head, I moved toward the coffee pot. “I’ll just let you handle that, then,” I told him, reminded again of how like Levi he was. Math and science—those came easily to the men of my heart. When I made pancakes, I just added water until the batter was right. When Levi made them, the measurements had to be exact.

Precision made for a fantastic surgeon. Surgeons made for terrible spouses. I just hoped that Joey wouldn’t take after his father in that department, too.

Read Chapter 2

Just One More Minute, Chapter 2

Matt slumped into a chair in Katherine’s office. After hearing the news the other night, he hadn’t even wanted to open the bakery for the next day. There was no point. The place was lifeless without her. But she’d made it abundantly clear to him that she wanted him to keep the place going if anything happened to her. Her lawyer was definitely making sure sure that he followed her last wishes, too.

So he’d opened up Elli’s on Saturday and accepted a steady stream of customers mourning Katherine. He spent the day serving them coffee and pastries, pushing his own feelings aside. There was no choice. If he thought about his mentor too much, he would break. Katherine had been more than that, really. She’d been like a mother to him.

He’d closed early and fallen into a heavy sleep, resolving not to open on Sunday. But the lawyer had given him a friendly wakeup call that morning, imploring him to get to work. Matt didn’t know what to expect, but nothing had changed. People continued to flock to Elli’s, offering him their condolences and treating the weekend as a memorial service in and of itself.

He dragged a hand through his brown curls, sighing. He’d made it through most of the weekend, but he had no idea what would happen next. Without Katherine, he had no job. It was only a matter of time.

The smart thing to do would be to skip the wake that evening and spend the night figuring out what he was going to do. He’d graduated high school only by the skin of his teeth. College hadn’t even been an option. If it wasn’t for Katherine, he and his family would be homeless. And he would never be able to thank her for what she’d done for him.

There was no way he could miss her wake, though. The thought of seeing her in a casket simultaneously made him nauseous and sent pain searing through his chest, but he had to pay his last respects. He owed her at least that—even if it would cost him dearly.

Matt rubbed his face with his hands. The whole situation was all too familiar. He’d been one of very few people who had known Katherine was sick. She hadn’t even intended to tell him, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the side effects of chemo. He’d watched her get weaker and weaker, once again powerless to stop the inevitable. On its own, his grief for his father was unbearable, but losing Katherine was like ripping a scab off a large, still raw wound. The anger, sadness, and helplessness enveloping him were familiar, but that didn’t make dealing with those feelings any easier.

Shoulders slumped, he stood from his seat. On his way into the kitchen to clean up, he paused in the hall. The front end needed a run-through, too. His limbs felt frozen. Without any customers, the place felt too empty. Katherine would kill him if he left the place anything less than spotless, though. Torn, he glanced back at the kitchen, then at the cafe. Normally he wasn’t so indecisive, but he felt reluctant to clean either room. All he wanted to do was go home and collapse into bed. Maybe then he’d wake up and discover it’d all been a bad dream.

Danny and his mom were waiting at home for him, though. The thought of his family jolted him into action. They depended on him. He needed to stay strong.

It didn’t take long for him to clean up, even though he took his time. Once he started, he relaxed easily into the familiar ritual. He was suddenly all too aware that the sooner he locked up, the closer he’d be on his way to the wake. There was only so much procrasti-cleaning he could do, though. Squaring his shoulders, he put the mop away and grabbed his keys from the office. He set the alarm, then slipped out into the hot afternoon.

His pickup didn’t have air conditioning. He’d parked in the shady corner of the parking lot earlier that morning. Though it’d been dark when he arrived, the truck rested underneath a sprawling oak. Even though he’d left the windows wide open, when he opened the door, steaming hot air rushed out at him. The sooner he got it moving, the better.

He took the long way home—not that there was really a long way in Watertown. He crossed the small town into the even smaller town of Oakville within just a few minutes. Parking in front of the three-family house where he and his family lived, he shut the engine off. He needed to compose himself before he walked in and Danny saw his face.

The wake would start in just a couple of hours. Everything was happening too quickly. He needed a moment, but life was unrelenting. The best he could do was stop fighting and let himself be carried.

The problem was, he had no idea which direction he should float in.

Steeling himself, he pushed open the car door and got out. As he walked toward the door that led to his apartment, he felt eyes on him. Casually, he glanced up to the third floor. His upstairs neighbor Burton glared down at him through the blinds.

“That old fucker blocked me in again.”

Matt turned toward the door to the first floor apartment, shoulders tense. He did not feel like dealing with Maureen at the moment. If he brushed her off, though, she would take it personally. She and Burton had already dragged him into their war, each trying to force him to pick sides. He had no idea how Switzerland always remained so neutral. Juggling neighbors was hard. Besides, he was inclined to get along with Maureen because she frequently looked after Danny for him.

“What else is new?” he asked, keeping his tone light.

Maureen nodded toward the other side of the house. “So I knocked his garbage over.” She smirked.

Great. Burton would, without a doubt, blame Danny. Every time Matt’s little brother played outside, Burton made an effort to intimidate him back inside. The old fucker was territorial and mean. Matt opened his mouth, then shut it. Reminding Maureen that she had other neighbors would do no good. He’d have to remember to clean up the mess as soon as she went inside. He climbed the steps to his door and put a hand on the knob.

“Want a cigarette?” Maureen asked, holding out the pack to him.

He considered it. A cigarette would help soothe his nerves. But he’d promised Danny he would never smoke again, and he intended to keep that promise—even if his mother didn’t. “I’ve got a wake to get to.”

Maureen’s lips twitched to the side and her eyebrows slanted. “Sorry to hear that.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “I’ll catch you later, then,” she said, exhaling smoke as she spoke.

Closing the door behind him, Matt climbed the flight of stairs that led to the final door to his apartment. They were steep, creaking and groaning beneath him. He still thought the placement of the stairs was odd, but he was glad that there were two doors separating him from his neighbors.

As soon as he opened the door, Danny flung himself into his arms. “Matty,” his little brother said affectionately. The kid hadn’t hit puberty yet, and his voice was still childlike. Soon that would change, though.

“Is Mom . . . ?” Matt let the question hang in the air.

Danny nodded. “She said to get her up before the, well, you know.” He looked down at the floor.

Matt knelt in front of him. “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.” He considered for a moment. “But you’d have to hang out outside the funeral home—unless you want to stay with Maureen.”

His little brother shook his head rapidly. “I’ll bring my Gameboy.”

Matt smiled. The Gameboy Advance had been his, from his own childhood. Despite its age, Danny loved the Pokemon Red and Super Mario Bros. games that Matt had played at his age. He was glad he’d held onto it. Neither he or his mother could afford to get Danny the latest Nintendo handheld device, and definitely not something as expensive as an iPad. But if the kid knew the difference, he didn’t let on. Danny was a good boy.

Straightening, Matt glanced around the kitchen. Cereal bowls from that morning were still on the table, soggy Os floating in probably rancid milk. He sighed. “You’ve got to remember to clean up, Danny.” Though he hated that his little brother had joined the Take Care of Mom club, eleven was old enough to put a dish in the sink.

After he rinsed the bowls out and set them in the sink to soak, Matt headed into the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a few. Wake Mom up,” he called over his shoulder.


He pulled into the funeral home’s lot and followed one of the usher’s directions into a parking spot. “Danny,” he said, turning in his seat. His little brother sat bent over his Gameboy. “It’s too hot to stay in the car while we’re inside so go sit in the shade over there.” He pointed to a grassy area. A bench sat underneath a tree. From there, engrossed in his game, Danny probably wouldn’t even remember that he was at a funeral home. Or so Matt hoped.

Matt unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the car. At some point, he’d have to stop babying his little brother. He knew that. But he’d never forget the look on Danny’s face when they first walked into another room in another funeral home, six years earlier. Matt hadn’t even been prepared for how their dad would look, the once tan skin ashen and flat. Their father had looked like a sleeping statue, a parody of himself.

Shaking the memories away, Matt went around to his mother’s side of the car. He opened her door and offered her his arm. She glanced up at him from beneath thinning lashes, her eyes somber.

“You can hang out with Danny, if you want,” he said gently.

Relief flickered across her face for a moment, then she shook her head. She lifted her chin. “Katherine did so much for you—for us,” Emily said. She clasped his arm and climbed out of the car, grimacing in pain at his touch. Grief had not been kind to her. Where she’d once been strong, Fibromyalgia wracked her nerves, the stress of losing her husband aggravating her illness.

Still, he was able to lead her into the funeral home without much trouble. He started to guide her to a seat, but she shook her head. Nodding, he led her toward the line. It was long.

While they waited, he tried to look anywhere but the casket. The room was crowded with people, many of the faces familiar. He glanced at the line of family members receiving condolences. He’d only met Katherine’s brother Noah once. He could only assume the woman standing next to him was his wife. He knew Katherine hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye with her family, but he’d never learned why. He was pretty sure that, if Katherine could have it her way, none of them would be at the wake or funeral.

The line of mourners moved forward, rapidly passing time shoving Matt closer to the casket. He forced himself to focus on something else as he moved his feet.
Next to Mr. and Mrs. Ellis stood their daughters and son. Their oldest daughter, he knew, was a relatively successful theatre actress out in New York City. Their son was a teenager who regularly got into trouble, though. He’d barely graduated high school, but only because he preferred to smoke pot and snort pills in the school bathroom. Katherine was not fond of either Mia or Leo.

But she’d loved her other niece.

Matt’s eyes fell on the young woman named Rowan. He’d never met her, but he felt as if he knew her. As he took in the sight of her, his breath caught in his throat. The dress she wore hugged her curves, its pencil skirt shape falling to just above her knees. Though the neckline reached her collarbone, parts of the dress that stretched across her breastbone were tastefully cut out in three diamond shapes. Light brown hair fell in waves down to her waist. She was stunning—much more so than the photos on Katherine’s desk hinted at.

Pale blue eyes met his from across the room. Recognition flashed across her face. Her eyes widened. He smiled, starting to lift a hand. Rowan’s eyes narrowed in a hard glare. Her lips twitched in distaste.

Turning around, he glanced about for the object of her anger. No one in the vicinity seemed to even notice her, though. He glanced back at her. She was definitely glaring at him.

And she wasn’t happy.

Matt took an involuntary step back. The line moved forward—Murphy’s Law. He realized that his mom was eyeing him expectantly, one brow lifted in question. For once, his mother was more possessed than he was. He shook his head at himself, then joined her. Throwing a glance at the casket, he tried to decide what he was going to do once up there.

People knelt, bowed their heads, and after a few seconds, made the sign of the cross. Then they stood up. Though his father had been raised Jewish, Matt’s parents had basically raised him Protestant. All that came to an end six years before. He knew Katherine’s family was far from religious—never mind Catholic—so the ritual seemed even more impersonal to him.

What he really wanted to do was shake her awake and take her out for a coffee, escaping from the too warm room and all the formalities. The thought was absurd, but there it was.

Suddenly it was his turn.

He hadn’t noticed his mother go ahead of him. She stood off to the side, waiting for him.

Matt wiped the palms of his hands on his worn black Dickies. He stepped forward. Swallowing hard against the dry knot in his throat, he knelt down in front of the casket. He found himself staring into Katherine’s arm. Quickly he bowed his head.

He didn’t know how to pray, or if he should even bother. He had no idea what happened after life. Heart thudding in his chest, he tried to think of what he’d want to say to Katherine if he’d had the chance.

I’m sorry, he blurted into the spaces of his mind. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

Someone in the line behind him cleared their throat. Matt’s head snapped up. With a final nod, he jumped away from the casket and joined his mom.

She gave his arm a squeeze.

Together, they turned toward Katherine’s family.

“I’m so sorry,” Emily said, clasping Noah’s hand.

The man nodded his thanks. The bitter, sticky scent of marijuana oozed off of him. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. In fact, Matt noticed as he moved down the line shaking hands, the entire Ellis family smelled like weed. A smile tugged at his lips but he forced his face to remain blank. Part of him wished they’d invited him to spark up. The scent was so strong, it almost knocked him over. All of them were engulfed in it—except for Rowan.

He stopped in front of her. She smelled clean, a light fragrance hovering around her like an aura, enveloping him in soothing warmth. Standing next to her family, she was a complete contrast—in more than one way. Her father and brother, for example, wore rumpled jeans. Rowan stood out in her funeral black. And while her family’s eyes were bloodshot, relaxed smiles painted their faces. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her mouth tugged down in a frown.

So maybe she hadn’t been glaring at him after all. Her family appeared almost jovial. No wonder she looked so pissed.

He held out his hand to her. “I’m Matt,” he said.

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I know who you are.” Her tone was sharp.

He blinked. Okay. He wouldn’t take it personally. She’d just lost her aunt, after all. “Katherine really loved you,” he offered. “She talked about you all the time.”

For a moment, Rowan’s face softened. A smile lit up her face. Then fresh tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She gazed at him, a mixture of emotions playing off her face—feelings he couldn’t read.

He stood there, feeling more awkward with each second that passed. His feet felt rooted to the floor, though. Something about her drew him in. It was familiar, almost as if they knew each other. But he’d never met her. Only through Katherine’s stories did he know that she made delicious pastries and that her face turned bright red when she swore. But still. He felt an almost relief in her presence, the same kind that came from being reunited with someone you love and haven’t seen in a long time.

It was ridiculous. He didn’t believe in instalove. The crazy thing was, though, that for a second, she looked like she felt something too.

Then the mask slipped back over her face. Her eyes narrowed, guarded.

He needed to say something. People behind him pressed closer. He was holding the line up. He should tell a funny story about Katherine, bring that smile back again. Give her something to carry with her. Blank static filled his mind, though. He’d spent the last two years working with Katherine, yet he couldn’t recall a single moment. His pulse echoed in his ears. He realized that he might just be having a panic attack. The wake was proving to be too much for him.

Resolving to find her again before he left, he mumbled another quick sorry, then hurried away. He retreated to a seat at the back of the wide room. Then he cursed himself.

He’d had a chance to pay it forward, to spread some of Katherine’s kindness toward him to her niece. And he’d botched it—completely. Bringing his hands to his face, he bent over. Suddenly, he needed air. He stood and headed toward the exit.

Just One More Minute

enemies to friends to lovers
small town
bakery
healing together
diverse characters
group of friends

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