“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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