A Disturbing Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read online

  A Disturbing Prospect

  River Reapers Motorcycle Club, Book 1

  Elizabeth Barone

  Contents

  A Disturbing Prospect

  Foreword

  Trigger Warnings

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Body Count

  Get More Olivia & Cliff

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elizabeth Barone

  A Disturbing Prospect

  Cliff

  Something inside me is stirring, like a sleeping beast in its lair. For twenty years I’ve been dead, but Olivia makes me feel alive. Wide awake and alert, ready for anything.

  And I know Lucy, my cousin and only friend in the world, won’t have it.

  She’d be completely right, of course. Olivia is family—Lucy’s little sister. Even if she’s adopted. Even if we didn’t grow up together. I share no memories with her but we share family. Her parents are my aunt and uncle, for fuck’s sake. It’s one place I can’t go—and it’s the one place I most want to be.

  Olivia

  Cliff has me doing all kinds of things I don’t normally—like thinking about him and sighing like a school girl. I need to get back in the game, keep moving. I can’t let him get to me like this.

  This has never happened before. It’s stupid and it needs to stop. Yes, he’s sexy and he makes me laugh, but I can’t let myself get carried away. I can’t.

  Even if he’s the only one who can help me—because he’s the only other person I know who’s taken a life.

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  For everyone who’s ever taken their power back.

  Foreword

  A Disturbing Prospect is the darkest book I’ve written so far. There were some wrongs that I really needed to right—injustices that should’ve been paid for but weren’t. What you hold in your hands is the result of emotions I’ve carried inside me for a long time.

  Some of the themes in this book might make some people uncomfortable, and may even be triggering for people with personal trauma. I’ve made a list of potential trigger warnings that I’m including here.

  For the sake of realism, I’ve depicted biker culture from my own experience and understanding. Although that culture and its attitudes toward women is changing, it has a long way to go. My goal for this book and its subsequent series is to help change that mentality.

  Trigger Warnings

  Not only is there a body count, but the book also deals with some real-life nightmares that I’ve longed to fight back against. Some of these themes may trigger personal trauma.

  I needed to tell the story in my heart and right some wrongs, but I’d also never want anyone to suffer because of my words. None of these themes are gratuitously presented in the book, and my vigilante bikers always prevail. Still, I want my readers to be safe, so here is a list of potential triggers.

  Animals: There’s no pet death in A Disturbing Prospect, but an animal is harmed.

  Biker Culture: Let’s be real—biker culture is misogynistic as fuck. I wanted to portray that realistically, while also incorporating some changes. There’s some biker slang and characters who treat women as property in this book.

  Childhood Sexual Abuse: Some of the characters have a history of being sexually abused as children. None of their memories are described, but there is mention of it having happened.

  Drugs: There is brief mention of selling and use of drugs.

  Self-Injury: A character catches a glimpse of another character’s self-mutilated arms.

  Sexual Assault: One of the recurring themes in this series is violence against women and children. (One of the other recurring themes, however, is justice for that violence.) There are some hints of past sexual assault throughout A Disturbing Prospect.

  Stalking: A character mercilessly stalks and taunts another character throughout A Disturbing Prospect.

  Violence: All of the good guys in this series are vigilantes—antiheroes who take justice into their own hands. There is blood, fighting, gun violence, and a villain body count.

  If you feel that you won’t be safe reading A Disturbing Prospect, please don’t risk your health. As a sexual assault survivor and someone with PTSD, I wish every book came with a list of trigger warnings. No book is worth risking your safety.

  Please also note that I don’t necessarily condone or endorse the themes contained in this book.

  If you’ve read A Disturbing Prospect and feel that I may have missed something, please email me at [email protected].

  1

  Cliff

  The second the sun touches my skin on the other side of the barbed wire chain link fence, I am truly free. It doesn’t matter that I have to meet with my probation officer, or that I don’t exactly have any place to go. All that’s important is I’m not rotting within those cement walls anymore.

  My twenty years are finally up.

  The taxi idles, puffs of exhaust eddying into the cold February air. The dead of winter is a shitty time to be homeless, but even that thought doesn’t dampen my spirits. Prison wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t like being outside. Inside, I was just a caged animal throwing myself at the bars, bruising and bloodying myself in defiance. I was in segregation more times than I can count, and I’m lucky I got out five years early.

  I’d kiss the fucking ground if the guy behind the wheel wasn’t already eyeing me warily.

  I slide into the backseat, warmth from the heater enveloping me. A sigh nearly escapes my lips. It’s been so long since I was really, truly warm.

  Through the rearview mirror, the taxi driver continues to question my sanity. He isn’t prejudiced. "Where to, sir?" he asks, his voice void of any accent. He could be from Anywhere, America. Actually, the United States could’ve sunk into the bowels of hell while I was inside, for all I know. Maybe this accent is the new norm.

  I squint at him, trying to decide whether I’ve lost my fucking mind or if this is really the way things are now. He even looks racially ambiguous, with a broad hooked nose, green eyes, and olive skin.

  The newspapers I managed to get my hands on were always old, and the old men hogged the lone fucking TV all day. I have no clue what’s going on in the world. Or where I’m going.

  Maybe he takes pity on me, because his eyes soften and he clears his throat. "How long have you been in, sir?"

  I really wish he’d stop with the sir, but it’s better than what I’ve been called. What I am. Who. "Twenty years," I tell him.

  He nods real slow, then he rubs his chin, the stubble not quite poking through yet. It’s too early in the day. It’s another difference between us. My goatee is scratchy. I didn’t have time to shave this morning.

  "Well," he says finally. "We have a woman president."

  This I knew. I start to tell him that I haven’t been living in a fucking hole, but that would not be true. "Isn’t that something," I reply.

  He shoves the taxi into drive and pulls away from the only home I’ve ever known. I’ve been inside longer than I’d been alive when I went in.

  A sliver of panic creeps in. I don’t know how to cook or how to drive a car. I
t seems ridiculous, pathetic. And I still don’t know where I’m going. I have no one on the outside. At least, I don’t think so.

  During the first year, I had visitors. Then they trickled into phone calls, faded into letters, until finally, nothing. I don’t blame them. Twenty years is a long time, and Pennsylvania isn’t exactly close to home.

  The taxi driver takes me to a Days Inn. I don’t even bother looking through the glass as we drive through the small town. There’s not a damn thing here.

  I use most of the only cash I have left to buy a room for the night, and when I leave the lobby to find my room, the taxi is already gone. Blinking into the winter gloom, it starts to sink in that I don’t have any friends, inside or out.

  I’m a goddamn statistic.

  But the room has a shower that doesn’t run cold after two minutes, and I take a half hour to revel in my first real taste of freedom. The hot water sluices over hard muscle I’ve been careful to build and maintain. My own mother probably wouldn’t recognize me.

  After I step out, I clear the mirror with a hand and take a good look. It’s been a while since I looked at my reflection in something other than a mirror that more closely resembled a dented paper towel dispenser. In the pen, everything is constructed with safety in mind, carefully evaluated to ensure that even the most simplest of tools can’t be converted into deadly weapons.

  But anything can be a weapon.

  Anything.

  Even my bare hands.

  The goatee doesn’t surprise me. It’s familiar and has kept my face warm for two decades. It’s the crow’s feet at the corners of my brown eyes that make me pause. I’m only thirty-eight, but even though I don’t feel it, I look it. Maybe even five years older.

  A frown creases my forehead.

  It really shouldn’t matter. I’m not entering any beauty pageants anytime soon. And any woman who might be interested would be quick to run in the opposite direction the second she heard about my record.

  She’d be careless not to.

  I drape the towel over the hook on the back of the door and stalk out bare as the day I was born. There’s no one here to see me, and I’m not too keen on the idea of changing back into those clothes. They were donated to the prison. Never were mine. The clothes I wore the day I was cuffed are long gone, tucked into some forgotten evidence bin or maybe even burned, since the case was pretty quickly closed.

  There was no point in pleading innocence.

  I sit on the bed and eye the phone. I might have one friend out there. It’s a long shot, really. But maybe not that long.

  Snatching the phone from its cradle, I pause. Try to remember how to call someone whose number you don’t have. I have no fucking idea. I slam the receiver down, wishing I had a pack of cigarettes. Or even one cigarette would do.

  I’m about to throw back on those moldy old clothes when I remember. I can call the front desk, ask them. For a second, I feel even more pathetic. I’m like an old man with dementia. I’m lucky I don’t need help wiping my ass.

  The outside is so much different than I pictured.

  The closer I got to my parole hearing, the more convinced I was that there would be some kind of process. A sort of easing into things for the post-release inmate. When I mentioned it to my C.O., motherfucker laughed at me and handed me a booklet. The morning of my release, he handed me some cash—my total earnings. Twenty years of pennies on the hour, and I can’t even afford a second night at a shithole motel.

  I need to make that call, because it’s the only chance I have.

  Otherwise, I’ll be right back in within hours of walking out.

  Sucking in a breath between my teeth, I pick up the phone again and call the front desk.

  A chipper female voice answers—a young voice. “Days Inn front desk. How can I help you?"

  "Hey there, sweetheart," I drawl. My voice is smoked whiskey, smooth but with a bite. "I need to look someone up in Connecticut."

  She draws in a breath, then hesitates. "You’re serious?" Her voice lilts, amused.

  I lay it on thick, dropping my voice several octaves—still sweet, but low enough to drop panties. "Yeah, baby. I really need your help."

  A giggle caresses my ear before she can collect herself. She’s definitely young.

  I close my eyes for a moment, the memory of another small laugh pricking at me. The anger rises up quickly, fire shooting through my veins. I struggle to stuff it down, to shove the lid on it before it can backdraft, blowing me straight out of the room and right back into Lewisburg Pen.

  "What’s the name?" she asks, completely oblivious to the man burning on the other end.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I manage to slow it for a moment. "Lucy Demmel." Saying her name only makes it worse. The panic shoves its way in. I wonder if she’s even alive. If she’s healthy. Safe. Or if she’s just another statistic, too. I jump up from the bed. Pace the room. Wait.

  The receptionist spells out our last name, and the sound of tapping reaches my ears. It’s a weird tapping, though—a computer keyboard.

  I frown. "Aren’t you going to patch me through?"

  She laughs. "I’m looking her up on Facebook. Hold on."

  My eyebrows furrow. Facebook? Before I can ask what the fuck that is, my angel lets out a triumphant "Ah-ha!" and rattles off a number to me. I fumble for the pen and notepad in the drawer, ask her to repeat it, and jot it down.

  "Are you sure that’s really her?" I need to know, because I can’t take the disappointment.

  "Lucy Demmel," she says, as if she’s reading. "Twenty-eight, lives in Naugatuck, Connecticut. Went to Naugatuck High School. She’s in a relationship—"

  "Wait." I take another deep breath. "How do you know all this?" The age is right. The town, too. "Never mind," I say, even as my angel laughs at me. Flat out laughs. Not just amused. She’s almost hysterical. "How does she look?"

  The laughter dies. "You’re not, like, a stalker . . . are you?"

  I sigh. "She’s my cousin. Same last name. Come on. What does she look like?"

  She makes a skeptical sound, like a hmph. "Maybe I shouldn’t have given you her number. Oh shit. Am I going to get fired? Please don’t get me fired. I can’t keep a job—"

  Christ. I’ve always been a magnet for headcases. "Shh, baby. I’m not a stalker. She really is my cousin. Check my room records. My last name is Demmel. But don’t call me Clifford, or I’ll . . ." The threat dies on my lips, because it’s not an idle one. I blink, and wonder how long it’ll take for the prison effect to wear off. How long before I’m normal again. I don’t even know who I am anymore, or what normal is.

  "She has long red hair. Kinda wavy, like. Real sad green eyes. And . . ." Her pause stretches, almost endless. "A beauty mark or mole thing right near her eyebrow."

  I almost cry with relief. That’s my Lucy.

  "Her last post: 'Strength isn’t keeping your tears locked up when you’re sad, it’s saying no to a marriage proposal from the sexiest, sweetest man alive, even when everyone expects you to say yes. Fuck that shit.'" She snorts. "What?" She whisper-reads it again.

  That fucked up sense of humor is Lucy, all the way. I rattle off the phone number back at my angel to make sure I got it right, then hang up.

  I pick up the phone again and dial the number. It rings, the connection crackly but real. I almost lose my shit. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Or if she even remembers me. She was so little. Maybe she blocked the whole thing out.

  A loud male voice booms into my ear. "PLEASE DIAL THE NUMERAL ONE BEFORE THE AREA CODE. This is a recording."

  I hang up, muttering a "No shit." Clearing my throat, I try again—this time dialing one. I vaguely remember needing to do that before I went in.

  This time, the call goes through. It rings five times, and then my heart stops.

  "Hey, you’ve reached Lucy. You know what to do, dontcha?"

  The disappointment shoots into me. My shoulders slump and I almost drop the phone onto the floor.r />
  "Please leave a message after the tone. When you are finished recording, hang up, or press one for more options."

  A shrill beep pierces my ears, and I nearly drop the phone again.

  "Shit. No, wait. Sorry, Luce." I pause. Suddenly I really have no idea what to say. "Uh, yeah. Luce, this is Cliff. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been ages since I got a letter from you. I assumed your parents shut that shit down real fast. Sorry. Well, I guess you’re not eight anymore, so it’s okay to swear around you."

  I’m babbling. Taking a deep breath, I try to make words that won’t freak her out.

  "Luce, I know this is asking a lot. And do you even go by Luce anymore? Or do you prefer Lucy?" I rake my free hand through my hair. I’m fucking this up. Majorly. I let out a low, frustrated sound. "Okay, look, I’m at the Days Inn in Lewisburg. Fucking Pennsylvania, Luce. I’m just gonna lay it all out here: I have no money, nowhere to go, and I have to stick around at least long enough to see my parole officer. So maybe . . ."

  Suddenly I realize how desperate I sound. But I am.

  "Sorry to bother you, Luce—Lucy. Just forget it."

  I hang up.

  Dressing, I decide I’m better off spending my time finding a job. If I’m going to get out of this ass crack of a town, I’m gonna need cash—fast. There’s got to be a diner or something looking for suckers who don’t mind bussing tables for minimum wage. And maybe they’ll even overlook my record.

  The odds of me finding a job are even lower than finding Lucy. I figure my angel at the front desk can’t possibly save me twice, but maybe she can. Maybe she’s from around here and knows of a place that will hire without asking questions. Or she can at least point me to the closest drug dealer so I can start selling too.