A Disturbing Prospect

Book 1: River Reapers MC

by Elizabeth Barone

Genres: Romantic Suspense; dark romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Our violent pasts brought us together. One night entwined us forever. We're not falling in love, we're just hanging onto each other while everything falls apart.

Olivia

Until now, I survived by never sticking around long enough for anyone to leave me again. My odds change when Cliff walks out of prison and into my life. With his dark hair, gentle eyes, and disturbing secrets, I'm dying to unlock him—or at least have one night of reckless sex with him.

Cliff

After serving a life sentence, all I want is peace, but my violent past catches up with me when I become a Prospect for the local biker club. A lifetime membership comes with its own baggage... I knew right away that Olivia's the one to show me how to live again, but it's going to take more than one night to convince her.

And then there's the most disturbing Prospect of all...

A DISTURBING PROSPECT is the first book in the River Reapers MC series, a dark romance with a body count. Some content may be disturbing to some readers.

Release date: January 5, 2018

Publisher: Maietta Ink

Print pages: 214

Content advisory: Some content may be disturbing to some readers.

Sample

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. It 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.

“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.

I really will be a statistic if I don’t get my shit together.

My hand is on the door knob when the phone rings. I freeze, then turn in slow motion toward the nightstand where the phone rests. But it keeps ringing, and I have to accept that I’m not imagining it.

I dart across the room and grab it, pressing it to my ear. “Yeah. Lucy?”

“Cliff,” she sobs. “Is it really you?”

A relieved sigh escapes my lips. “It’s me,” I say with a smile. She sounds so different, yet I’d know that voice anywhere.

“You’re really out? I can’t believe it. I thought you had another five years.”

“Yeah, I got lucky. Overcrowding and good behavior.” Mostly. Plus I had a lawyer that was really good at talking judges into dreamland.

“Cliff, holy shit. Where are you? I mean, I know where, but when are you coming home?” She’s talking so fast, I can barely understand her. I love every second of it.

I hate to disappoint her. Even after all these years. “Luce . . .”

I can almost hear her shoulders slump. “You’re not coming home?”

“Not likely. At least, not anytime soon. I’m broke, kid. And I—“

“I’ll PayPal you some money,” she says, and now she’s really talking fast. I strain to understand her, the words like a foreign language. At least her accent is Connecticut.

I let her finish, again wishing I had a cigarette. Something to calm my nerves.

“Cliff? You there?”

Swallowing past the dry lump in my throat, I tell her I am. “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, Luce.”

“Okay, just give me your email address.”

She’s going to think I’m an alien, that the games we played when she was a kid were real. “I don’t have one.”

She barks out a laugh. “What? Oh. No Wi-Fi in prison.”

“Wi-Fi?” My head starts to throb.

“Um . . . Like AOL, but wireless.” She laughs again. “Wow, this is so funny. You’re like a newborn.”

It’s good that she can be so positive about this—about anything.

“All right, let me think.” She hums a little. “No email address, and I’m guessing you don’t have a bank account either. Jesus, prison is inhumane. Well, there’s only one solution.”

I shrug, because seeing as how I can barely grasp this Wi-Fi stuff, I’m probably going to be blown away by whatever she comes up with.

“Cliff, text me your address.”

The throbbing between my eyes intensifies. “Luce, I don’t—“

“Fuck,” she yells. “You probably don’t even know what a cell phone is.”

“I know what a cell phone is,” I shoot back.

“Yeah, the clunky TV-remote-looking ones from the early 2000s,” she jokes.

Both of my eyebrows lift. “Everything is different now, huh?” My voice is low, but not that flirtatious purr I used on the girl at the front desk. I sound sad. I need to man the fuck up.

“It is,” she agrees. “But don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of you, reintroduce you to the wild. And teach you how to play Pokémon GO.”

“I know how to play Pokémon,” I grumble.

She laughs again. “This is way different, trust me. It uses GPS and—“

“Okay, mercy. My head hurts.”

Her giggle, however, is a soothing mother’s stroke across my forehead. It reminds me of better times. “I’m gonna come down there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. I’m supposed to be a man. It should be me taking care of her, not the other way around.

She snorts. “Dude,” she says, “trust me. You need a guide. And I’m currently on vacation, licking my wounds.”

I suddenly remember what the receptionist read to me. “You got married?”

“No,” she says, almost sadly. “It’s against my rules.”

“What are you, a nun?” For a second, it feels like I’ve gone back twenty years in time, like we’re just kids busting each other’s balls.

“Nuns,” she says, “don’t have one-night stands.”

I nearly choke. “I don’t ever want to know about your sex life.”

“You sure? You don’t want to live vicariously? Must’ve been awfully lonely in prison.” I can practically hear her smirking.

“No,” I tell her firmly. A few seconds pass. My voice softens. “Hey, Luce? Thanks.”

Her voice is so small when she finally responds. “No, Cliff, thank you.”

I shake my head, wondering if other people have these kinds of conversations. Sighing, I let her direct the conversation for a few. She rattles off times and schedules, then promises to be at my room before checkout time.

“Please set a wakeup call,” she begs.

“Yeah, yeah.” I smile, though. “Hey, Luce? What’s Facebook?”