A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2)

by Elizabeth Barone

  "Can we not do the whole torture the Prospect thing tonight?" I plead, resting my elbows on the bar.

  His brown eyes soften. "I'm sorry. I heard you and Red Dog split."

  "Thanks." Relief washes over me. Before Lucy, I never had any siblings. I always imagined having a brother would be a pain in my ass. But Vaughn is usually the target of good-natured club torture. He's sweet. He's also not bad looking, with a slight dimple in his chin and deep set eyes that make him always look sleepy. Despite the guys' jokes about him living in his mother's basement, he's usually tied down.

  Not tonight, by the looks of it.

  I perk up a little. Maybe all I need is to toss myself back into the game. I lean toward him. "Empty arm tonight, huh?"

  "Yeah," he says, leaning in, his eyes intent on mine. His lips are a little thin—certainly not as luscious as Cliff's—but I can make it work. He cracks another crooked smile. "There isn't a drink in my hand."

  I glare at him. "There's no such thing as a Salem Tourist!"

  "There are plenty of them in October." He wiggles his eyebrows.

  "I'm done with you," I tell him. I pour him a rum and Coke—his usual. "Begone," I say, shooing him.

  Giving me one last grin, he takes his drink and saunters away.

  I lean against the bar, closing my eyes for a moment. The clink of glasses, catcalls, and shitty music are far from peaceful. I open my eyes. Cliff sits on a barstool in front of me, his big hands splayed on the bar.

  "Hey," he drawls, and my knees go weak.

  I swallow, then deliver my line: "What can I get you?"

  "I stopped by Lucy's. I saw our niece."

  The way he says "our niece" turns my whole body to water. I cling to the bar for dear life. "Oh? How is our little Bunny?" The "our" slips from my lips. His eyes latch onto mine, liquid heat pooling in them. I press my knees together.

  "We're calling her Bunny?" The corner of his mouth quirks.

  We.

  He still says it so naturally.

  I know it's for the best that we're not together. I know that. But my whole body still aches in his presence. His scent, his voice, his body only a few feet from me—it's all too much.

  With trembling hands, I pour myself a shot of tequila. "Well, she's a bun in the oven," I explain, my voice stronger than I feel. I pour him a shot, too, even though he never drinks on the job. I set them both down on the bar.

  "I'm good," he says. "Last time we had tequila . . ." He lets the memory hang in the air.

  I down both shots. "So how is Bunny?" I ask, changing the subject.

  His face falls, but he recovers. His expression smoothes over. Must be a perk of two decades in prison. "She's great. I can't tell nose from foot, but I think she's human." His eyes meet mine. "Lucy called Ben."

  Shit. I've been so preoccupied with my own stuff, I've barely been there for Lucy. My head's been tuned in to the Trauma Channel 24/7, and even though I know that's normal, that I have to work through it, Lucy doesn't know that. She has no idea why I've been MIA.

  I take out my phone to send her a text. There's already a text—from a number I don't recognize.

  Unknown: Olivia, it's Cami. I need your help.

  I freeze, blood pounding in my ears, drowning out the music. I hoped she'd never need my number, that maybe he really had changed. That she'd write off my warning as the rambling of a pissed off ex, because her Greg was different.

  I hoped, because once upon a time, he was different. Before that night, he gave me my first kiss, cupping my chin as we stood in front of our high school, blocking the paths of other students. I barely noticed. Snow fell in light flakes, dusting our shoulders. I barely noticed that, either. My entire existence was wrapped in that moment, suspended in his arms as his lips touched mine.

  There was so much gentleness in him, so much good. It's hard to reconcile the boy I fell for with the monster underneath all that. Sometimes I flip back through those memories and they're sweet and warm—as long as I don't think about the rest.

  "You okay?" Cliff asks.

  I come hurtling back into the present, gasping for breath in the cloying strip club. The air tastes hot, thick with sweat, lust, and stale beer. My hands shake as I tuck my phone into my back pocket. "I've got a work emergency," I say, bending and grabbing my things from under the bar. "I've got to go. Tell Mark I'm sorry."

  With barely a look at Cliff, I fly out from behind the bar. My clumsy fingers text Cami back, letting her know I'm on my way. I don't ask for her address because it's burned into my memory.

  I burst into the warm night. Sweat dots my hairline, gathers on my upper lip. Yet there's an icy core spreading from under my ribs, pitting in my stomach and making my limbs slow. I try to start the Street Glide but keep fucking up. It's like I've suddenly forgotten how to ride.

  Instead of visualizing the steps, I keep seeing the skull-shaped candle he made me, the one that burned down and left a piece of heart-shaped jade. Except I'd forgotten about it, and returned to my room to find my table on fire.

  That should've been my first sign.

  I carried that heart around with me when he was deployed, pretending it was his and that, as long as I didn't lose it, no harm would come to him. I was so busy worrying about him, I never saw him coming at me.

  I won't make that mistake again. This time, I'm making sure he never has the chance to hurt anyone again.

  But first, I need my gun.

  52

  Olivia

  I stop at the apartment first, sidestepping Dio on my way to the bedroom. He lets out the most pitiful meow I've ever heard. I pause for a moment and take him in my arms, holding him tight against my chest while I rub his ribs.

  Then I kiss his little head and put him down.

  I grab the gun, cursing myself for leaving it behind the one day I need it. I glance around one last time. I tell myself it's because I'm making sure there's nothing else I might need. Truth is, this might be the last time I stand in this living room.

  I shake the thought away. I can't think about what might happen or whether I'll be here tomorrow. I need to focus on right now, take it all one move at a time.

  As I ride toward Greg's, I try to draft a plan. With Eli, I didn't have time to plan. I just knew I wanted a gun, just in case. Now I have the gun. Now I have to get Cami.

  I have no idea what I'm walking into.

  I don't know if the text was the last thing she managed to do—if she's alive or dead. For all I know, Greg is long gone and she's alone, palms full of fragments of herself. I have no idea how to put her back together. I've barely healed.

  One thing at a time.

  I turn onto Bad Lane. Dim light oozes from the streetlights, a sickly yellow. In the tainted light, the teal paint on the house turns a dark red—the color of drying blood. A single light shines through a window upstairs, a beacon: Come to me, Olivia.

  I shiver, the Street Slide purring beneath me. I glance at the Thunderbird in the driveway, then back at the light. My stomach goes oily. He is here, and I can't shake the feeling that he's inside, waiting for me.

  No one moves in the window. From what I remember, there were three vehicles listed under his name in the town tax records database. Cami's Jetta is gone. There's a good chance I might've jumped the gun, that she might not even be home.

  I pull out my phone and call the number she texted me from. It rings and rings, then goes to a cheery voicemail.

  "You've reached Cami. Please leave a message . . ."

  I hang up, the sweetness of her voice scraping my stomach. She might not be able to answer. I text her, letting her know I'm here but I don't know where she is. Then I stare up at the house.

  My phone vibrates in my hand.

  Cami: I'm here. He's gone.

  I chew the inside of my cheek. As much as I want to help her, I do want to see my cat again. I hate to put her under the microscope—especially in this situation—but I'd hate even more to be dead.

  Olivia: Where's y
our car?

  Cami: ???

  I bite into my cheek again, drawing blood. Anyone can text a confused string of question marks. My phone dings again, twice in a row.

  Cami: It's really me. He's really gone. IDK where my car is.

  Attached is a selfie, except this Cami looks nothing like the woman I ran into at IGA the other day. She's sporting a black eye, her cheek and lips puffy and streaked with blood. Her mascara runs into the blood, turning it black.

  But I'm still suspicious.

  Olivia: Don't you have three cars?

  Cami: JFC. Is this the Spanish inquisition? I need your help. I think he broke ribs and . . . I'm losing a lot of blood. I'm pregnant . . . or I was.

  My heart jolts into my throat, shame twisting my stomach. I never wanted to be the kind of woman who doubts another woman.

  Olivia: Hold on.

  Besides, if he is still here, I've got my gun. I have nothing to fear.

  Pocketing the phone, I turn off the Street Glide. For a moment, I consider texting Cliff, letting him know where I am. He'd come roaring in here, and right now Cami doesn't need any more angry men in her space.

  It occurs to me that I'm going to have to get her to the hospital. I'm sure as hell not driving that Thunderbird.

  "One thing at a time," I whisper to myself.

  I climb the steps to the porch, gun drawn. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, the blood pounding through my veins. It's not a helpful adrenaline. Nausea roils my stomach. Seeing Cami's selfie was one thing. I'm not sure I'm ready to see the real thing, to dive into the destruction headfirst. I'm not sure I'm strong enough.

  I step inside, leaving the door open behind me. The light from the street barely illuminates the pitch black living room. I'm pretty sure it's a living room, anyway. I stand in the darkness, letting my eyes adjust. When they're as adjusted as they're going to get, I ease forward, carefully feeling my way. My fingers brush the soft microfiber of a couch, the hard edge of what I think is a coffee table.

  "Cami?" I call out.

  A floorboard creaks over my head, and a groan floats down to me. I swallow. I'm not ready. I cannot do this—even if it means being there for another woman. I bend over, eyes bleary, stomach spasming. I put my numb hands on my knees, suck in a few breaths.

  I have to do this. I have to.

  As if moving through a dream, I float toward a set of stairs. I climb them on legs I barely feel, the soles of my feet pins and needles. Light from an open door floods the hallway and top half of the stairs.

  "Cami?" I call again as I crest them.

  A thud answers, the sound of someone hitting the floor. I dart into the room, tucking the gun into its holster.

  Light flashes, flooding my eyes. I stop short, holding my hands up. Even still, I can't see a thing. "What is that?" I grunt, squeezing my eyes shut. "Cami?"

  He laughs, the sound surrounding me.

  My knees turn to water. I wrench the gun out, pointing it as I turn in a circle. The strobe light continues flashing, the room only visible in short spurts: a dresser here; a desk there; a half-empty closet, its doors standing open. It's then that I know.

  She's long gone.

  "The selfie," I sputter.

  He laughs again. "You like that? I do all our album covers."

  "The voicemail," I say, taking on a pleading tone that I don't intend. I think I'm in shock.

  "She left her phone," he says dully. His words come from all directions of the room. Between the stereo sound and the strobe light, I can't tell whether he's even in the room with me.

  I've got to focus. I latch onto his words.

  "She left you?" I stand still and fixate on a belt on the floor. It disappears then pops back into place, but it's something to anchor myself.

  "This morning. I woke up and she was gone. I got served, too." he says.

  At least she took me seriously.

  I exhale, replay his words, examining them for hints, something I can use. "I'm guessing that's my fault."

  "Why did you tell Cami I raped you?" he asks. "I've changed, Olivia. Really. I'm sorry for how I treated you. I really am." His voice breaks.

  "You wanna kill the strobe light?" It's too hard to think with it on. More than that, I need to see his face. I need to know what I'm dealing with.

  "Put your gun down," he says, "and go into the hall."

  I hesitate. He's got almost a hundred pounds on me, and years of combat training and experience. I can't just walk away from my only advantage.

  I can't exactly see to shoot him, either.

  I don't trust him, but I need him to trust me if I'm going to get out of here alive. Bending forward slightly, I place my gun on the carpeted floor. "Gun's down."

  "Come into the hall."

  I step out of the strobe light room and emerge into the hall. "Here I am."

  I tense, expecting him to grab me. Instead, another door opens, normal light spilling into the hall. Greg stands framed in the bedroom doorway, red hair disheveled, gray eyes hooded. Before, I'd run my eyes over his perfectly straight nose, the red strands falling into his eyes, and I'd think, I am the luckiest girl alive. Now I take in his bare chest, the dark jeans slung low on his hips, and I suppress a shudder. Part of me still thinks he's gorgeous. The rest of me swallows bile.

  "I'm sorry," he says.

  "I know." My hands dangle at my sides, empty and feather light without the gun. The lie burns my tongue. I want to break his nose and turn and run. I want to go back into the strobe room, grab my gun, and put as many holes in him before he puts his hands on me. Instead I just stand, waiting.

  "She left me," he repeats, rubbing his hands over his face.

  He blames me. That's the version of Greg I'm dealing with—the one who never takes any personal responsibility. I adjust my plan. I no longer have to save Cami. I've got to save myself.

  "I hoped she would." I keep my tone conversational.

  "What?" He frowns at me.

  I lick my dry lips, but my tongue might as well be made of sandpaper. I inhale, taking in oxygen to steady my voice. "I meant what I said at the strip club. I know you're sorry, and it's all in the past anyway."

  His frown deepens.

  "When I saw you at the club," I say, taking a step forward, "everything came rushing back: our first kiss, driving around in your Thunderbird." I don't smile. I'm afraid my face is too wooden. "Except now, we're all grown up. You've made something of yourself. You've changed. You said so yourself. You just had to go and get married, though."

  "She left," he says again, incredulous. "I got served with divorce papers."

  I nod. "I had to get her out of the way."

  "Out of the way?"

  I take another step forward, stomach clenching. Keeping my eyes on his, I nod again. "She's a nice girl, but come on. A teacher?" I scoff. "You can do better."

  "Thought you were with that biker." He crosses his arms.

  "Past tense." I wave a hand. "He's long gone, too." I swallow bile. Instead of looking at the monster in front of me, I summon the image of Cliff sitting at the bar, his eyebrow quirking as he turned down my tequila.

  Greg makes a contemplative sound in his throat. "I guess we're both single, then."

  "Guess so." The two shots I downed earlier churn in my stomach, sour. It's not the alcohol. Cold sweat spikes at the back of my neck. I move my feet forward until I stand in the doorway with him. "Guess we're alone, too."

  "Guess so," he says, leaning against the frame. Up close, his bloodshot eyes skim up and down my body. "You look good, Olivia." He pronounces the syllables of my name slowly.

  I flick a glance into the bedroom. An Oh Vile Eye poster takes up most of the wall space above the bed. I plant my feet firm against the floor, holding back the shudder crawling up my spine. "So do you," I tell him, leaning in.

  He lifts a hand, then freezes midair.

  "It's okay," I say, my skin crawling.

  His hand remains suspended between us. "You told Cami I raped y
ou."

  My entire body goes still. "Yes."

  "I didn't rape you," he insists. "I just wanted to spice things up a little. Make it fun. The first time was so bad."

  I force myself to chuckle. "It's hard to have good sex in a car."

  He laughs, nodding. "Right? I just wanted to be good for you."

  My stomach roils. "I get it." The fear pitted in my belly swishes around, boiling into a hard rage.

  "I should've been more gentle," he continues. "I'm sorry. But I didn't rape you."

  Retorts crowd in my mouth, my fingers twitching at my sides. I said no, and he did everything he wanted to do to me anyway. It didn't matter what I wanted. Red tinges my vision. I gather my rage, focusing it. I place my hands on his shoulders. "What if you could do it all over?" I croon, backing him into the room.

  His lips furl at the corners, bright blue eyes burning red. "I'd do so many things differently."

  "Me too," I tell him. "This time, I promise I'll be a lot more fun." My lips spread, exposing my teeth. I push him toward the bed, then shove him onto his back. I undress, forcing myself to go slow and meet his eyes. I use my fury to fuel me, to keep my fingers from going numb as I strip down. His eyes track my movements, wild and wide, anticipation cresting in them. "Don't just lie there," I command. "Take your clothes off."

  He obeys, shedding his jeans. They drop to the floor in a coil. I look through him, into the past, all the times he hurt me playing on a reel.

  "Got a condom?" I ask as I approach the bed. I want to touch as little of him as possible.

  He reaches for the nightstand, opening a drawer and rummaging through it. I wonder how many times he's brought another woman into his wife's bed. How many women he's sent running out of his life.

  It ends here, I promise myself.

  At least Cami got out.

  The knowledge spurs me on as he unrolls a condom onto himself. My stomach clenches again, and I wish I had more tequila. He rolls onto his back again and spreads his legs in an invitation.