I’m sick to death of rides. On the back of his motorcycle, I feel a little like a dog hanging out the window, hungry for any taste of the outside world. He’s trying, though, and I don’t want to crush him. Not when he rode miles to find me, after twenty years in prison.
“The Sound of Waves”
A River Reapers MC Short Story
Author’s Note: Have you been wondering how the River Reapers would handle social distancing? I have! So I wrote a few very short stories, just for fun, just for you and me. The following is unedited, so please excuse any typos or errors. Please also be aware that it may contain spoilers for the series.
Bree
I stand in the bedroom that used to be Olivia’s nursery, back before everything blew up. I find myself in here every morning, mug of coffee in hand, one of Mercy’s shirts grazing my thighs. This tiny house once felt like home, and now it’s my prison. I’m surrounded by memories and what could have been.
I hate this house.
“Morning,” Mercy says from the doorway.
I turn, the soft fabric swishing around my breasts, rubbing against my belly—achingly empty. I don’t know if it’s being back here, or the near isolation, but all I can think about is how different things could be if Mercy and I made different choices.
“Morning,” I reply, and my low, slow tone gives me away completely.
He fixes intuitive brown eyes on me—eyes that I swear also belong to Olivia, even though that’s impossible. “Want to go for a ride today?”
I’m sick to death of rides. On the back of his motorcycle, I feel a little like a dog hanging out the window, hungry for any taste of the outside world. He’s trying, though, and I don’t want to crush him. Not when he rode miles to find me, after twenty years in prison.
“Or,” he says, stepping closer, “we could go to the park. Get some sandwiches or some other takeout, enjoy nature.” He slides his hands along my hips, and I melt into him immediately, holding my mug out and steady.
“I’ll take that,” he murmurs, plucking the mug from my hands. He sets it down—I never see where—and pulls me into him. The motion hitches his shirt up over my hips, and he sucks in a deep, appreciative breath.
“After all this time,” he says, gazing deep into my eyes, “you are still all I want, Bree. I’d walk through fire for you. I hope you know that.”
I nod and smile, because he has. Yet my heart clouds, because in this pair, I’m the runner. Part of me is still running. Part of me will always run.
I passed that trait to Olivia. Everything bad in me, I gave to her.
I sigh, leaning my forehead against his shoulder. Tears burn my eyes, spilling out before I even have the chance to shove the emotions down again. This social distancing is really getting to me.
“Oh, none of that.” He lifts my chin and uses his thumbs to brush fat teardrops away.
“I hate this house,” I sob, feeling like a two-year-old who hasn’t had a nap.
It’s only eight in the morning.
“Talk to me,” he whispers, enfolding me in his arms, holding all of my pieces together.
“I want to go to Marshall’s.” It flies out of my mouth, completely illogical, irrelevant, and impossible. Most stores are closed, unless they sell essential items. I don’t even need anything at Marshall’s.
“Ah,” Mercy says. He rubs his beard, more salt now than pepper. As his fingers move, the morning light breathes life into the faded letters on his knuckles: B-R-E-E, one on each finger.
“This is the only prison tattoo I allowed myself,” he told me once, a few weeks ago. His other hand has R-R-M-C—another prison tattoo, another constant reminder of what could have been.
“You need retail therapy,” he says now.
“No.” I pull away, shaking my head, aiming my hands for my coffee. “We don’t have any money to spend.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t look.” He lifts me into his arms, sweeping me off the floor.
“Hey!” I stretch out a hand one last time, watching my coffee shrink away as he carries me into our bedroom. “No fair.” He deposits me onto the bed, then stretches out beside me.
“Here.” He hands me my phone, twirling a finger in the air. “Pull up Amazon.”
“It’s not the same.” I set the phone aside, turning so that we’re lying facing each other.
“Right.” He sighs. “Maybe we could go to Target later, stroll through the dollar aisle.”
I chuckle. “I do find good things there.”
He holds up a hand, indicating the newly decorated bedroom. Right before the pandemic hit, I dropped more money than I care to admit—all on breathing life into this house.
It still feels like a prison.
“Maybe when this is over, we can move,” I muse. “Go to the coast.”
It’ll never happen. As much as we’ve sacrificed, as much as he’s suffered under the oath, Mercy will never walk away from his club. Since I won’t walk away from him, I’m stuck here, too.
Foolishly, I once thought that by letting DCF take my daughter, they’d save her from me and the club. Yet here we all are, back in this town, still tied to the River Reapers MC.
I frown. Until now, I never realized how much I resented the club.
“Sure,” Mercy drawls. “We could go to Maine.”
This is a new game. I move closer to him, closing my eyes and resting my head on his chest. “We could move to a small coastal town,” I murmur, each beat of his heart a soothing crash against my ears. I pretend it’s the sound of waves.
THE END
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Elizabeth Barone 