Page 39 of Desert Loyalties
“I—uh...” I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “You look like trouble.”
She smirks. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”
I step closer, letting my hands land on her hips, fingers sliding along the fabric. “You really expect me to take you out in public like this?” I growl, pulling her against me.
She leans in, brushing her lips over mine, teasing. “Only if you want to start a fight.”
“Sweetheart,” I say, dead serious now, “I was born to start fights over you.”
She lets out a low laugh and shoves me lightly, her palm warm against my chest. “Let’s go, biker boy. Before I decide to take you for a ride instead.”
She grabs her leather jacket off the couch, tossing it over one shoulder like a fuckin’ model. I just stand there for a beat, watching her walk away, the click of her heels on the hardwood echoing like a warning bell. The way her hips move in that dress makes me want to cancel this whole night and spend it inside her instead. But I don’t. Because tonight’s not just for us, it’s for the club. Fuckin’ club.
I wasn’t lying earlier. Before Skye, I didn’t give a shit about anythingbutthe Horsemen. Not a single goddamn thing. The club was my anchor, my identity, my home. The brothers were my blood. Loyalty was everything. And I believed that down to my bones.
My sponsor, every prospect needs one to even have a shot at wearing the patch, was Dave. Road name was Saint, which was funny as hell considering the guy was a tatted-up, six-foot-something black man with lip rings, neck ink, and a smile that scared the hell outta me when we first met.
Saint saved my life.
He was just visiting someone downtown when he found me, I was a half-starved, dirty-ass kid living out of my busted Honda Civic. I’d parked behind his bike without thinking, and he came over looking like he was ready to crack skulls. I remember that moment like it was yesterday. Me, sitting in the front seat, staring at his Harley. He knocked on my window, and I thought,Shit, here it comes. But instead of decking me, he asked if I was hungry. Real food. I was so wrecked, I figured he was trying to pick me up. I wasn’t interested, but a free meal was a free meal. So, I went.
Best fuckin’ decision of my life.
He took me to a diner, bought me the greasiest, heaviest burger I’d ever had. Sat across from me with those calm, intelligent eyes and told me about the Horsemen. About brotherhood. About purpose. He didn’t sell it like some cult leader, just laid it out. You want in, you work. You bleed. You earn your place.
I followed him back to the clubhouse that night and never left.
Saint brought me in. Taught me the ropes. Made sure I didn’t get my throat slit for mouthing off to the wrong guy. He wasn’t soft. He didn’t coddle. But he gave a shit in the way most people don’t.
Years later, he told me he was retiring. Said he’d put in his time, earned his peace. He was riding off with his old lady to a little house in the hills where no one knew their names. I thought he was crazy. Who walks away from the club? From the power, the money, the pussy, the adrenaline?
He just laughed. Told me one day, I’d get it.
And now…
It’ssomeday.
I get it.
Because I’m standing in the middle of the place I once would’ve died for, and all I can think about is the woman at my side. Her laugh. The way she challenges me. Fights for this place like she was born for it. Fights forme.
The club made me a man. But Skye?
She made mehuman.
When we step into the clubhouse, it’s already chaos. A pulsing, living mess of too-loud music, flashing lights, and bodies, mostly half-dressed women draped over furniture, wrapped around brothers, grinding on whoever's standing still long enough. We don’t open the doors to outsiders often, but when we do, it turns into a goddamn circus. And tonight? It’s a full-blown madhouse.
The second Skye and I walk in, the crowd shifts. Heads turn. Voices rise. There’s a sudden wave of noise, of cheers, whistles, clapping.
“Congratulations!”
“Claiming night!”
“Damn, finally!”
Brothers, prospects, even some random hangarounds crowd toward us. I wrap an arm tight around Skye’s waist, pulling her into my side. Partly to keep her close. Mostly to keep other people from gettingtooclose. My woman’s in heels, a gold dress, and giving off queen energy and everyone in this room canfeelit.
That’s the thing with Skye. Even without the title, she’s already queen of this place. Most of the people recognize it. Some are stupid enough to need reminding.
