Page 1 of Desert Loyalties

MANDRAKE

Riding used to feel like fire in my veins. Freedom. Power. That throttle under my hand was the only thing in this world that ever gave back when I took hold of it. My baby matte black, mean as sin, loud enough to wake the dead used to be the best damn thing I had.

Now?

Now it’s just noise. The hum of it more habit than thrill. Another mile ticked off the road. Another turn I’ve taken a hundred times, eyes dead to the asphalt. I ride because it’s what I do, not because it gives me anything anymore.

I pull into the lot, mostly full. Guess everyone’s here. The clubhouse looms ahead, windows glowing faint and gold like a belly full of liquor. I haven’t even killed the engine before I feel a weight pressing behind my ribs. Same weight I get every time I come back lately.

Used to be I’d walk in and grab the first warm body I saw. Didn’t matter the name. Didn’t need it. I'd take what I wanted, leave her dumb and smiling on the couch. I’d fuck them in the hallway, sometimes up against the wall if I didn’t feel like waiting. They’d let me. Hell, they begged me to.

But now? All I want is sleep and some goddamn quiet. The whores are still here. Still laughing too loud, still sucking up to any patch that looks their way. They're painted and empty. I’ve seen behind those eyes too many times now and there’s nothing left there to hold my interest.

And I know how that sounds. Coming from me. Mandrake. I earned my patch with blood, and my rank with more. At eighteen I had jack shit. Just bruises and silence. Nobody looked for me. Nobody missed me. The Horsemen did though. Or at least they gave me something to bleed for.

Climbed my way up. Prospect to patch to Sergeant.

Now Vice President. Second to the throne and bored outta my goddamn skull.

Ever since we went legit, the thrill is gone.

It’s like I’m a goddamn suit now. Buying buildings, signing paperwork.

I was so bored that I got a fuckin’ hobby, one that makes me dig holes deep in the desert. Now that is fun.

We’ve got church in an hour. Club business.

More politics, more talk. Same tired faces, same smoke-choked room.

The hangarounds are all clowns trying too hard or wannabes sniffing for a patch they’ll never earn.

I’m tired of them. Tired of their grins and their need.

There’s no real loyalty in them. Just hunger.

The only real person in this place is that blonde pixie with the smart mouth and sharp eyes.

Skye. She snarks so often it makes me wanna take her over my knee just to see if I can knock that fire into a different kind of burn.

And yeah, I know it’s time. Time to stake my claim.

Make it known she’s mine before someone else gets the idea.

But something holds me back.

It’s not fear of the club or what people will say. Hell, I run half this place. I don’t answer to anyone but Ranger. No, it’s what’s inside me. That edge. That thing I keep chained up under bone and blood. The part of me that takes. Possesses. The beast I became just to survive.

I’m scared that once I let it get a taste of her, it won’t let go. Won’t settle for just having her. It’ll want to own her. Mark her. Keep her so close she forgets the world ever existed without me in it.

And I think she can handle it now.

That’s the dangerous part.

I want her. Not for a night. Not for a warm bed and fake moans.

I want her as my old lady. The real deal.

A partner. Fire for fire. But around here, that doesn’t exist anymore.

The brothers all have girlfriends, citizen wives, women they keep separate from this life because they’re don’t wanna take the plunge.

Not me. I want someone who can walk through the fire and stand tall beside me. Someone who sees the mess and still chooses to stay.

It’s not easy, becoming an old lady in the Horsemen MC. We got different rules here.

The old timers had that. Real old ladies. Steel-spined women who kept the club grounded, who walked through fire to stand by their men. But those men are gone now. Retired. Living in desert homes with their women and their peace. Left us in the wreckage.

And here I am, in the middle of it. Vice President of ghosts and gasoline.

But Skye?

She’s the one bright thing left.

And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending she’s just the bartender.

I walk in shaking the sand off my boots, inside’s no different than always. Dim, thick with smoke and stale beer. Smells like sweat, old leather, and cheap perfume.

I step in and heads turn, like they always do lately.

Not a sound, but I feel the air shift. Eyes clock me, track me.

None of the brothers make a move, just quick glances then back to their drinks.

They know I’ve been riding a short fuse and no one wants to be the match.

The whores know better. Not even the bold ones give me that come-hither look anymore.

They keep to their corners, tight clothes and tighter smiles, pretending not to notice me.

Good.

There she is, back behind the bar, hair pulled back, pouring whiskey like it’s an art form. Skye. She’s not smiling like she usually does, and that’s what gets me. Not the low-cut tank or the way her hips sway when she moves. It’s that missing smile.

She showed up a year back. Hangaround. Screwed a few brothers in the first couple months.

But somehow, she dodged the whore label.

Didn’t spread for everyone. Didn’t stay on her knees long enough to lose whatever edge she had.

And she stayed. Quietly carved herself out a space at the top, and now?

She’s just... part of it. Doesn’t wear a patch, doesn’t beg for one.

Just pours drinks that don’t taste like piss and keeps the women in check.

I’ll give her that. Skye makes the kind of drinks that make you forget the road for a second.

Nothing fancy, nothing pink. Just smooth and sharp in all the right places.

Men’s drinks, if you wanna call it that.

Hell, even the brothers won’t admit how good they are.

Too busy puffing their chests, pretending they only drink rotgut and rage.

“Hey, Prospect,” I call out, catching one of the younger ones dragging a mop. He freezes like a deer.

“Y-yeah, VP?”

“What’s up with Skye?” I ask, voice low, just enough to make him sweat.

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

Christ. I miss when prospects had balls. I jerk my chin toward the bar. “She’s not smiling. Isn’t like her.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t get it. I wave him off. “Better get mopping.”

He scurries like a rat with his tail on fire.

I cut across the room, boots heavy on the floor, and stop right in front of her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jump, just looks up at me like she’s expecting a drink order or a complaint.

“Hey, darlin’,” I say, voice smooth but low. Not soft. Never soft.

Her hands pause on the bottle she’s holding, eyes meeting mine. Still no smile.

Something's off. And for the first time in a long damn while, I care.

Usually, sparring with her is the only highlight of my damn day.

Skye’s got that fire. Won’t take shit from me even though everyone else jumps to salute.

She’s the only one in this place who talks back like she’s got nothing to lose.

Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t flatter. Just gives it to me straight and hell, sometimes that’s exactly what I need. The push. The edge. The game.

So, I lean on the bar, close enough to smell that lemon and smoke scent she always wears, and throw her a smirk.

“Missed your smart mouth today. You finally run outta ways to insult me, or did I break your spirit by being this handsome?”

Normally, she’d roll her eyes. Call me an egotistical bastard. Maybe throw a rag at my face. Today? Nothing.

She just finishes pouring the drink, sets it on the counter, and turns to the next glass like I didn’t say a word. Not a glance. Not a twitch of a smirk. Like I’m no one.

And I feel it. That cold creeping back into my chest. Same one I had before I ever knew the Horsemen. Before I had a name anyone gave a damn about.

I open my mouth to push more, to get that snap out of her even if I have to be cruel to do it—

“Mandrake.”

The voice cuts clean through the room.

Ranger, standing at his office door, eyes sharp under the brim of his hat. No one calls him ‘Prez’ to his face unless they’re feeling formal. But when he uses your name like that, you move. Doesn’t matter what mood you’re in.

I glance one more time at Skye. Still nothing. Then I turn and head toward the office. Inside, I shut the door. No patches here. Just me and the man who rules all.

“Have a seat,” Ranger says, motioning to the chair across from his desk.

I drop into it; lean back like I don’t care even though I do. Because if he’s calling me in one-on-one instead of calling church, it means something’s up.

“How’d the meeting go?”

“Smooth,” I say. “Exchange was clean. He’s gonna file it with the court. It’s ours.” Another fuckin’ property.

He nods, but that’s not why I’m in here.

“The reason I called you in…” he leans forward and steeples his fingers. “Isn’t about the meeting. It’s about you .”

I tense, just a little. He notices.

“You’ve been... off,” he says. “Brothers are walkin’ on eggshells around you. Even Brick gave you wide berth last week, and that man’s too stupid to be afraid of anything.”

I grunt. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And I’m tired of the tiptoeing. What’s wrong, Mandrake? Talk to me. No patches in here. Just you and me.”

I stare at the wall behind him for a beat too long. Then I sigh, deep and tired.

“I’m just sick of the same old shit.”

Ranger doesn’t blink. Doesn’t nod. He just waits. Like he knows that’s only the surface, and he’s damn sure gonna dig deeper.

Then he says it. “This got anything to do with that blonde bartender out there?”

My back straightens. Spine locked.

“What about Skye?” I ask, voice low, teeth behind the words. Not a question anymore, but a warning.

Ranger lifts an eyebrow, and now he knows.

“Thought so,” he says, sitting back. “You might want to figure that out, Vice. Before someone else does.”

And just like that, the ground shifts. “Nobody touches her,” I say, voice sharp, flat as a blade.

Ranger leans back; arms folded across his chest. Calm as ever, like he’s not poking at a hornet’s nest.

“She’s not claimed,” he says, and it’s not an accusation just fact. “And you and I both know the only reason none of the brothers go near her is 'cause you put Lark on blocks for a straight week after he hooked up with her when she first got here.”

I don't answer.

“You rotated him on double shifts at Blocks till he couldn’t stand without wincing,” he adds, voice low, like he's daring me to deny it.

Blocks. Our strip club on the Vegas strip. Male dancers mostly, but we run all kinds of business through there. Lark worked the doors. Ran errands. Scrubbed toilets when I told him to. Still walked funny after day four.

I grit my teeth. “That was because Lark is a disrespectful little shit who doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.”

Ranger raises a brow. “You sure? 'Cause from where I was sitting, it looked an awful lot like jealousy.”

I don’t flinch, but something in my jaw tightens.

He leans forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked with mine.

“You keep telling yourself she’s just the bartender. Just another hangaround. But sooner or later, she’s gonna get tired of waiting.”

I don’t have a response. Not a real one. Because I’ve been living in that space between wanting her and staying away so long, I forgot where the line even is.

“She’s not claimed,” he repeats. “And you know the rules.”

“She’s mine,” I growl before I even think about it. Low. Possessive. Real.

Ranger nods like he’s been waiting for me to say it. “Then you better act like it. Before someone else does.”