Page 12 of Desert Loyalties

SKYE

No one told me how boring this would be.

Like sure, I expected an isolation tactic to wear you down, keep you guessing, let your own thoughts chew you alive but I didn’t expect this .

No clock. No window. Not even a flickering light to pretend the world’s still moving out there.

Just these four beige-ass walls and the slow drip of time melting into nothing.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours? A day?

Two? I can’t tell. The only markers are the rounds of exercises I’ve done: jumping jacks, push ups, squats until my legs burned, then again, and again, just to feel something.

Probably not a good idea considering I don’t have food or water, I’m not about to drink toilet water.

And I’ve told myself both my stories already. Twice.

The first one’s my classic: the fantasy.

A woman wins the lottery. She buys land in the mountains.

Not just a plot, the whole mountain . Builds a mansion with glass walls, infinity pools, a rooftop observatory.

She learns to swim in a private lap pool carved out of stone.

It’s peaceful there. The air is quiet and clean. No sirens. No shouting. No fear.

The second story’s trickier. It’s the "what if." What if my mom didn’t die? What if I got to grow up normal, whatever that means? Parents who made pancakes on Sundays. In that version, I work in a hospital, like some fresh-faced intern from Grey’s Anatomy season one.

Blood and adrenaline and drama, sure but also safety. Camaraderie.

But I don’t get to live there. I live here. On this lumpy-ass cot. In this room in the basement of my boyfriend’s club.

Suddenly I hear a click from the other side of the door. The metal handle turns slowly, like in a horror movie, and then he walks in. Locke. He’s a few years older than Drake.

He’s holding a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in plastic wrap. He says nothing, just nods as he steps inside. Placing them on the cot beside me he takes a seat on the chair. Its bolted facing the door, so he twists his body to face me.

I don’t say anything.

Not because I’m trying to look tough. I just… don’t trust it. The food. Him. Any of it.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asks, finally.

His voice is lower than usual. Calmer. Like he’s trying not to spook me. I meet his eyes.

“Betrayal killed my appetite,” I say.

Dramatic? Maybe. But I mean it.

He stares at me for a second, trying to decide whether I’m mocking him or just broken.

“There’s proof,” he says.

“Someone set me up,” I tell him, purposefully looking down, letting him think I’m lying.

He sighs. Not annoyed. Just… tired.

“Did you know my wife died?” he asks, casually as if he doesn’t care, but his eyes tell the opposite

“I heard.”

“Did you know she OD’d in the bathroom upstairs? Two years ago?”

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

He nods, but it’s not acknowledgment, it’s habit.

“She bought something off the street,” he says.

“It was laced with fentanyl. Killed her instantly.” Then he looks away, taking a deep breath before continuing.

“When the club went legit, we dropped everything. Guns, drugs, smuggling. Cold turkey. That was the deal. That was the point. We cleaned house.”

His fists curl slowly on his knees, like he’s trying to keep his hands from shaking.

“But someone, someone , didn’t stop. Someone kept dealing. Quietly. On the side. And they got to her.” He looks at the floor. “I didn’t know. I swear to God, I didn’t know. We were trying to get pregnant. She was on hormones; I thought the mood swings were just part of that.”

His voice cracks, just a little. Enough to show me there’s still a human being under all that ice.

“She got hooked, and they abandoned her. Left her twisting in the wind. So, she went looking. And when you go looking for poison…” He trails off, eyes distant.

I don’t know what to say. Anything would sound fake. Thin. Useless.

I shift on the cot. My ass is sore from sitting too long. My mouth is dry. The sandwich and water sit untouched.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

Locke looks up. His eyes are steel now. The softness? Gone. Like it was never there to begin with.

“Because I know you didn’t cause the raid,” he says.

I blink. That’s not what I expected.

“I called the DEA,” he adds, voice low. “Not to rat on the club, we’re legit. I did it to draw out whoever’s still dirty. The one who got my Josie hooked.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for my heart to kick up.

“How do you know it was someone in the club?” I ask carefully.

“I finally went through her stuff last month,” he says. “I couldn’t bring myself to touch it before. Her purse, the boxes, the drawer under the bathroom sink. Imagine my surprise when I found empty baggies… with this club’s logo on them.”

My mouth goes dry.

“It was this club that had her hooked. And considering I was the one running that shit before we cleaned up, I know it had to have happened after.” His jaw tightens. “After we went legit.”

That word tastes bitter now, legit. An excuse to wash away the sins from before.

“So, if you are informing,” he says, levelling his gaze at me, “it’s not about drugs. It’s bigger. You’re betraying the club. And Mandrake…” He leans forward. “Mandrake’s too deep in your pussy to do anything about it.”

I flinch, but not for the reason he thinks. Not shame. It’s the way he says it, like I’m distraction, a liability.

I need to stall. To get ahead of this. So, I keep asking the questions, get as much information as possible.

“Is that why? Why you didn’t go to Ranger or Drake when you found the baggies?”

He hesitates.

“Drake…” he repeats, like the name tastes wrong in his mouth.

His silence says more than anything.

“You don’t trust them,” I say.

He doesn’t confirm it. Doesn’t have to.

“Ranger's been distant,” he mutters. “And Drake’s… slippery. When I told him Josie was using, he said maybe she got it somewhere else. Wouldn’t even look at me. And now he's climbing fast; buying new properties, a house up in the hills. On what money?”

He’s unravelling a bit now, the careful calm slipping at the edges.

“So, you called the DEA hoping they’d sniff out the rot for you?” I ask.

He nods once. “They don't give a damn about us anymore, we’re clean. But if there’s still someone using our name to move product, they’ll find it. And if they do…” He exhales through his nose. “Then I’ll know who killed my wife.”

There’s a silence between us. Heavy and final.

I ask one final question.

“Are you going to kill me?”

He takes a step closer. Calm. Measured.

“If you’d just eaten the sandwich…” he says quietly, “I wouldn’t have to do this.”

His hand moves fast, and suddenly there’s a gun in his hand, pulled from behind his back.

But at that exact moment, the door slams open and chaos explodes into the room. Drake, Ranger, and Grim pour in like a damn wrecking crew.

“Put it down, Locke,” Drake says immediately, his voice like stone.

Locke freezes, just for a second, then turns the gun away from me, aiming it at them instead. His face shifts in anger, then something darker.

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“This was a trap, wasn’t it?” he says. “I knew it might be. Had a feeling. But I didn’t think you’d actually convince her to be bait.”

My back is plastered to the wall, but I still mutter, “It was my plan.”

He glances sideways at me, smirking. “You’d make a good old lady. Too bad your old man will be dead.”

His knuckles whiten on the grip.

Then Ranger speaks. “You betrayed the club, Locke. Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

Locke starts laughing again, this manic, broken sound.

“You and I both know there won’t be any talking. I’m already dead. Might as well take the ones responsible with me.”

His hand twitches.

Drake takes a step forward. Voice cold.

“Then point the gun at yourself.”

That stops Locke. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Drake doesn’t blink. “When we went legit, you were supposed to get rid of the stash. The pills. The powder. All of it.”

Locke’s voice cracks a little now, defensive. “I did ! I flushed it. Just like we agreed.”

Ranger’s voice cuts in. “No, you didn’t.”

Locke’s eyes dart between them. Sweat starts to bead at his temple.

“Fine. There were too many baggies, so I threw it in the trash. I wrapped them.”

Drake steps closer. “You didn’t wrap them well enough. Josie dug it out. I’m guessing she’d been keeping tabs on you for a while. You were too busy screwing around with Baby or Len or whichever clubwhore was giving you attention that week to notice your wife was slipping.”

Locke’s face goes pale.

“No. No, you’re lying. She… she would’ve never—”

“She knew , Locke.” Ranger’s voice is low now. Deadly quiet. “She knew you were cheating. She knew you weren’t really done with the life. And she knew where to look when she needed to numb it.”

Locke shakes his head, gun trembling. “She loved me.”

Drake steps into range. “She loved you. That’s why it broke her.”

Locke falters. Just for a second. The tip of the gun wavers.

“No. No” Locke’s yelling now, “It was your fault. You’re lying.”

Locke turns toward me slowly. The rage is gone. What’s left is something much harder to look at— ruin .

His face crumples. Tears stream down his cheeks, cutting through the dirt and sweat. His voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I don’t know who he’s apologizing to. Me. Drake. Ranger. Josie. Maybe even himself.

He raises the gun, aims it under his chin and pulls the trigger.

BANG.

The sound splits the air like thunder. His body drops instantly, lifeless, boneless. The top of his head paints the ceiling.

No one moves. No one breathes.

We watch the blood creep across the concrete floor, slow and final.