Page 37 of Desert Loyalties

MANDRAKE

"OUR FUCKING BOY IS FREE!" yells Ramon, popping a bottle of champagne right next to my ear.

It's chaos. The first party I’ve ever seen where club girls and old ladies are tearing up the same dance floor. Apparently, all it took to unite the factions was me beating four charges and an obscene amount of alcohol.

Skye’s by the bar, her old domain, lining up shot glasses on a tray with the focus of a surgeon. She’s surrounded by a crowd of drunk warriors, the same old ladies who had my back through every minute of my house arrest.

The room pulses, bass in the floorboards, laughter ricocheting off the walls, perfume and spilled liquor thick in the air. Someone's dancing in a fur coat. Someone else is crying and hugging the tv. It's the kind of night that feels like it only exists in stories people exaggerate years later.

I slide in beside her. Skye doesn’t look up, she just passes me a shot.

No words. Just the glass in my hand.

Throwing it back, I lean in and kiss Skye. Some of the tequila’s still on my lips, and it spills into her mouth. She doesn’t flinch. Just swallows my tongue.

I barely feel the old ladies leave to find their men.

We’re already moving, my hand twisted in her hair, till we hit the counter behind the bar. She’s pinned, and I’m greedy, and every motherfucker here sees it. “Let them.” She moans, and I feel it in my cock, this hunger, this need, and the bottles rattle above us.

I’m all over her, pulling up her dress, dragging it over her hips till her red, sexy as fuck panties are exposed. My vision goes dark. I don’t care. I want her. I already have her.

My hands are everywhere, on her, under her, lifting her.

The whole fucking room is watching my back as I devour my woman.

Brothers, clubwhores, the old ladies, they’re all back there.

But right now, all I care about is claiming Skye.

Unzipping my jeans, I pull out my cock, and shove her panties aside.

She’s wet and ready, and I’m already pushing in.

With one thrust I sink deep into her pussy, causing her to cry out.

Even through the music I can hear how her breathing changes.

Throwing her head back, she exposes her bare neck to me.

Mine. I feel her tighten around me with every hard, fucking thrust. No holding back.

She doesn’t want me to. Her nails are digging deep into my arms. Her heels are crossed at my back, pulling me closer.

I’m relentless, and she’s taking it, taking me, and I don’t care who’s watching.

She shudders and gasps, and I’m close, so fucking close, when she pulls me in and I’m gone, buried in her, losing it, losing all of it to her.

I don’t pull out. Just stay there, breathing, her arms tight around my neck, her lips at my ear, till the noise of the room comes back in.

Everyone’s still watching, and I feel it like a fist in the air. The envy, the jealousy, the heat. It’s a fucking victory.

I kiss her again, deeper this time. Less tequila, more hunger. Her fingers curl into my shirt, and I feel her smile break against my mouth like she knows exactly what this is.

Around us, the noise sharpens . Someone whoops. A glass shatters. One of the old ladies yells, “ That’s right, baby! ” and the whole place erupts.

We pull apart, breathless. Skye’s eyes glitter like she’s seeing the version of me I almost forgot existed. Free. Untouchable.

“You gonna make a habit of that?” she asks, voice low, playful.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, grinning.

“Every chance I get.”

The days of watching ourselves are over. No more playing small. No more quiet rooms and careful words.

It is time to become the VP.

Not a VP. The VP.

Skye hears the finality in my voice, something that does not ask permission. She nods once. She’s been waiting for this version of me to show up.

Ramon is still swinging his champagne around, a sword in his hand. The crowd is loud, but there is a shift. A feeling. People watching me differently. This is not just a party. It is a coronation.

From here on out, we do not beg. We do not explain. We walk in. We own the room. Because we do.

Skye moves to start pouring shots again, lining up drinks for anyone within reach. The old ladies drift toward her, bypassing me with warm smiles and firm pats on the shoulder.

Everyone’s talking at once. Laughter, stories, voices layered over music that never drops.

I head toward my boys. More pats on the back. congrats or respect, I can't tell. For coming back, or just putting on one hell of a show.

Lehi presses a full glass into my hand.

I raise it without thinking. “To freedom,” I say.

They cheer. They scream. Someone beats the table like a drum.

We party like we’ve never partied before. Full throttle. No brakes. Somewhere deep into the night, Skye wanders over and sinks onto my lap. She doesn’t say a word, just settles in, warm and calm, her breathing steady against my chest.

Between her heat and the hum of the room around us, I fall asleep.

Next thing I know, someone’s shaking me awake. Ranger.

“Hey,” he says, voice low but urgent. “Christina’s on her way. Wants to talk to you. Said it’s important. Didn’t say what.”

I blink, groggy, my mouth dry. “When’s she getting here?”

“Twenty.”

Shit. I nod. “Alright.”

Skye’s still out cold, curled against me. I shift her gently, lifting her in my arms, and head upstairs to my room.

Halfway up the stairs, Skye stirs in my arms.

Her eyes flutter open, voice scratchy with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Early. Ranger just woke me up; Christina’s on her way. Said it’s important.”

That pulls her fully awake. She slides out of my arms and walks beside me, both of us moving like we’re still underwater. We don’t say much. No need to. We’re in sync, even hungover.

Together, we get ready, washing the night off our skin, scrubbing away the booze, the sweat, the fire from twelve hours ago.

By the time Christina’s car pulls into the clubhouse lot, we’re already downstairs, posted in Ranger’s office. The door’s cracked, the air thick with anticipation. Skye’s sitting next to me, alert.

Christina walks in alone.

Ranger follows, closing the door behind them with a soft click . No one speaks.

Christina doesn’t sit. It’s like she’s too keyed up.

Then she says it.

“Henry Cheng is dead.”