Page 1 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

SKYE

T he store was dead quiet, just the soft hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock behind the counter.

I was kneeling in front of the cooler, restocking cans of Coke with frozen fingers and an aching back.

The floor was sticky, the air stale with grease from the fried chicken stand by the register. Classy place. But it paid.

The bell above the door jingled.

Laughter. Heavy boots. The scent of exhaust and sweat hit me before I even turned.

Truckers.

Three of them. Big, loud, full of cheap beer and worse intentions.

“Well look what we got here,” one of them said, leering as he leaned on the counter. “You JD Northport’s girl?”

I didn’t answer. Just kept stacking. They must’ve noticed the insignia ring on my hand as I worked. This was a small town and people loved to talk about the Northport heir slumming it with the townie girl.

“Damn shame, waste of a tight little thing like you,” the second one said, crouching beside me. “Bet you’re bored stiff waitin’ for some stuck-up rich boy to make you feel like a good girl.”

The third laughed and stepped around me, cutting off my path. I stood slowly, heart hammering.

He moved closer. “Tell you what, sugar. How ‘bout I show you what a real man feels like.”

He leaned in?—

And then he was gone.

In a flash, he was airborne—crashing into the rows of bottled soda with a shout and the sharp crack of glass shattering. One of the other truckers started to turn—only to get met with JD’s fist to the gut. The last guy pulled a knife.

JD didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, calm and cold, and kicked the knife clean out of his hand. Then he grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the ice chest so hard the lid dented.

I gasped. JD turned to me, eyes burning.

“You okay, baby? Red?”

I nodded, breathless.

He stepped closer, touched my cheek with his bloodied hand. “They didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” I whispered. “Because you showed up.”

The owner finally came back inside took one look at his store and dialed 911.

Within minutes, the cops pulled up. Sirens. Lights. Guns drawn.

Then they saw JD’s face. And the name on the wallet he handed over.

Suddenly, it was all polite questions and calm voices. One deputy stepped aside and muttered into the radio, “Call Mr. Northport.”

Fifteen minutes later, JD’s father arrived in a black SUV, sleek and silent .

He stepped out, towering in a tailored navy suit, not a single hair out of place. His expression was all cold stone and controlled fury.

He looked at JD, covered in blood and soda, and then at me—standing behind the counter in my cheap smock, still trembling.

His jaw clenched.

“This is the mess?” he asked dryly.

JD stiffened. “They cornered her. What was I supposed to do?”

Mr. Northport didn’t even look at the truckers being cuffed. “If you weren’t hanging around a girl who stocks shelves at a truck stop, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”

I flinched.

JD’s voice was low and steel-sharp. “Don’t.”

His father ignored him. “I’ll clean this up. But don’t mistake efficiency for approval, son.”

That was all. He turned and got back into the SUV. Within hours, the charges were filed—assault against the three men. The trucking company was hit with a civil suit that buried them. By Monday, the Northports owned the fleet, the routes, and the contracts.

And by Friday, the men who’d touched me were dead.

One stabbed in the back with a cafeteria fork.

One found “unresponsive” during transfer.

The last burned alive in a freak truck fire.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

But I sat on JD’s tailgate that Saturday night, staring up at the stars, the taste of his kiss still on my lips, and whispered, “It wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

He stared straight ahead. “No.”

I swallowed hard. “Did your father?—? ”

“Don’t ask,” he cut in. Then softer, he added, “Skye… just don’t bring it up again.”

I nodded.

Some things, I was learning, were better left in the shadows.

Long after JD fell asleep, I stayed up as his bicep hugged me to his chest. we had a sleeping bag, each other and the bed of his pickup. As my eyes took in the diamond studded sky—that whole scene kept replaying on repeat in my mind.

I’d never forget the way JD looked that night—blood on his hands, rage in his eyes, and love in every furious step he took for me.

That’s when I knew. I’d never really be safe from him.

But I’d always be safe with him.

After giving my statement at the station, JD drove us straight out of town. He didn’t speak much. Just one hand on the wheel, the other gripping mine like it was the only tether he had to stay grounded.

His dad’s cold words still rang in my ears.

“If you weren’t screwing around with a cashier at a truck stop, we wouldn’t be cleaning up this mess.”

Like I was nothing. Just a distraction. A burden. A mistake.

JD hadn’t said a word back then—not to defend me, not to argue. But his jaw had locked. His shoulders had squared. His silence had screamed louder than anything.

That night, we ended up at the old quarry lake. The moon was high and bright, the sky bruised purple and silver. JD parked the truck, killed the engine, and we sat for a minute in that thick, heavy quiet.

Then he turned to me. “Come on.”

He didn’t ask. Just opened the door and waited .

I followed. Always.

We climbed down the rocky slope barefoot, the granite still warm from the day. The water glimmered, dark and still. JD pulled off his shirt. Then his jeans.

I watched him, every inch of him familiar and dangerous and mine.

“You coming or what?” he asked, stepping into the shallows.

“I don’t have a suit.”

He grinned over his shoulder. “Since when have you needed one?”

So I stripped too—slowly, shy but bold in the same breath—and followed him into the water.

It wrapped around me like silk, cold and shocking, stealing the air from my lungs until I reached him. He pulled me close beneath the surface, our bodies tangled, our hearts beating in sync.

“Why’d you bring me here?” I asked against his jaw, my fingers curling at the nape of his neck.

“Because the world’s loud. And this... us... it’s the only thing that feels real right now.”

We kissed under the stars, bodies pressed chest to chest, legs drifting in the dark water.

That night, we didn’t need words. Just touch. Just the taste of skin and the pulse of something unspoken between us.

And after—when we were curled up in the truck bed, damp hair and damp clothes and nothing but a thin blanket—he reached out, laced our fingers together, and whispered, “Someday, they’ll see you like I do.”

I didn’t say anything back. I just watched the stars above us and hoped—desperately—that he was right.

Because I was already falling.

Hard.

And I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stop.