Page 38 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

R egan’s plan was insane. Which meant, naturally, it had a damn good chance of working.

Her first step? Operation Glow-Up.

She took me to her stylist—the same one who gave her that signature icy-blonde hair and dagger-sharp nails.

I walked out of the salon six hours later with glossy auburn hair so rich it shimmered like red-gold under the Santa Fe sun.

My nails were shellacked a creamy rose pink.

My brows shaped to perfection. And my skin?

Glowing, thanks to a facial that cost more than my rent back in North Carolina.

Then came the wardrobe.

Tight pencil skirts that hugged my hips and rode up ever so slightly every time I reached for a file. Blouses in silks and satins with necklines that dipped low enough to tease. Killer heels that clicked on the tile floor like a metronome, drawing attention with every confident step.

I didn’t feel like myself.

I felt like someone braver. Someone who could walk into the RBMC Santa Fe office and face the man I’d broken all those years ago .

And that’s exactly what I did.

Regan had orchestrated it all—a new job as the club’s office manager. Filing, scheduling, handling invoices, and organizing travel for club business. It was legit on paper. But we both knew it was a setup.

“Be close to him,” she whispered like the devil on my shoulder. “Let him feel what he lost.”

The problem?

JD barely looked at me.

He’d walk past my desk, nod once, and then bury himself in numbers and financial reports. He’d sit in his glass-walled office—those damn rolled-up sleeves showing off ink and muscle—and never so much as let his eyes linger.

Not once.

I thought maybe the plan wasn’t working.

But Regan? Regan had eyes and ears in every hallway.

“You’re driving him nuts,” she said over drinks one night, smirking behind the rim of her margarita. “He’s just too proud to show it.”

I rolled my eyes. “He doesn’t even flinch when I lean over his desk. You sure we’re talking about the same JD?”

“He’s a Royal Bastard, not a saint,” she said, swirling her drink. “He wants you, Skye. He’s just punishing you. You’re in his space. You’re on his turf. But give it time. Fire like that doesn’t go out—it smolders. And eventually? It explodes.”

And God help me… I wanted it to.

The move back to Santa Fe had been a whirlwind.

Logistics, paperwork, transferring Jackson’s records, coordinating with JD’s brothers and the Royal Bastards—all of it a blur of motion and emotion.

I barely had time to breathe, let alone process what it meant to be back in the very place I once ran from.

JD had set me up in a small adobe-style home just a few minutes from the RBMC compound. It had warm stucco walls, terracotta floors, and wide windows that looked out at the desert. Cactus shadows painted the floors when the sun set.

The desert sun did something to Jackson I hadn’t seen back in North Carolina. He bloomed. Like something wild and untamable. His cheeks were golden, his limbs strong, and his laughter—God, that sound—it rang out through the open acres like it belonged here.

Cal had taken to him instantly. Called him “little buckaroo” and had the boy saddling ponies and tossing hay bales like he was born in the saddle.

Jackson ran with the horses now, his little legs kicking up dust as he whooped and hollered, chasing Cal’s prized black stallion, Blackie, across the paddocks like he was part colt himself.

Watching them from the porch, a cup of coffee cooling in my hands, I felt that ache. That slow, low ache of pride... and guilt.

Jackson was thriving. The kind of thriving a mother dreams of.

But it wasn’t just the land—it was the people.

He had family here. Cal and Colton treated him like the little brother they never had.

JD… JD kept his distance. Professionally civil.

Cool. As if that night between us never happened. But my body remembered.

Some nights I couldn’t sleep. I'd twist in the sheets of the little adobe house. I'd roll over, fists clenched in the linen, heart racing like a hunted thing as the memory of his voice haunted me:

"Mine. This body. This soul… these thighs. All mine. "

He’d groaned it against my neck, hips grinding into mine like he could brand me from the inside out. Possessive, angry, hot as sin—and I'd wanted every unholy second.

But now, he didn’t even look at me. Not when I brought him his ledgers.

Except for the moments when I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Or when his hand would graze mine too long when passing files.

Or the way his jaw would tic when I leaned over his desk, pretending not to notice the way my blouse gaped open just enough.

But nothing happened.

No kisses. No demands. No whispered promises.

Just silence. And distance.

And the ghost of a love that once consumed us both.

Regan swore the act was all for show. That JD was coming undone every time I bent over in one of her chosen skirts.

Maybe.

But when he passed me in the hallway, all I got was a clipped nod.

We only talked about drop offs and pick ups.

Me and Jackson spending time at the ranch on weekends until he felt comfortable enough to stay without me.

JD picked Jackson up from school, spending as much time with him as he could.

I knew it wouldn’t be long until he demanded splitting the week; having Jackson stay in the bedroom JD didn’t think I knew he was setting up for an almost seven-year-old boy in his fancy high rise.

I missed the quiet nights in North Carolina—the peace-but I still had the guilt.

It never left. So, I was determined to make the holidays this year the best for everyone.

Thanksgiving would be in North Carolina.

Malik, Shaniqua, and Gram were already planning the feast. A second home.

A second family. They wanted to see Jackson, hug him, soak in the proof that all the hell we went through was worth it.

But Christmas? Christmas would be here. At the ranch. Regan and Amber were already plotting some giant, over-the-top bash. They were dragging the whole RBMC crew out to the Northport estate, convinced the desert deserved a holiday of epic proportions.

Two worlds colliding. North Carolina and Santa Fe. The past and the present.

I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if JD would ever really forgive me.

But Jackson? Jackson was happy. And for now, that was enough to keep my head high—even if my heart still beat for a man who hadn’t touched me since the night he reminded me just how much he still owned me.

The next morning was a repeat. Us at the ranch with Cal and Colton and JD somewhere in Santa Fe until I left.

I sipped my coffee slowly on the front porch, the desert sky blushing peach and gold as the sun crept over the horizon.

From the barn, I could already hear Jackson’s voice rise in laughter, and Cal’s baritone responding, easy and warm.

They were brushing down the ponies together—Jackson was becoming something of a ranch boy, boots and all.

It should’ve filled me with nothing but joy.

But today… it just felt hollow.

I stared down at my phone, the little blinking cursor in my message to Regan mocking me.

Skye: I don’t think the plan’s working.

It only took a few seconds before her bubble popped up, typing furiously.

Regan: Oh honey, the plan is working. But JD is too damn proud to admit it. Time for Phase Two.

Skye: What the hell is Phase Two ?

Regan: Fall Bonfire. Saturday. Clubhouse. Wear the leather leggings I put in your closet and that black crop top with the gold studs. Trust me.

Skye: I don’t know...

Regan: We leave Jackson with Cal. Safe. Loved. You show up, looking like sin, and we let the other MC boys circle.

Skye: The ones who don’t know our history?

Regan: Exactly. Light the match, Skye. Let's see if your boy burns.

I dropped my head back against the porch post, the mug warm in my hands, my stomach in knots.

Was I really going to do this?

Was I really going to walk into the lion’s den in skin-tight leather and a top that would make every man look twice, just to rile up the man who hadn’t even touched me in weeks?

Yes.

Because damn it, I missed him. I missed us. I missed the way he used to look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And if this was the only way to get through that thick skull of his, then maybe it was worth it.

Saturday night came fast.

Jackson had no clue what his mama was doing tonight. He kissed me on the cheek, his little arms wrapping around my waist before Cal lifted him onto his shoulders and carried him off to bed with a flashlight and a book about cowboys.

I took one last deep breath at the bathroom mirror.

The leather leggings clung to my curves like they were painted on. The black crop top dipped low in the front and laced up the sides. My auburn hair glowed under the vanity light, soft waves cascading over my bare shoulders, the red highlights catching like fire.

I swiped on a berry gloss and turned sideways. My heart pounded.

You don’t get a second chance unless you fight for it.

The Clubhouse bonfire was already roaring when I pulled up.

Music thumped. Bottles clinked. Out-of-town chapters milled in the gravel lot, their leather kuttes unfamiliar, their faces new.

I spotted River and Tarak, already nursing beers near a stack of firewood.

Amber waved, and Regan—of course—was in full Queen Bee mode, holding court like she owned the damn place.

She spotted me, grinned like the devil, and pointed toward a group of tall, muscled bikers laughing by the bonfire.

“Fresh meat,” she mouthed.

Great.

I stepped into the light, heart thudding, the heat of the fire licking at my skin. A few heads turned. Then more. A slow hush fell over the group nearest the fire as one by one, the men from Texas, Nevada, and Arizona chapters noticed me.

And JD?

I didn’t see him yet.

But I felt it.

That ripple in the air. The storm gathering.

One of the Texas boys—dirty blond, tall, tattoos peeking out from under his henley—stepped closer, beer in hand.

“You new around here, darlin’?” he drawled, eyeing me slowly .

I gave him a polite smile. “Just moved back.”

“Well, welcome home.” He held out the bottle to me. “Want a drink?”

I took it. Just as my fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, I felt it.

The heat.

The fury.

The unmistakable crackle of him .

I turned my head slowly… and there he was.

JD stood just on the other side of the fire, the flames casting shadows across his jaw, making him look carved out of anger and desire. Dark jeans. Black tee stretched across his chest. His cut slung over one shoulder, boots planted like a predator about to pounce.

His eyes—those stormy eyes—were locked on me. And the man standing too close.

Regan sidled up beside me, whispering out of the corner of her mouth. “Boom.”

JD started walking.

Slow. Deliberate. Controlled rage in every inch of him.

The poor biker beside me didn’t even realize he was about to die.

I held my breath.

JD didn’t stop until he was between us, his back to me, his voice low and cold.

“She’s taken.”

The biker raised both hands. “Didn’t know. No disrespect.”

JD didn’t move. Just stared him down until the guy disappeared into the night like smoke.

Then he turned to me.

His gaze raked me from head to toe.

“You wearing that for him? ”

I didn’t blink. “I wore it for me.”

His jaw clenched.

Regan, bless her manipulative soul, vanished into the shadows.

And JD?

He just stared.

“You think this changes anything?” he rasped.

I stepped closer. “I think it means something.”

He reached out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, tugging me in. His voice was fire and gravel.

“You wanna play games, baby girl? You forgot who taught you how.”

My breath hitched.

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear.

“Leather looks good on you. But nothing still looks better.”

Then he let me go and walked away.

And I stood there—heart pounding, skin flushed, blood humming—knowing one thing for sure.

The match had been lit.

And the man I loved was burning.