Page 39 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

JD

T he desert night was cool and crisp, the kind of cold that slithered up your sleeves and wrapped around your throat when you weren't paying attention.

The fall bonfire roared in the clearing behind the Royal Bastards clubhouse, flames licking the black sky, sparks flying like restless souls.

Someone passed me a beer, and I took it without a word, my fingers tight around the neck of the bottle.

I stood there, boots dug into the packed dirt, eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk.

I wasn’t looking for trouble.

But I damn well knew it was coming.

The out-of-town chapters rolled in heavy for the weekend. It was good for morale, good for business. That was the official reason, anyway. But I knew better. Edge knew. Hell, everyone in the inner circle knew this wasn't just a party.

This was a trap.

And I was the damn bait.

Skye hadn’t touched me since the safe-house. We’d said all the hard words, all the dirty truths, all the secrets that should’ve destroyed us. And somehow, we were still dancing in each other’s orbit, tethered by a ghost of a flame we never fully put out.

I’d see her at the office now, hair gleaming like fire, lips soft and pink, those skirts made to make a man forget his own name. Her scent haunted my desk like a goddamn curse. She was playing with fire. And I was burning.

But forgiveness?

That was another story.

My mind played the same reel on loop: If her mama hadn’t ended up in that hospital... if Skye hadn’t returned to New Mexico... would she have ever told me about my son?

That silence? Those missing years?

They cut deeper than her lies.

So I stood in the shadows, watching men from Tucson and Amarillo and El Paso circle the fire, drinking, laughing, eying the local talent. The women from the club strutted in tight leather and smoky makeup, but none of them caught my eye.

Until her.

Skye.

She stepped out from between two parked bikes like a slow-motion hallucination. Leather leggings hugged her long legs like sin, and that crop top—hell. Her curves were poured into it like honey in glass. She wasn’t wearing much, but it wasn’t just the outfit that hit me.

It was her .

The way she walked with that shy confidence. Like she knew she was being watched but wasn’t sure if she wanted to be seen. Her eyes scanned the crowd, not looking for me. That stung. But it also told me everything I needed to know.

She wasn’t here for work.

She was here to play .

I watched it happen in real-time. Some hotshot from the Phoenix charter zeroed in.

He was tall, built, wore mirrored shades even though the sun was long gone.

He swaggered up to her, said something that made her laugh.

Not a fake laugh. A real one. Her head tilted back, and for a second, it was like watching her slip through my fingers all over again.

The bottle cracked in my grip.

Beer sprayed over my boots.

Edge raised a brow from across the pit. Tarak whistled low under his breath. River didn’t even hide his grin.

"Careful," River said, lifting his whiskey. "You're about to go full caveman."

I clenched my jaw. Tossed the broken bottle into the fire and turned toward the bar. But my feet didn’t make it far.

She was suddenly in front of me.

Hair wild, cheeks flushed from the heat, lips parted like she was going to say something, but forgot how to speak.

“She’s taken.” I growled. I didn’t hear his reply. I was too focused on her. “You think this changes anything?” I asked?

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

I reached out, fingers wrapping around her wrist, tugging her in. My voice was fire and gravel.

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

Her breath hitched.

I leaned in, lips brushing my ear.

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

Then I walked away without a backward glance leaving her wanting more. Letting her burn the way she had toyed with me at the office leaving me wanting more.

If I didn’t walk away, I was gonna say something I couldn’t unsay. Or worse—do something I’d regret.

Maybe .

The burn in my chest wasn’t just from the cheap whiskey in the solo cup dangling from my fingers.

It was her. That look she gave me, all wide-eyed and biting her lip like she hadn’t just been laughing it up with that out-of-town patch from Texas.

Like she wasn’t letting him look at her like she was up for grabs.

Newsflash, sweetheart. You’ve never been on the open market.

Not to me.

I stalk back toward the firepit, the heat from the flames no match for the blood simmering under my skin. Tarak slaps me on the back, Edge hands me a refill, River's grinning like he already knows I’m two steps from losing my mind.

I try to focus on the conversation, on the bass thumping from the speakers someone strung up between two trees, on the smell of beer and wood smoke and grilled meat.

But I can feel her behind me.

Like gravity.

Like the night itself bends when she’s near.

And it only gets worse.

The moment I lean against the railing of the deck, trying to breathe, they come. Women. Club girls. Out-of-towners. Drifters and patched old ladies alike. All wearing skin-tight leather, red lips, hungry eyes.

They press in close.

One brushes her tits against my arm like it’s casual. Another runs her fingers down the line of my buttons, the manicured tip of her nail scraping over the edge of my jeans like she wants to know what kind of heat I’m packing underneath.

I let it happen.

I let them think I’m open for business. I even give one of them my wolfish half-smile. The one that used to make Skye blush and punch my shoulder back in high school.

But when I raise my eyes across the flames, I find her.

Skye.

Standing near the keg line, her red solo cup crushed in her hand like it pissed her off. Her jaw’s tight, her nostrils flared, and even from here I can see her chest rising and falling with sharp little breaths.

She’s jealous.

Good.

She doesn’t make a move toward me. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t shove one of the women off me like I half expect her to.

Because that’s the problem, right?

We don’t know what the hell we are anymore.

I don’t know if we’re fire and gasoline, or just smoke and ruins. I don’t know if I’m supposed to kiss her until her knees give out, or chain her up again so she can’t run.

Hell, I don’t even know if she wants me to stop her from leaving next time.

But I do know one thing.

She’s still mine.

Always fucking was.

I lean into the girl hanging on my arm, let my fingers brush her bare back just enough to make Skye’s nails dig into her own thigh. Her eyes don’t leave me—like if she blinks, I might disappear again.

She doesn't move.

But her expression changes.

The jealousy shifts into something else.

Longing.

She misses me.

She wants me .

But she’s scared.

And maybe she should be.

Because when I get her back—really get her back—there’ll be no running. No aliases. No secret boyfriends, fake security feeds, or North Carolina hideouts.

There’ll be chains.

There’ll be vows.

There’ll be a kid who knows who his father is, who grows up hearing his name roared by bikers who love him like kin.

And there’ll be Skye. Not this version standing across the yard with her walls up and her eyes rimmed with tears—but the real her.

The one I kissed under the stars in my truck bed. The one I made love to in a swimming hole, in a hotel room, in every broken dream I ever had.

That girl.

My girl.

She’s still in there.

And I swear to God—I’m gonna break through and claim her all over again.

Even if it kills us both. Seeing her with other man circling really hit home for me.

I’d take time to forgive. To rebuild. But her rebuking with another man wasn’t an option.

It was me or nobody. There was no way I’d ever allow another man to touch or—or try to be a step dad to Jackson. They were both mine.

My beer was empty so I might as well get up and go toward the girl begging me to make her mine…

“JD,” she breathed.

My name, like a prayer.

My hands curled into fists. I stared at her, forcing myself to stay still. To not reach for her. To not remember the taste of her skin, the feel of her legs locked around my waist, the way she moaned my name when I?—

"You're playing with fire, sweetheart," I rasped.

She blinked, caught between fear and want. "Maybe I want to get burned."

Fuck.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had her by the arm, dragging her behind the clubhouse. No one stopped us. Hell, they were probably placing bets.

We hit the shadows and I pressed her against the wall.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I ground out, voice hoarse. "Why now?"

Her hands fisted in my shirt. "Because I still love you, JD. And because I’m tired of pretending I don’t."

My forehead hit hers. I breathed her in. My entire body was strung tight, every muscle screaming for control.

I kissed her.

Hard.

Desperate.

Like a man trying to taste the truth off her tongue.

The bonfire crackled in the distance. The MC laughed and drank and roared at something stupid. But in that moment, the only sound I heard was her moan, low and needy, the same one that had haunted my dreams for six goddamn years.

I didn’t know if I could forgive her.

But I knew I could never stop wanting her.

Then she said words that had me gone.