Page 46 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

JD

T he theater was alive with color, with rhythm, with something ancient and electric crawling down my spine. The flamenco show had already started when we slipped into our seats, the house lights low and the stage blazing in reds, golds, and shadow.

A single spotlight lit the dancer as she stepped onto the worn wooden floor.

Her dress flared like flames. Her heels struck hard, sharp, rapid staccato rhythms that rattled in my chest. Behind her, a man played the Spanish guitar like it was a woman he loved and lost, coaxing every note out like a confession.

A singer cried into the mic, not in English, but we understood every word.

Pain. Passion. Want. Regret.

It was our story—unfolding in rhythm.

Skye’s hand was resting on her thigh, fingers gripping the hem of that red dress like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.

Her face glowed in the low light, eyes locked on the stage, wide and shining.

I watched her more than the show. The way her chest rose with every beat, how her lips parted just slightly like she was holding her breath .

I leaned in close and whispered against her ear, “Feel it?”

She nodded. “Like it’s in my blood.”

“Same.”

The performance ended with the dancer’s arms raised in triumph, sweat shining on her brow, her chest heaving like she’d just ripped open her heart and bled it all over the floor.

And then it was our turn.

We changed venues—from stage to studio.

Flamenco Dance Space was intimate, with dim lights and polished wood floors that smelled like sweat and history. Couples filtered in —older, younger, nervous, excited. A woman in all black clapped her hands and called for us to stand.

“Flamenco is emotion,” she told us. “It’s fire. You don’t dance it, you become it.”

I caught Skye’s eye.

“You ready for this?”

She smirked, lips glossed like sin. “Born ready.”

The music started. Slow at first, the guitar haunting, almost mournful. The instructor guided us into the basic steps — heel, ball, toe—but it wasn’t about the footwork. It was the way our bodies moved together.

We faced each other. Skye’s hands raised, wrists twisting like silk. I mirrored her, stepping forward. The moment our palms met, heat exploded. Her hips swayed, mine followed. The rhythm took over. Faster. Sharper.

We spun. Advanced. Retreated.

It wasn’t a dance—it was a fight.

A seduction.

A memory.

Our story.

I held her hand tight, then let her go. She twirled away, then came back, her chest to mine, heart pounding so hard I felt it through my shirt. The beat sped up, the strumming wild. Her foot stomped hard against the floor, daring me.

I stepped into her space. My hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against me. She gasped, eyes lifting to mine — challenge flashing in them.

We were on fire.

I dipped her low, her hair brushing the floor, and when I pulled her up, our lips almost met.

Almost.

After the final move — both of us panting, sweating, locked in each other’s arms — the room erupted in applause. I didn’t hear any of it. I only saw her.

Skye.

Flushed cheeks. Wild hair. That goddamn dress clinging to every inch of her like it belonged there.

And for a second, I didn’t feel betrayed. Or confused. Or angry.

I just felt in love.

The way I always had.

But as soon as the music stopped, reality crept back in.

We weren’t just two lovers in a dance studio. We were a mess of heartbreak and missed years. A son between us. Lies. Half-truths. Pain.

Still, as I helped her gather her things, I reached for her hand — just once — and laced our fingers together.

And damn it, she let me.

The rooftop bar was quiet, tucked high above Santa Fe’s adobe sprawl, lit only by strands of Edison bulbs strung across beams and the dying fire in a gaslit pit near our table.

Below us, the city shimmered. Above, the stars looked close enough to touch.

We needed air and a few cold drinks. So after a quick tapas dinner I suggested this.

Skye leaned against the railing, the dry breeze playing with her hair. The red dress clung to her curves, the kind of soft, dangerous fabric that begged to be touched. She turned her head toward me, lips glossy, eyes molten.

I stepped behind her.

Wrapped one arm around her waist.

Bent low and kissed the spot behind her ear.

She shivered, whispering my name like a secret she wasn’t sure she had the right to say out loud.

“JD…”

That whisper made my blood spike.

“You taste like fire and peaches,” I murmured against her skin, dragging my mouth down the elegant curve of her neck, over the delicate lines of her collarbone. Her head tilted back, giving me more.

I tugged down the top of that damn dress—just enough to reveal those perfect, peach-colored nipples that still haunted my dreams.

She gasped when my mouth closed around one, soft and slow, my tongue teasing, tasting, claiming.

“God,” she breathed, her fingers tangling in my hair. “JD, someone could?—”

“I don’t care,” I growled, teeth scraping lightly before I kissed her again. “Let them see what you do to me.”

I pressed against her back, letting her feel how badly I wanted her — how I’d always want her. Her hips shifted in response, her breath coming faster.

My hand slid beneath her skirt. Up, slow and sure.

I found her panties and hooked them aside, fingers slicking through the heat I already knew would be waiting for me.

She moaned. Tried to bite it back and failed.

I rubbed small circles, kissed her neck harder. She bucked against my hand, greedy for more, grinding against my palm as I drove her closer to the edge.

“Look at you,” I whispered hoarsely. “Still mine. Still falling apart for me.”

“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice ragged and low.

She came with a soft cry against my mouth, clenching around my fingers like she’d been holding that release for six years.

I kissed her lips then — slow, dirty, sweet.

We barely had time to fix ourselves before the bartender stepped out with our check.

Skye giggled like the girl I used to know — flushed and glowing, stumbling back to the table with her dress just a little too askew.

“You’re trouble,” she whispered, cheeks red.

“And you’re worth every bit of it,” I said, grabbing her hand as we walked out into the night.

For once, we weren’t the Royal Bastard and the girl who broke his heart.

We were just two people falling all over again.

It had been a few days since the rooftop.

Since I tasted her laughter again… and other things.

Skye and I were finding our rhythm, but it was like tuning a guitar that had been strung too tight for too long—every note needed careful handling. Every conversation, every touch, held weight. Still, she made it easier. Made it feel like maybe we hadn’t lost everything after all.

Jackson was always the anchor. The thread that tied us tighter each day, even when words failed.

That’s why I was standing in my kitchen Thursday morning, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, texting her.

Me:

What are you and the little man doing Saturday?

The dots started dancing on the screen immediately.

Skye:

No idea yet. Why?

Thought maybe it was time for a family outing. Just us. No MC. No Northport drama. Just the three of us.

Skye: I’d like that. So would Jackson.

I blew out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The sun was just rising when I pulled into her driveway.

Skye stepped out in a pair of fitted jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and boots that looked straight out of a Pinterest post. Jackson was at her side in a plaid flannel and beanie, holding a little reusable coffee cup filled with hot chocolate.

I could barely look at her without smiling. They both looked… like mine.

She slid into the passenger seat, Jackson into the back with his seatbelt buckled up.

“You packed snacks?” I teased as I started the truck .

“Please,” she said, smirking. “I’m a mom. I have snacks, wipes, band-aids, a spare hoodie, and a travel-size bottle of Advil.”

I laughed. “So you’re saying I’m covered.”

“Always,” she said softly.

The pumpkin patch was a perfect slice of fall. Golden leaves scattered across rows of orange, rust, and white pumpkins. Kids darted between hay bales, and the scent of cinnamon and warm cider carried on the wind.

Jackson sprinted ahead to the corn maze, shouting over his shoulder. “Come on, you slowpokes!”

Skye rolled her eyes. “He got that from you.”

I grabbed her hand. “He got the attitude from you.”

She smiled, but it wavered at the edges.

We walked the maze, laughed until our sides hurt when Jackson tried to “guide” us and got us hopelessly lost, and finally collapsed into a hayride wagon pulled by two chestnut horses.

Skye leaned against my shoulder as Jackson sat between us, chattering about everything from school to his favorite Halloween candy.

It was domestic. Simple.

It was everything I’d ever wanted.

The diner we hit after was a hole-in-the-wall spot I remembered from high school — retro booths, hand-cut fries, and the best damn milkshakes in the state.

We slid into a booth by the window.

Skye ordered grilled cheese and soup. Jackson wanted a burger "as big as Dad's hand.” And I got chili and a beer .

We talked about Jackson’s school project — some kind of volcano diorama — and Skye promised to help paint it while I handled the exploding part.

“Why do you get the fun part?” she said, laughing over her sandwich.

“Because I’m the fun parent,” I said with a wink.

Jackson giggled, mouth full of fries. “You both are!”

Her gaze met mine. There was softness there. And regret. But more than that, there was something new.

After lunch we drove out to the ranch. Jackson wanted to show me his cowboy riding skills.

Skye who once loathed the place told me it feels more and more like home.

That’s all Cal. He turned his guilt into Pinterest boards and homemaking.

The damn man needed a girlfriend. Hell, after me he’s the next most wanted bachelor.

The second I stepped out of the truck, I knew something was off.

Too many guards. Too many sideways glances. And Cal? He only pulled that tight-jawed look when the shit was about to blow sky-high.

"Stay close," I murmured to Skye, reaching into the back seat to unbuckle Jackson. My hand lingered protectively on the small of her back as we approached the porch.

Cal met me halfway down the steps. His face, usually sun-warmed and easygoing, was carved in stone.

“We need to talk,” he said in a low voice. “Inside.”

“Why do I feel like I’ve lived this scene before?” I muttered under my breath, glancing toward the barn just as horses skittered nervously again, ears twitching. Déjà vu. Dust trails kicked up in the distance.

Edge and River rolled in hot, throttles roaring, bikes spitting gravel. My chest tightened .

Jackson pointed. “It’s Uncle Edge and Uncle River! Are they coming for lunch too?”

Skye ruffled his hair and smiled, but her eyes met mine and I saw it—she felt it too.

Colton appeared at the side of the house and held out his arms. “Come on, little man. You wanna see the new foal? She’s a fiery one.”

Jackson’s grin was instant. “Can I name her?”

“Depends what you come up with,” Coleton laughed, casting me a quick glance I didn’t miss.

I nodded once. “Go ahead. Just stay in the barn.”

Skye hesitated. “You sure?”

“I’ll call you in a minute.” I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Promise.”

As they disappeared around the corner, I turned and followed Cal into the study, River and Edge right on my heels.

We didn’t sit.

River leaned against the mantle, arms crossed, his mouth set in a firm line. Edge slammed the door shut behind us.

Cal didn’t waste time. “Clarissa’s gone off the damn deep end.”

“No surprise there,” I growled.

“This time it’s more than scheming and sour phone calls,” Edge said. “She’s flat broke. Bank accounts are frozen. The trust fund your father left? Empty.”

“Bullshit,” I snapped. “There’s always money. She’s always got an angle.”

“Yeah,” River drawled. “This angle has a Spanish accent and cartel connections.”

My gut twisted .

“She found herself some washed-up cartel prince playing retired king on the Costa del Sol,” Edge said. “Romanced him. Lied about why you and the boys disowned her. Convinced him she’s some poor mama betrayed by her blood.”

I clenched my jaw. “What’s he doing?”

“Funding a rival MC,” Cal said grimly. “One we’ve dealt with before. The Black Vultures out of El Paso.”

“Damn,” I muttered, pacing toward the window. “What’s the play? Livestock? Poisoning wells?”

“We’re not sure yet,” River said. “But they’ve been sniffing around. Could be they hit the Clubhouse. Could be the ranch. But given her obsession with destroying you—and how much she knows—Skye’s a high-value target.”

I turned slowly.

“She was always obsessed with Skye,” Edge said. “Blamed her for taking her golden boy off the path she chose.”

“She pulled a gun on Skye,” I muttered. “Threatened her and the baby. I should’ve known it’d never be over.”

“JD,” Cal said, stepping closer, “we need to move her. Tonight. Get her someplace locked down.”

I exhaled, the weight of my mother’s madness pressing against my chest. “We’ve already burned through the safehouse in the mountains. I’ll send her back to New Mexico. She’ll stay at the Clubhouse. Armed guards. Fort Knox-style.”

“She won’t like that,” River said.

“I don’t give a damn what she likes. She’s mine to protect.”

Edge gave me a look. “Does she know that? That she’s yours again?”

I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to .

But because there were too many variables still flying through the air like shrapnel.

This wasn’t just a mother’s vendetta anymore. This was war. And war meant protecting what you loved—even if it meant locking it away behind steel doors.

Even if they hated you for it.