Page 5 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

SKYE

T he desert stretched out like an endless rust-red ocean when I finally killed the engine.

JD’s Chevy idled a single heartbeat longer, then coughed itself silent.

Wind whispered through the cracked window, carrying sand and the dry tang of creosote.

No cameras, no mile markers, no witness but the sun.

Exactly the way Malik told me to do it; leave the truck out on a secondary road with no cameras.

I slid the gearshift into neutral, nudged the steering wheel so the truck coasted off the asphalt, and let gravity guide us onto a strip of pale caliche.

Tires hissed in the dust, settling ten yards from the road.

From here the Chevy looked abandoned, as if she’d simply died of thirst the way everything eventually did out here.

My pulse hammered. I tasted metal in my mouth, maybe fear, maybe the memory of JD’s kiss. The baby fluttered low in my belly—nothing more than a ghost of movement, but enough to ground me. One hand went to that small swell.

“It’s for you,” I whispered, voice scraping. “All of this.”

A plume of sand appeared on the horizon, growing, resolving into the squared-off silhouette of an early-2000s Ford Expedition the color of desert clay.

Malik’s ride. No factory GPS module, he’d promised.

No OnStar, no black-box transmitter. He’d ripped every wire and chip that could talk.

The windows were tinted so dark they looked painted.

Shanique’s cousin didn’t mess around. When she told him her friend out west needed an extraction he answered the call.

The SUV braked beside the Chevy. The engine stayed running—low, steady, confident.

Malik stepped out, combat boots hitting the dirt without a crunch.

Six-two, lean muscle, hair buzzed tight.

Baggy hoodie, ball cap, mirrored sunglasses that gave the desert sky back to itself.

He scanned the emptiness like he owned it, then rapped his knuckles on the roof twice, a signal.

“Let’s move, Skye.”

Heat slapped my face. Malik’s strides ate the space between us. He didn’t hug me, didn’t smile. Instead he pressed a faded Yankees cap into my palms.

“Hair up. Cap down. Head low,” he said. His voice carried the calm of someone who had crawled toward gunfire more than once. “Phone off?”

“Pulled the battery,” I answered.

He took the useless rectangle anyway and slipped it into a foil-lined pouch at his belt. “Good girl.”

The words shouldn’t have soothed me, but they did. He popped the Expedition’s rear door. The interior smelled like old canvas and gun oil. A blanket and a plastic cereal bowl sat on the floorboards—he’d thought of everything, even a makeshift basin in case the morning sickness hit.

Shanique had made me a small duffel. Freshly laundered clothes were neatly packed inside with basic toiletries .

Who knew an eighth grade writing teacher’s bonus assignment to find a pen pal—would turn into the kind of friendship one would ride or die for?

“Center seat,” he said. “Buckle up, slump forward like you’re scrolling. Anyone passes, you look bored, not scared. Copy?”

“Copy.” The military lingo felt foreign on my tongue, yet solid. I climbed in, pulling the cap low so the brim kissed my eyelashes. Malik shut the door, the world dulling to a hush.

The truck rocked when he slid behind the wheel. We rolled out before my pulse could catch its rhythm. The Chevy and everything it meant—JD’s laughter, JD’s ring, the deafening promise of forever—shrunk in the side mirror until dust swallowed it whole.

Malik didn’t speak for miles. Silence wrapped us, broken only by the tires humming over cracked asphalt. I stared at my hands. Dirt under my nails from the flowerbed where JD’s mother had shoved me. The crescent bruise on my bicep throbbed in time with the rattling windows.

“You okay back there?” he asked at last, eyes still on the horizon.

I cleared my throat. “Define okay.”

He snorted. “Breathing, heart beating, head on straight.”

“Two out of three.”

“That’s most folks on their best day,” he said.

“We’ll make Carolina in thirty hours. I’ll handle the gas stops.

You don’t leave the truck for anything. Need a bathroom, you give me the word and use the bottle.

” He reached behind the passenger seat and tossed a capped sports jug over his shoulder.

“Not glorious, but neither is getting snatched at a Citgo by some private-eye your boyfriend’s old man hired.

And hire them I’m sure he will if he hasn’t already. ”

I caught it, cheeks heating. “Understood.”

He glanced at the mirror. “Good. Hydrate, try to sleep. Daylight’s our friend out here, but we’ll run night legs once we hit Texas. Fewer patrols on the back roads.”

“Malik,” I said, voice thinner than I liked. “Why are you doing this? Really?”

For a moment the hum of the tires felt louder than the engine. Then he spoke, low and even. “Because someone once drove me across three state lines and kept me alive when nobody else gave a damn whether I lived or died. I pay that debt every chance I get.”

I swallowed, throat raw. “Thank you.”

“You don’t owe me thanks.” His eyes stayed forward. “Just build a life so the kid in your belly never needs a ride like this.”

Hours bled together. Sun climbed, boiled, fell.

Malik stopped twice, always at forgotten farm lanes where no camera dared blink.

He fueled from jerry cans he’d stashed in a cargo carrier, dumped my makeshift bathroom bottle, handed me jerky and lukewarm water through the half-cracked rear window. I never left the seat.

At one point, when the need to relieve myself could no longer be ignored, I whispered, “I can’t hold it.” Malik nodded once and veered down a side road—dust and gravel kicking up behind us. He pulled into a patch of trees, cut the engine, and handed me a roll of toilet paper and a small shovel.

“Deep enough to cover. Eyes peeled.”

I stumbled out and ducked into the brush. No buildings. No drones. No reflective surfaces. I squatted in silence, the wind rustling pine needles above me. A hawk screeched high overhead. No one knew where I was. No one could find me .

When I got back to the car, Malik had already turned the vehicle around. I climbed in, head down.

We didn’t speak.

Just kept driving.

The road narrowed into a tunnel of pine. Moss draped the trees like whispered promises, and sunlight filtered through branches in soft golden strips. Malik’s Expedition rumbled along the gravel drive like it belonged there—quiet, untraceable, just like me.

I gripped the strap of my duffel tighter as the cabin came into view.

Rustic. Weathered. Nestled between tall evergreens and wrapped in a porch that looked like it had stories of its own. A wooden swing creaked lazily in the breeze. Smoke curled from a stone chimney. And standing on the porch with arms wide open and a tear-streaked grin was Shanique.

I barely got the door open before she launched herself toward me.

“Girl,” she breathed, catching me in a hug so tight I nearly lost my breath. “You made it.”

The dam broke. My shoulders heaved. I buried my face in her shoulder and let the sobs out—ugly, unfiltered, everything I’d been holding in since I kissed JD goodbye under the desert sky.

“This ain’t home,” I gasped, “but it could be.”

She nodded against me, arms tightening. “That’s right. And we’re gonna make it feel like it.”

The scent of pine and fire pit smoke filled my nose. No more dust. No more cracked dirt roads. Birds chirped overhead, and somewhere in the distance, water lapped against a lakeshore. This wasn’t the desert.

It was full. Lush. Green. Alive.

When I finally stepped back, Shanique brushed a tear from my cheek with her thumb and smiled. “Come on inside. Gram’s waitin’.”

Malik carried my bag without a word. I followed Shanique up the porch steps, heart pounding for a different reason now—a softer one.

Gram opened the door. Gray hair pulled into a neat bun, apron dusted in flour, eyes kind and crinkled at the corners. She pulled me in without hesitation.

“Lord have mercy, child,” she whispered. “You’re safe now. You and that baby both. Long as you need, this is your home. You hear me?”

I nodded into her shoulder, the warmth of her hug like something sacred.

Inside, the cabin smelled like cornbread and cinnamon. A fire cracked in the hearth. On a side table sat a small stack of neatly folded baby blankets, a box of secondhand toys, and a car seat that had clearly seen love.

“We got these from my cousin’s baby,” Shanique said, waving a hand. “Little man just turned four. Outgrew half his stuff overnight. You’re welcome to all of it.”

I touched a tiny sock. The tears came again, but gentler this time. Healing, not hurting.

“And,” Gram added, pulling an envelope from a drawer, “you got a new name now. Lilly Smith. Driver’s license. Social security card. Everything’s taken care of. You ain’t just running. You’re starting fresh.”

I opened it with trembling hands. A new name. A clean slate. Freedom.

Shanique grinned, her eyes shining. “Also, we hooked you up with a job. Miss Laverne at the café needs help—dishwashing, mostly, but she pays fair, cash under the table. You up for it?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes. Thank you.”

Malik tipped his head at me, already backing toward the door. “You’re good now. Stay low. Stay safe. I’ll be around if you need me.”

I wanted to say more, but the words stuck in my throat. He didn’t need them. He just nodded and was gone.

The screen door shut behind him.

I stood in the middle of the cabin, surrounded by hand-me-downs and second chances, and for the first time in weeks, I let out a breath that didn’t feel stolen.

Maybe I had left my heart in the desert.

But something else had followed me here.

Hope.