Page 9 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

JD

C hristmas break at the Northport estate continued to mean one thing—pressure.

Pressure to smile, to play heir-apparent to the family empire, to nod through discussions of mergers and land deals like I gave a damn. Every morning since the gala, my father hounded me.

“Time to start thinking about internships,” he said over breakfast, not even looking up from his newspaper. “The board needs to see you’re serious.”

“I just turned nineteen.”

“You’re a Northport.”

“Cal and Colton aren’t pushed to be involved.”

“That’s because they’re different. Not as intellectual as you… Cal runs the family ranch—I expect you to run the family’s financial empire.”

And that was the end of that.

My older brother, Cal, sat quiet, nursing his coffee with dirt still under his fingernails. He loved the ranch. Always had. Horses, cattle, open fields—that was his world. But the spreadsheets and boardrooms? He hated every second of it .

“You could at least help with the winter branding this week,” Cal muttered once we were alone, leaning on the kitchen island.

“You know that’s not my thing.”

“Yeah,” he said, not unkindly. “I do.”

“Let’s go son.”

I kept my head down and got dressed. Suit and tie. Check. Twenty thousand dollar watch—a birthday gift on my left wrist. I’d play their game for now only because it’d be useful to see how our money really was made and maybe I could find something to turn the tables on my parents.

Six hours later a small migraine formed.

The pain beating in a slow thumping rhythm behind my eyes.

I didn’t belong in either world—the oil and boardroom politics my father loved, or the rugged ranch life Cal thrived in.

I preferred engines to horses. Chrome to leather saddles.

So I did what I always did when the walls started to close in.

I rode my metal horse.

The old Ducati was still in the back of the garage, buried behind tarps and holiday decorations. Matte black with silver trim. I bought it junior year with my father’s black Amex and told him after the fact. He nearly had a stroke. I never regretted it.

I wheeled her out into the cold sun and kicked her to life. The rumble vibrated through my chest, wild and alive. I didn’t put on a proper riding jacket. Just peeled off the boardroom jacket, shoved a hoodie over my dress shirt, and let the wind do the rest.

The air burned cold, but I didn’t care.

I rode for miles. Past the edge of the estate. Past the winter-dry arroyos and shuttered storefronts. Santa Fe blurred behind me.

My mother’s words slithered back: “ Perhaps she was cheating on you. Disappearing into the stacks with her little notebook.”

It didn’t sit right. Not even a little.

Skye wasn’t a liar. She was a lot of things—wild, impulsive, stubborn as hell—but she didn’t *fake* love. I knew the way she looked at me. Knew how she trembled when I touched her.

Still, the doubt whispered like engine wind in my ears.

Eventually, I slowed. The road curved toward a place I hadn’t planned on, but maybe part of me knew I’d end up there the second I left the garage.

The Royal Bastards MC bar sat on the outskirts of town like a growl made manifest. Low building, blacked-out windows, a gravel lot full of Harleys and attitude. I parked the Ducati off to the side, already earning a few raised eyebrows through the haze of smoke drifting out from the open door.

Inside, it smelled like leather, whiskey, and testosterone. All eyes turned when I stepped in—still half dressed like a black-tie baller.

“You lost, tuxedo?” a guy behind the bar called, wiping a glass.

I didn’t flinch. “Depends. You serve scotch?”

A few snorts. One guy stood, shoulders broad, beard thick. “This ain’t no country club. We don’t do shaken martinis.”

“I’ll take it neat, then.”

That got a laugh. Just as the bearded guy stepped forward like he might bounce me back out, a voice cut through the noise .

“Whoa, whoa—he’s with me.”

I turned, and there he was.

Edge.

We’d played on the same football team sophomore year. He was all sharp cheekbones and chaos back then. Now, older, broader, with a leather kutte slung over his hoodie. His patch read *Enforcer* for The Scorpion MC.

“JD Northport,” he grinned, pulling me into a quick bro-hug. “Ain’t seen you since Coach White threw that clipboard at your head.”

“You broke the vending machine trying to get a Snickers,” I shot back, grinning.

“Still don’t regret it.”

He waved off the tension like a magician and gestured to a back booth. “C’mon. Let’s catch up. You’re way overdressed for this place.”

As we sat down, Edge slid me a shot without asking. “So what’s a polished trust fund ghost doing slumming it at a biker bar?”

“I needed a ride,” I said, tipping back the whiskey. “And some perspective.”

He nodded like he got it more than most would.

“You look like hell,” he said bluntly. “Something happen?”

I exhaled. “A girl.”

He gave a mock wince. “Aren’t they always the ones who haunt the hardest?”

We talked. Not just small talk, but real talk. About how I didn’t fit into the Northport empire. About the girl I lost. About how nothing in my life made sense anymore.

Edge listened. Didn’t interrupt. Just sipped his beer and nodded like he knew what it meant to feel unmoored.

He shared a bit about the path he was on pledging to a rival Club to the Royal Bastards while the two MC’s tried to broker truces that always seemed to fail.

His gaze occasional kept sliding over to a slim, brunette.

She looked like jailbait to me—but one never knew with Edge hence his nickname,

“You ever think about walking away from it all?” I asked him after a long silence.

“Every day,” he said. “But some ghosts you gotta chase before they settle. You looking for yours?”

I nodded.

“Then keep chasing. Just don’t let the bastards feed you lies along the way.

I grew up in the Club life. Too young to pledge before now—but I’ll tell you this—that girl of yours had help.

They ain’t no way a girl with nothing from the wrong side of town slips your grasp without a trace.

Especially with the best money can buy looking for any crumbs coming up cold. ”

“You’re right. My parents are behind this,” I hissed. “They got her out of the way and me at an Ivy college. Just like they wanted.”

“I bet they hired someone to spook her. Probably put a gun in her face and ruffed her up.” He took a pull from his beer while watching the doors behind me.

“You good?” I was furious as hell at the implications of what he was saying but Edge looked around as if expecting trouble at any second.

“My MC hates the Bastards. They are having a meet at Church…. our version of a boardroom. Since I’m just a pledge I don’t get invited. My job is to make sure no one’s ambushing my crew.”

“I’ll let you get back to it then.”

“Anytime you wanna ride, with me and my crew. Hit me up. ”

“Will do. Good seeing you, Edge. Merry Christmas and all that.”

“I ain’t ever had one of those JD. No cooked turkey with all the sides and certainly never a present from a big man in a red suit.”

“Well shit. Consider yourself invited to the Northport Ranch Christmas morning.”

“I’d rather be stuck in a pit of vipers. No offense.”

“None taken.” I clapped him on the back as I left.

I’d given my PI’s the info about the library sightings. Hopefully they’d turn up a lead.

Even if our love was just a song that had ended I still needed to know the reason why.