Page 21 of Victorious, Part 2 (The LA Defiance MC #6)

PHOENIX

The Next Day

The morning light filters through the makeshift shelter we’ve created at the preserve, and I wake to the sound of Clover moving around quietly. She’s trying not to disturb Dracula, who’s claimed the prime real estate between our sleeping bags in the back of the truck as though he owns the place.

She’s already checking her blood sugar, the routine so natural now that I automatically reach for the orange juice without thinking. She catches my movement and smiles, soft, sleepy, so beautiful.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, accepting the juice. “Ninety-four. Right where it should be.”

I nod, watching her face in the morning light. There’s something different about her today. The tension that’s been weighing on her shoulders since we left LA has eased, replaced by something that looks almost like peace.

“Sleep okay?” I ask, starting to pack our gear.

“Better than I have in days.” She’s folding her sleeping bag with practiced efficiency. “Must be the desert air.”

Or maybe it’s because we finally stopped running from whatever this thing is between us.

Dracula stretches, fixes me with his judgmental yellow stare, then stalks off to terrorize some unsuspecting desert creature. The little shit has grown on me, though I’d rather eat sand than admit it out loud.

“I can’t believe we’re taking him to Vegas,” I grumble, watching him pounce on something that’s probably better left unidentified.

“He chose us,” Clover says, like that explains everything. “Besides, you know you love him.”

“I do not love that psychotic furball.”

She laughs, the sound echoing across the desert. “Sure, you don’t, you basically admitted it yesterday.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, we should pack and get on the road. It’s taken us three days in what should be an eight-hour trip with all our stops from LA to Vegas. I think we’ve milked this trip as long as we can. We need to get back on the road and head into Vegas. Sin was expecting us days ago.”

Clover sighs, but nods, continuing to pack.

This trip has been fun.

I didn’t expect it to be. Hell, a lot has happened in these three days, but at some point, we need reality to crash back in.

We have to get to Vegas, check in with Sin at Las Vegas Defiance, so we have some protection when the shit hits the fan back home.

Because the truth is, even though we’re having a good time, the club in LA is still preparing for war—a war they may not win, and Vegas may very well be our new home.

I just don’t know if Clover has realized that fact yet.

And when she does, I’ll be ready to catch her if she falls.

***

Within an hour, we’ve got everything packed and loaded. Dracula, the traitorous bastard, actually lets me put him in his makeshift carrier without trying to claw my face off.

Progress.

“So, what’s the plan?” Clover asks as I start the truck.

I pull out the itinerary she’d planned, what feels close to a lifetime ago. “Zzyzx Road first. Then Seven Magic Mountains. Pioneer Saloon for lunch.” I glance at her. “Vegas by evening.”

Vegas.

The word sits heavy between us.

The end of our bubble.

The end of this strange, perfect isolation where it’s just been us and the desert and whatever this thing is that’s been building.

“Sounds perfect,” she says, but I hear the undertone. The knowledge that each mile takes us closer to real life.

I start the engine, and the drive to Zzyzx Road is easy. Clover has her playlist going, and for once, we’re not racing against time, fear, or my stupid need to keep her at arm’s length. The desert stretches out endlessly on both sides, painted in impossible shades of the morning sun.

“There,” she points to a sign ahead. “Zzyzx Road.”

I pull over at the famously odd-named location. It’s just a sign on the side of the highway, but somehow it feels significant, as though it’s a marker for something ending and something else beginning.

Clover hops out with her camera, but her movements are different now. Less performative, more personal. She’s not creating content for her followers, she’s documenting something for herself.

“Where the world ends and you figure out who you are,” she states, filming the sign.

I watch her work, something stirring in my chest. She’s beautiful when she’s focused like this, when she’s not trying to be anything for anyone else.

Just Clover, creating something real. She turns the camera toward me without asking, and for once, I don’t object, move away, or make some excuse.

I simply let her capture whatever she sees when she looks at me.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, still filming.

“How different everything is from three days ago.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Good,” I say without hesitation. “Definitely good.”

She lowers the camera, smiling. “Yeah. It is. And don’t worry, the video of you is just for me. I won’t post it. I remember we need to be invisible to The Rojas Cartel.”

I smile at her cheekily, tilting my head. “You going to jerk off to it later?” I tease, throwing her words back at her.

She rolls her eyes before jumping back in the car. “Hardy-har. C’mon, let’s head out. We have more to see, and Vegas lights by night, baby!”

Chuckling, I slide into the driver’s side and we take off to our next destination, back on the road toward Seven Magic Mountains. The colorful rock installation appears in the distance like something from another planet, vibrant towers of painted stone rising from the stark desert landscape.

“Oh my God,” Clover breathes. “It’s incredible.”

The morning light makes everything glow, each color more vivid against the pale sand. It’s exactly the kind of place Clover would love. Artistic, bold, completely unexpected, and in the middle of nowhere.

I park at the base of the installation, and we climb out into the desert heat. It’s already warm, but not the brutal heat of midday. Perfect for what she wants to do.

“This is it,” she says, setting up her camera. “My final road trip content.”

But she’s not rushing, not trying to get the perfect shot as quickly as possible. She’s taking her time, moving between angles, really seeing the place instead of merely photographing it.

I find myself in several shots without her asking. Not posed, not trying to look like anything. Just there, part of her story now, and knowing she won’t post the pictures of my face eases my mind.

When she moves close to adjust the camera angle, I instinctively reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. The simple touch sends electricity through us, and I don’t look away fast enough.

“Phoenix,” she says softly.

“Yeah?”

“This thing between us. We’re not pretending it isn’t happening anymore, are we?”

“No,” I say, my thumb still tracing her cheek. “We’re not.”

She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. “Good. Because I don’t think I could go back to pretending.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? A thing?”

She opens her eyes, and there’s mischief there, but something deeper, something raw. “What would you call it?”

I take a moment, my gaze soaking her in. The curve of her smile. The desert breeze catches her hair and sweeps it back as if we are in some windswept, dramatic scene in a movie.

She’s absolutely stunning.

And I smile as I stare into her eyes. “A relationship,” I say finally. “A real one.”

The smile that blooms across her face could set the whole Mojave on fire. “A relationship,” she repeats, tasting the word. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah?” An infectious happiness spreads through me that’s almost impossible to contain.

“Yeah. Official and everything.”

I can’t hold back my grin. “Well, then, let’s make this truly official.”

I close the distance between us. My fingers slide behind her neck, cradling the base of her skull. Her breath catches, just a tiny sound, but it sends a full-body shiver through me.

And when I kiss her, the world tilts. Her lips meet mine like they’ve always belonged there. Like this kiss is the answer to every unsaid thing between us.

There’s no rush, no desperation, just depth.

Intention.

Feeling.

I pour everything into her. The worry from earlier, the relief she’s okay, the truth I’m still too afraid to say aloud. Her hands find my chest, then climb to my shoulders, gripping tight as if she’s holding on for dear life.

And then she melts.

Her knees buckle the slightest bit, and I feel it. Feel her sway into me, as though she’s no longer standing on solid ground. I wrap my arm around her waist, anchoring her, refusing to let her fall.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper against her lips.

She nods, her forehead resting against mine for half a second before she kisses me again. Harder this time, needier, like she’s just remembered how fragile this all is and wants to memorize every part of it.

Her lips move with hungry precision, deepening the kiss until it’s all heat and emotion.

My hand cups the back of her head as her fingers tug gently at my shirt, our mouths locked in a sensual rhythm that speaks louder than words.

We sink into each other, almost as if the kiss alone is enough to anchor us to the earth.

And that’s when it happens.

Dracula, in all his chaotic glory, launches himself into the stacked pile of painted rocks, because of course he does, and the result is a spectacular burst of color.

The rocks scatter, sending vibrant dust and flecks of pigment into the air, a swirling kaleidoscope of pinks, blues, and golden ochre catching the breeze as we deepen the kiss.

It’s cinematic.

It’s surreal.

Like the universe itself just threw confetti on our moment.

Clover gasps against my mouth, a soft, delighted sound. “Oh my God…”

I grin, forehead still pressed to hers. “Did your cat just… give us his version of fireworks?”

She lets out a breathless laugh, pure and unfiltered. “I think he did. And for the record, he’s your cat too.”

The color is still dancing around us in the air.

“Then I guess it’s official.”