Page 1 of Desert Loyalties
Chapter 1
MANDRAKE
Riding used to feel like fire in my veins. Freedom. Power. That throttle under my hand was the only thing in this world that ever gave back when I took hold of it. My baby matte black, mean as sin, loud enough to wake the dead used to be the best damn thing I had.
Now?
Now it’s just noise. The hum of it more habit than thrill. Another mile ticked off the road. Another turn I’ve taken a hundred times, eyes dead to the asphalt. I ride because it’s what I do, not because it gives me anything anymore.
I pull into the lot, mostly full. Guess everyone’s here. The clubhouse looms ahead, windows glowing faint and gold like a belly full of liquor. I haven’t even killed the engine before I feel a weight pressing behind my ribs. Same weight I get every time I come back lately.
Used to be I’d walk in and grab the first warm body I saw. Didn’t matter the name. Didn’t need it. I'd take what I wanted, leave her dumb and smiling on the couch. I’d fuck them in the hallway, sometimes up against the wall if I didn’t feel like waiting. They’d let me. Hell, they begged me to.
But now? All I want is sleep and some goddamn quiet. The whores are still here. Still laughing too loud, still sucking up to any patch that looks their way. They're painted and empty. I’ve seen behind those eyes too many times now and there’s nothing left there to hold my interest.
And I know how that sounds. Coming from me. Mandrake. I earned my patch with blood, and my rank with more. At eighteen I had jack shit. Just bruises and silence. Nobody looked for me. Nobody missed me. The Horsemen did though. Or at least they gave me something to bleed for.
Climbed my way up. Prospect to patch to Sergeant. Now Vice President. Second to the throne and bored outta my goddamn skull. Ever since we went legit, the thrill is gone. It’s like I’m a goddamn suit now. Buying buildings, signing paperwork. I was so bored that I got a fuckin’ hobby, one that makes me dig holes deep in the desert. Now that is fun.
We’ve got church in an hour. Club business. More politics, more talk. Same tired faces, same smoke-choked room. The hangarounds are all clowns trying too hard or wannabes sniffing for a patch they’ll never earn. I’m tired of them. Tired of their grins and their need. There’s no real loyalty in them. Just hunger.
The only real person in this place is that blonde pixie with the smart mouth and sharp eyes. Skye. She snarks so often it makes me wanna take her over my knee just to see if I can knockthat fire into a different kind of burn. And yeah, I know it’s time. Time to stake my claim. Make it known she’s mine before someone else gets the idea.
But something holds me back.
It’s not fear of the club or what people will say. Hell, I run half this place. I don’t answer to anyone but Ranger. No, it’s what’s inside me. That edge. That thing I keep chained up under bone and blood. The part of me that takes. Possesses. The beast I became just to survive.
I’m scared that once I let it get a taste of her, it won’t let go. Won’t settle for just having her. It’ll want toownher. Mark her. Keep her so close she forgets the world ever existed without me in it.
And I think she can handle it now.
That’s the dangerous part.
I want her. Not for a night. Not for a warm bed and fake moans. I want her as my old lady. The real deal. A partner. Fire for fire. But around here, that doesn’t exist anymore. The brothers all have girlfriends, citizen wives, women they keep separate from this life because they’re don’t wanna take the plunge.
Not me. I want someone who can walk through the fire and stand tall beside me. Someone who sees the mess and still chooses to stay.
It’s not easy, becoming an old lady in the Horsemen MC. We got different rules here.
The old timers had that. Real old ladies. Steel-spined women who kept the club grounded, who walked through fire to standby their men. But those men are gone now. Retired. Living in desert homes with their women and their peace. Left us in the wreckage.
And here I am, in the middle of it. Vice President of ghosts and gasoline.
But Skye?
She’s the one bright thing left.
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending she’s just the bartender.
I walk in shaking the sand off my boots, inside’s no different than always. Dim, thick with smoke and stale beer. Smells like sweat, old leather, and cheap perfume.
I step in and heads turn, like they always do lately. Not a sound, but I feel the air shift. Eyes clock me, track me. None of the brothers make a move, just quick glances then back to their drinks. They know I’ve been riding a short fuse and no one wants to be the match. The whores know better. Not even the bold ones give me that come-hither look anymore. They keep to their corners, tight clothes and tighter smiles, pretending not to notice me.
Good.
There she is, back behind the bar, hair pulled back, pouring whiskey like it’s an art form. Skye. She’s not smiling like she usually does, and that’s what gets me. Not the low-cut tank or the way her hips sway when she moves. It’s that missing smile.
She showed up a year back. Hangaround. Screwed a few brothers in the first couple months. But somehow, she dodgedthe whore label. Didn’t spread for everyone. Didn’t stay on her knees long enough to lose whatever edge she had. And she stayed. Quietly carved herself out a space at the top, and now? She’s just... part of it. Doesn’t wear a patch, doesn’t beg for one. Just pours drinks that don’t taste like piss and keeps the women in check.
