Page 11 of Desert Loyalties
My brain short-circuits.
I’m your old lady now?
He nods like I said the words out loud, which; hell, maybe I did. I can’t even tell at this point.
“I think you and I both knew this was real,” he says quietly. “I just finally found the balls to say it out loud.”
I can’t breathe.
Not because I’m panicking. Not because I’m angry. But because some part of me has wanted to hear that for so long, I forgot what it would feel like. Like hope. Like safety. Like someone finallychoosingme, not out of convenience, not out of pity but because they see me.Allof me.
And maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s reckless.
But it’s real.
He shifts a little closer, slow and careful. Not trying to overwhelm, just... being there.
My brain finally catches up to what he said before. About talking.
So I say, “If you had to find your balls, maybe I should test drive before I buy the car.”
That gets a snort out of him. “It’s a goddamn hog, and you’re trying to distract me.”
I lean in, slow, deliberate, my tank top dipping just enough for the girls to show.
“Is it working?” I ask, sweet and sharp.
His eyes drop, just like I knew they would. He swallows so hard I can hear it. “Nope.”
“You sure?” I tilt my head, grin playing on my lips.
Then he finally looks up. Right into my eyes. His voice drops, low and rough like gravel and promises. “The first time we’re together, it ain’t gonna be for distraction.”
It steals the breath from my chest. And then, of course, he ruins it by pushing.
“Now tell me what’s wrong.”
I stiffen. My instinctual armour snaps into place like it never left. “Why should I?” I fire back. “You realize I don’t know anything about you outside of this club, right? I don’t even know your real name. And you want me to just hand over my deepest, darkest secrets like we’re... what? Soulmates?”
It’s quiet for a beat. I think I’ve crossed the line. Think he’s going to shove off the sofa and tell me to get the hell out.
But instead, he says, calm and steady, “Drake Llloyd. I’m thirty-one. That’s my name.”
I blink. The air in the room shifts.
“When I was prospecting, every time I brought the brothers beer, they’d say, ‘You’re the man, Drake.’ Eventually it stuck, Mandrake.”
I watch him, waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. Just silence and the quiet weight of honesty.
“I was born into a loving home,” he continues, voice quieter now. “Two parents. A grandma who used to sneak me candy even when my mom said no.”
I’m frozen, holding my breath.
“Then one night, when I was seven, there was a fire. Or that’s what they said. One second, I’m in bed, next I wake up in the hospital covered in gauze. They found me outside, on the lawn, thought that my father woke up to the smoke and got us out, but lost consciousness when he went back in for the others.”
I suck in a breath, hands clenched in my lap.
“We didn’t have family. No one close. So, I got dumped into the system. Foster homes, group homes. Got real good at being angry. Real good at not giving a fuck. Aged out at eighteen and was this close to either jail or a grave.”
