Page 2 of Desert Loyalties
I’ll give her that. Skye makes the kind of drinks that make you forget the road for a second. Nothing fancy, nothing pink. Just smooth and sharp in all the right places. Men’s drinks, if you wanna call it that. Hell, even the brothers won’t admit how good they are. Too busy puffing their chests, pretending they only drink rotgut and rage.
“Hey, Prospect,” I call out, catching one of the younger ones dragging a mop. He freezes like a deer.
“Y-yeah, VP?”
“What’s up with Skye?” I ask, voice low, just enough to make him sweat.
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
Christ. I miss when prospects had balls. I jerk my chin toward the bar. “She’s not smiling. Isn’t like her.”
He shrugs like he doesn’t get it. I wave him off. “Better get mopping.”
He scurries like a rat with his tail on fire.
I cut across the room, boots heavy on the floor, and stop right in front of her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t jump, just looks up at me like she’s expecting a drink order or a complaint.
“Hey, darlin’,” I say, voice smooth but low. Not soft. Never soft.
Her hands pause on the bottle she’s holding, eyes meeting mine. Still no smile.
Something's off. And for the first time in a long damn while, I care.
Usually, sparring with her is the only highlight of my damn day.
Skye’s got that fire. Won’t take shit from me even though everyone else jumps to salute. She’s the only one in this place who talks back like she’s got nothing to lose. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t flatter. Just gives it to me straight and hell, sometimes that’s exactly what I need. The push. The edge. The game.
So, I lean on the bar, close enough to smell that lemon and smoke scent she always wears, and throw her a smirk.
“Missed your smart mouth today. You finally run outta ways to insult me, or did I break your spirit by being this handsome?”
Normally, she’d roll her eyes. Call me an egotistical bastard. Maybe throw a rag at my face. Today? Nothing.
She just finishes pouring the drink, sets it on the counter, and turns to the next glass like I didn’t say a word. Not a glance. Not a twitch of a smirk. Like I’m no one.
And I feel it. That cold creeping back into my chest. Same one I had before I ever knew the Horsemen. Before I had a name anyone gave a damn about.
I open my mouth to push more, to get that snap out of her even if I have to be cruel to do it—
“Mandrake.”
The voice cuts clean through the room.
Ranger, standing at his office door, eyes sharp under the brim of his hat. No one calls him ‘Prez’ to his face unless they’re feeling formal. But when he uses your name like that, you move. Doesn’t matter what mood you’re in.
I glance one more time at Skye. Still nothing. Then I turn and head toward the office. Inside, I shut the door. No patches here. Just me and the man who rules all.
“Have a seat,” Ranger says, motioning to the chair across from his desk.
I drop into it; lean back like I don’t care even though I do. Because if he’s calling me in one-on-one instead of calling church, it means something’s up.
“How’d the meeting go?”
“Smooth,” I say. “Exchange was clean. He’s gonna file it with the court. It’s ours.” Another fuckin’ property.
He nods, but that’s not why I’m in here.
“The reason I called you in…” he leans forward and steeples his fingers. “Isn’t about the meeting. It’s aboutyou.”
