Page 7 of Desert Loyalties
No one disrespects Skye.
Not some mouthy clubwhore.
Not the brothers.
Not me.
And sure as hell not Skye herself.
She thinks she’s broken. Thinks she’s not worth it. What she doesn’t know is that she’s the only thing around here that stillfeels real. The only person I’ve seen walk through this life and come out shining like it never touched her.
She doesn’t need to be clean. Doesn’t need to be untouched. She just needs to bemine. And I need to start acting like it.
Starting tonight, she’s gonnaknowwho I am.
No more silence. No more watching from the shadows while she slips further away.
I head back inside and take a seat at the bar, my usual spot, end stool, clear view. I don’t drink much, not these days, but I sit where I can seeher. Where I can make sure no one steps too close, talks too rough, looks too long.
Nobody touches Skye.
Not if they wanna keep breathing.
She’s behind the bar now, moving like she’s on autopilot, with her smile back in place, the mask up again. But I can see it. The crack in the armour. The way her eyes don’t really light up when someone calls her name. She’s hurting, and no one but me seems to notice.
The brothers are scattered around the room like always. Loud. Drunk. Rowdy.
Caine’s on the sofa, a clubwhore wriggling in his lap. Laughing like she’s got a chance at something permanent. She doesn’t. Caine’s got a citizen wife up north, one we’ve never even met. I’m probably the only one who knows. Guess that’s what being VP means: knowing the things people don't say out loud.
Next to him is Locke, pretending like he’s about to take the redhead next to him upstairs. Man hasn’t touched a woman since his old lady overdosed two years ago. She died in the clubhouse bathroom. He found her. Took something out of him that’s never come back.
The thing about this role? It’s not just meetings and patches and calls at 2AM. It’s knowingeverything. The keeper of secrets. The quiet gossip chain that runs through this place like blood through veins. I decide what makes it to Ranger, what stays buried. And I keep the buried stuff buried deep.
There’s small talk around the room about trouble with the Vikings. Old partners, back when the club still ran guns and washed drug money through strip clubs and poker nights. But that was before Ranger took the gavel and steered us toward legitimacy. Most of the old guard either walked away or patched over to clubs still living in the past.
Now we only deal with clean business.
Like the meeting I had today. Quiet, low-key. No heat, no guns. Just a duffel bag full of cash and a signature to close on that warehouse off Route 91. Prime Vegas property. Close to the Strip, close to nothing but possibilities. Don’t know what we’ll do with it yet, garage, distribution centre, maybe something smarter, but I know it’s a damn good move.
And while I’m making moves for the club, I’m making one of my own tonight.
Because Skye? She’s not gonna go another day thinking she’s alone in this place.
Not while I’m still breathing.
The laughter's too loud. The music's a little off. Too much bass, not enough soul. It’s the same playlist we’ve had since before I made VP, and nobody’s bothered to change it because nobody really cares.
I keep watching her as I nurse a beer I don’t even want. She’s mixing a drink for Caine who walked up to the bar, with that fake smile again. She’s holding something in so tight I wonder if she’s still breathing under it all.
“Yo, VP,” Locke calls over, lifting his bottle in my direction. “You look like you’re gonna kill someone.”
I don’t answer at first. Just raise my chin in his direction like I heard him but am not in the mood.
“You always look like that,” Caine adds with a grin. “But it’s worse than usual tonight. You got that ‘I’m two seconds from putting a bullet between someone’s eyes’ look.”
I shrug, eyes still on Skye. “Maybe someone deserves it.”
They laugh like they’re not sure if I’m joking or not. Good. I’m not sure either.
