Page 70 of Desert Loyalties
We rush inside, up the stairs, and into a chapel. Yes. We’re getting married today.
I can’t take another minute of not being able to talk about the elephant in the room. Drake needs to let out his frustration, or I’m afraid he’s going to blow up in court. I know the prosecution’s got nothing. All they have is that everyone’s scared of clubs, motorcycle clubs, full stop. Even though the Horsemen are now technically business owners, might be time to change the name.
He looks around the chapel, grinning a little. “You’re already my old lady. Why do we need to get married?”
“I want to be able to talk to my husband,” I say. “To my old man. I love you.”
We quickly enter. I called ahead and made arrangements. The forms are already filled out.
“Right,” she says, flipping through a worn ledger. “You're the couple in a rush. Paperwork’s ready. Just need signatures and vows.”
The officiant is already standing under the little plastic archway wrapped in twinkle lights. He’s wearing a bolo tie and has the calm, efficient vibe of someone who’s married half of Vegas at 2 a.m.
I’m not wearing a dress just jeans and a top. No bouquet, no veil. No regrets. This isn’t about flowers or fanfare. This is about us.
The truth is, we already had the real ceremony. The night we claimed each other at the clubhouse, surrounded by our people, with whiskey shots and engine roars, that was the night we said everything that mattered.
This? This is just paper. A shield. A legal excuse to talk to my husband when I need to. A way to make sure no one can twist the rules to keep us apart.
We grab the pen and sign. The vows are short, recited in a rush, but they hit just the same. Drake squeezes my hand when he says “I do,” and I know he means it like a blood oath.
The whole ceremony takes maybe ten minutes. We’re back out the door before the neon sign can finish blinking through its full cycle. No photos. No audience. No rice.
But there’s this moment, when we step outside, that the sun breaks through the clouds just for a second. Drake looks at me and says, “You were already my old lady. But now it’s legal. Guess you’re stuck with me.”
I grin. “Good. I was never leaving anyway.”
We pile back into the car and head home, the clock ticking on our curfew. The ankle monitor won’t wait, and neither will life. But for a few minutes, we’re just husband and wife, racing the sunset with no rings and quiet smiles. There’s barely any time left when we pull up to the house, parking in the garage.
Drake stops, turns to me. “Wait.”
Before I can ask what, he gets out, opens the driver’s door, and reaches for me.
“I’m gonna carry my bride over the threshold.”
And he does, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Drake scoops me up effortlessly, one arm under my legs, the other around my back. He carries me from the kitchen, through the living room, and up the stairs to our bedroom.
Setting me on my feet gently, his hands linger at my waist, eyes locked on mine. Then he starts tugging at my clothes.
“We’re really married,” I murmur, my breath catching as he peels my shirt over my head, fingertips grazing my skin.
I never pictured my wedding day, never believed I’d find someone I’d trust enough to bind myself to, legally at least.
He tilts his head, that crooked grin I’ve memorized since our first meeting lighting his eyes. “You’ve been mine from the moment you walked into the clubhouse. This just makes it legal.”
My fingers find his belt, undoing it, pulling him flush against me until there’s no space left, just heat and need. “No take-backs,” I whisper into the hollow of his throat.
His lips brush mine, soft but insistent, sending sparks down my spine. “Not even a thought of it.”
He slides his hands around my waist, warm and steady, anchoring us both in this new reality. His forehead rests against mine, steady breaths syncing as if to say, ‘We made it.’
The electricity between us shifts, settling into a slow burn. We tumble onto the bed, skin pressing against skin, his arms wrapping me in certainty. Drake’s kisses are vows of flesh; words we don’t need a chapel to utter.
This moment isn’t about release alone; it’s about belonging. About finding home in the hollow of someone’s arms, in the way his fingers lace with mine and never let go.
He parts my thighs, slick fingers tracing my wetness before he lines himself up at my entrance. I gasp as he presses in, stretching me deliciously.
He pulls all the way in, and I arch against him with a moan, his hips pistoning into mine with growing urgency. I try to match his rhythm, but his weight pins me to the mattress, so I lock my legs around his waist, clinging to him as he dives deep. Every thrust hits exactly where I ache, and stars bloom behind my eyes.
