Page 9 of Desert Loyalties
Caine nods slowly. “Then make her believe it. Before it’s too late, trust me.”
I push back from the table. Toss my half-drunk beer to the side and stand. “That’s the plan.”
The room’s still loud, still alive with the chaos of our world. But for once, I’m not looking for an escape from it.
I’m walking straight into it.
Chapter 4
SKYE
My legs arekillingme.
They’re giving me the dead-weights-attached-to-my-hips pain that makes me question every life choice that’s ever led me to standing behind this bar, wearing sticky shorts and a tank top that now smells like the unholy trinity of booze, cheap cologne, and fryer oil. I smell like a gas station bathroom on a Saturday night and I swear if someone doesn’t feed me soon, I might actually die.
Goddammit, I want fries.
I wipe my forehead on the back of my arm and turn around, ready to serve another cocktail to whichever brother has managed to holler the loudest—
Andbam, there he is.
Mandrake.
Filling up the whole damn space. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t evenlookat me. Just bellows across the room in that deep, no-bullshit voice that makes every guy shut the hell up.
“Bar’s closed. Bears are in the fridge. Anybody break anything, they own it.”
The whole room grumbles but nobody argues. Nobodydaresargue. Because when Mandrake talks, youlisten. And when he storms toward the bar, looking like he’s on a mission from Satan himself, youmove.
I don’t even get to ask what the hell is happening before he reaches me, grabbing me like I weigh nothing and suddenly I’m over his damn shoulder.
“MANDRAKE! What the actualfuck—put me down!”
“Not happening,” he growls, his voice low and smug. And thenhe swats my ass.
Excuse me?!
I’m dangling over him like a sack of potatoes while he hauls me through the clubhouse like I’m some prize he just won at a carnival, and all I can think about besides murder, is that the man hasn’t evenkissedme, but apparently thinks it’s okay to start throwing spankings into the mix.
We pass by snickering brothers, and I swear I’m going to die of humiliation. Or homicide. Possibly both.
After what feels like a century and two staircases, he finally lowers me back to the ground. Gently, but still like I’mbreakable. I’ve already got my mouth open, fully loaded with some grade-A profanity, when—
He holds up a bag.
A greasy, hot, brown paper bag.
And Ismellit.
Fries. And burgers. Real ones. Not clubhouse slop or microwave sadness.
The profanity dies on my tongue like it never existed. I look at the bag. I look at him. Back at the bag.
“Food,” he says, smug as hell.
I cross my arms. Narrow my eyes.
“You carried me up here like I was a prop in a caveman fantasy.”
