Page 60 of Desert Loyalties
Then the judge lifts her gaze and fixes it directly on me. Her voice carries weight now, it’s calm, firm, with a kind of finality that echoes in the entire room.
“Mr. Lloyd, the charges against you are among the most serious under federal law. But the government has not, at this stage, presented sufficient evidence to justify pretrial detention.”
There’s a stir at the prosecution’s table, douche stands up, “Your Hono—," she holds up a hand not letting him finish, eyes locking on the Assistant U.S. Attorney.
“I suggest next time, counsellor, you come better prepared that just putting defendant in chains.”
The words land sharp and cold.
She continues, measured.
“This court recognizes the defendant’s business interests, his employees present here, and the absence of any prior federal convictions. That said, the allegations remain serious. Mr. Lloyd, you are released under the following conditions: home confinement with GPS monitoring. You will surrender your passport. No access to the internet, no contact with any known felons or co-defendants, and absolutely no involvement with your motorcycle club, in any capacity. Weekly in-person check-ins with Pretrial Services will be mandatory. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars, with a Nebbia hearing required. All funds must be verified as coming from lawful sources.”
She closes the file in front of her, voice tightening just slightly.
“Consider this a narrow window of trust, Mr. Lloyd. If it is abused, the court will not hesitate to revoke these conditions.”
Before the gavel comes down, LaGuerta speaks up again.
“Your Honor,” she says smoothly, “we would like to request a preliminary hearing under Rule 5.1. If the government cannot present probable cause or identify the alleged overt acts, we believe the indictment may not survive past the initial phase.”
The judge nods, already gathering her papers.
“That hearing will be scheduled. The government will have its chance to support its indictment with more than sealed innuendo. Court is adjourned.”
Then with a bang of the gavel, she’s gone. No glance back, no unnecessary words. Just a door swinging shut behind black robes and steel authority.
LaGuerta finally breathes, brushing her blazer smooth. “It’s not over,” she mutters without looking at me. “We have a long battle ahead.”
I’m staring at Skye again as they lead me out of the courtroom. Only this time, her tears aren’t of sadness, they’re tears of relief, of hope. I’m coming home soon, darlin’.
Chapter 25
SKYE
Waiting for Drake is torture. It’s not like the movies, that much was made painfully clear. I couldn’t even throw my arms around him, let alone to cheer when he got bail. Watching the love of my life shuffled around in chains made me want to commit murder all over again.
God, it’s only been a month with Drake, and here I am joking about the thing that haunted me for years. That’s why I need him back. He takes the weight of my guilt, and I make him human. We’re perfect. Or at least, perfect adjacent.
Since he’s got GPS monitoring as part of his release, I’m waiting at the house for him to get here. He’s going to be strapped with that ankle monitor, obviously. No clubhouse living for now.
Christina, who I love by the way, she’s sharp as hell and has the glossiest hair like seriously, how? Anyway, she told us the feds will be looking for any excuse to revoke bail. No brothers allowed here, no club visits. She even had us remove the Wi-Fi. But no one said anything about me hosting Ladies’ Light, so I figure Drake won’t be too bored. Hell, he might become the unexpected babysitter. Serves him right for being pissed I wanted to wait.
Honestly, I’m kinda glad we did. I want him here for every milestone, every moment of my pregnancy, every inch of his child’s life.
Goddamnit, Ranger posted bail immediately after court. Guess earnings from the strip club aren’t exactly illegal. Whatever keeps Drake free.
A car finally pulls into the driveway. Dark windows hiding what I want to see. The doors open, and two cops step out from front. They head straight to the back door, opening it for my old man, Drake. His hands are cuffed, but thankfully no leg chains this time. They walk him inside, and I’m close behind. One of them steps away to check the house, for members of the Horsemen? Who knows. The other stays with me, explaining what we need to know.
He tells us, “The ankle monitor is GPS-enabled, tracks his movements 24/7. Any attempt to tamper with it or leave the approved zone triggers an alert to our office immediately. He has to check in weekly and comply with all court-ordered restrictions, no contact with known felons, no internet usage, no ignoring us when we check-in, which we will, often.” Thedeputy’s voice is firm but professional. “This is not a get out of jail card. If he breaks any of these conditions, the court can revoke his release and bring him back into custody.”
They take their time, making sure everything’s tight and secure, attaching the monitor, going over the rules again, scanning the house for any issues. It feels like hours before they leave.
And then, finally, I’m alone with Drake.
We just stand there, motionless, eyes locked as the car pulls away slowly from the driveway. He turns to the panel by the door, locking the door and then the gate, making damn sure no one can come in and take him away again. I watch his arms flex as his chest rises and falls, steady and strong. It lights a flame inside me I thought would be extinguished forever.
Stepping forward, Drake raises one arm, hesitant, like he’s afraid if he touches me, I’ll vanish.
