Page 102 of Desert Rain
The road was mine.
Concrete baked from twelve hours under a brutal sun, familiar cracks and patches I could ride blindfolded. I opened the throttle and let the wind strip away the fairy lights, the toasts, the stories, the champagne. Just me, the bike, and three hundred miles of nothing if I wanted it.
Plan was simple. Ride out to the land I’d closed on last week—forty acres of raw desert scrub I’d been eyeing for two years. Walk the dirt, clear my head, maybe sit on the tailgate of mytruck and stare at the stars until the knot in my chest loosened. But first I needed food. Real food. My favorite steakhouse on the edge of town—quiet corner booth, iced Longneck stout so cold it hurt your teeth, a ribeye cooked medium-rare, and zero conversation. Alone.
I took the exit, rolled into the lot, and killed the engine. The neon sign buzzed overhead. My stomach actually growled for the first time all night.
Then I saw her.
Rylee.
Stepping out of the new Italian place next door on the arm of some clean-cut guy in khakis and a pressed button-down. Dentist smile. Perfect teeth. Wedding band gleaming gold on his hand. The kind of guy who probably had a 401k and never once had blood on his knuckles. She looked good. Relaxed. Laughing at something he said.
Our eyes locked across the twenty feet of asphalt.
For half a second the old picture burned behind my eyelids again—her in my bed, her wearing my ring, her smiling right before she sold us out.
I looked away first.
Appetite gone. Stomach tight as a winch cable. I swung the bike around without killing the engine and pointed it two blocks over to the dive bar instead. The Rusty Nail. Happy hour in full swing. Neon beer signs flickering in the windows, country music leaking out the open door, the low roar of too many voices and too much laughter.
I parked, killed the motor, and walked in.
The smell hit first—stale beer, fried pickles, cheap cologne, and desperation. I scanned the room out of habit.
And there she was.
Sienna.
Standing at the far end of the bar, back ramrod straight, face carved in that same mix of irritation and fire I remembered from the desert. Some asshole in a pink polo shirt had both hands on her waist, fingers digging in like he had a right. Dock shoes. Expensive watch catching the light. The kind of guy who thought throwing money around bought him permission to touch whatever he wanted.
She slapped his hands away. Hard.
He laughed like it was cute. Leaned in again.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t plan— my fist was already moving.
The crack of my knuckles against his jaw cut through the music like a gunshot. His head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed—bright red, glistening—coating his teeth and dripping down his chin in a thick crimson streak. He staggered back into a table, knocking over two beers.
The bar went dead quiet except for the jukebox still twanging about lost love and back roads.
Sienna’s eyes snapped to mine. Wide. Shocked. That same look she’d given me the second she realized I’d felt her nipples against my back on the bike.
I flexed my hand once. Blood already drying across my knuckles.
“You good?”
She stared at me like I was a problem she hadn’t decided whether to solve or set on fire.
I didn’t wait for her to answer.
Dropped two hundred-dollar bills on the bar hard enough that the bartender flinched. Covered the trouble, the spilled drinks, the blood on the floor, whatever the hell else. Didn’t look back at the pink polo asshole still groaning against the table.
My hand closed around Sienna’s elbow—firm, not rough—and I steered her straight for the door. She came with me. Notbecause she wanted to. Because her feet moved before her brain caught up.
The night air outside hit us like a slap. Still warm, still carrying that baked-concrete smell and the faint dust of the desert that never really left this town. The door swung shut behind us and cut off the jukebox mid-song.
