Page 36 of Desert Rain
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself, then picked up the drinks again and forced my shoulders back.
Smile on.
Easy.
Like I hadn’t heard a thing.
When I pushed the door open and stepped back into the firelight, the laughter hit me again, warm and loud. Regan looked up, her face open with concern.
“Everything okay?”
I lifted the glasses. “Yeah.”
My voice came out smooth.
Too smooth.
“Just getting the drinks.”
She smiled, satisfied, and turned back to Amber, already mid-argument about something ridiculous. I handed out the glasses, sat back down, and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
The fire popped. The women laughed.
And I smiled right along with them, already halfway gone.
CHAPTER 4
MASON
This was bullshit.
Not regular bullshit either. Not club-meeting bullshit, not prospect-screwed-up-the-run bullshit, not Bullet-promised-he-had-the-map-and-now-we-were-lost bullshit. This was pure, domesticated, scented-candle, spa-weekend bullshit. Five hours outside Santa Fe in some overpriced desert rental with a soaking tub, meditation cushions, and little bottles of eucalyptus oil in every bathroom because apparently wedding planning shoved women to the edge of sanity.
Goat yoga. Mud wraps. Facials. Guided breathing.
All words that made my teeth hurt.
And somehow I’d gotten stuck babysitting.
Not River. Not Tank. Not even one of the younger idiots who still believed standing guard near a house full of women meant he might get thanked with cleavage and a margarita. Me. Tank was back in Santa Fe getting his bachelor party thrown by the brothers, probably drunk already and pretending he didn’t love every second of being fussed over, while I stood outside an Airbnb listening to women scream-laugh around a firepit like trauma bonding was an Olympic sport.
Hell of a trade.
Gunner leaned against the porch rail beside me, smoking in that quiet, irritating way of his. Man could stand still for an hour and make it look intentional. He didn’t talk unless he had something worth saying, which was the only reason I tolerated him better than most. Tonight, that silence worked for me. I didn’t feel like explaining why my patience was already thin enough to see through.
Beyond the fence, coyotes yipped somewhere in the dark, their cries thin and sharp over the desert. The sky had gone black-blue above us, stars scattered hard and bright. Out here, away from town, the quiet got too big when the engines stopped. It pressed in around a man. Made room for thoughts. I’d spent most of my life outrunning that exact kind of quiet on two wheels.
Didn’t like standing still inside it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and found a snap from Tank, because yeah, the Royal Bastards had Snapchat. Every patched man in the club would rather take a punch to the throat than admit it out loud, but they all had it. Claimed it was for “security,” “the kids,” “quick updates,” or whatever lie made them feel less ridiculous using filters designed for teenage girls and influencers with lip filler.
The first snap showed Tank wearing a cheap plastic crown while Bullet held up a bottle of whiskey like he’d discovered fire. Someone had drawn devil horns on Tank’s head. The caption read: GROOM STILL ALIVE.
The next one was worse. Tank, shirt half-unbuttoned, sitting in a chair while one of the brothers waved a wad of cash at a mechanical bull parked in the middle of the clubhouse yard. Regan would kill them if she saw it. Actually, no. Regan would laugh first, then kill them.
Another snap came through. Bullet wearing a veil. River flipping off the camera. Edge in the background looking like aman who had already decided where to hide the bodies if this got out of hand.
I stared at the screen.
