Semua Bab The Lust Journal: Bab 21 - Bab 26

The desert night was hot and wild—wind screaming over broken ground, smelling of burned tires, cheap drink, cheap pussy, and cheap blood. The old airfield outside Vegas was dead for years, but tonight it lived: big lights on rusty poles cutting white lines in the dirt, chain fences shaking like cages, two thousand people in cut jeans and leather yelling for meat and sex. Tonight’s big fight wasn’t written down. Dax Voss vs Saint Crowe—two road kings, settling old bad blood. No rules. No ref. Just fists, teeth, and the old pit law: Loser gets fucked for all to see. Dax came in first—6’4” of pure fight, ink from neck to hands, black tank wet through, brass knuckles already dirty with someone else’s blood. Saint came next—6’2”, hard and cut, white wife-beater torn open, scar from eye to lip like lightning, smirk sharp enough to cut. The second they saw each other, the crowd blew up. They walked slow circles, boots kicking dust that sparkled under lights. Dax spat blo

The desert was black glass under the moon.The Charger sat in the middle of the old runway, engine ticking as it cooled, doors open, red inside light painting us bloody.Dax, Lula, and me, naked, sticky, gun on the dash, smoke curling like rope.Dax’s cock was still in my hand, hard again, beating like its own heart.I squeezed slow, watched his jaw lock.“You heard me,” I said, voice rough from screaming and eating Lula’s cunt.“I don’t pay debts.I collect them.”Lula laughed low and dirty, dragged a nail down my tit, left a white line that turned pink.“She’s got bigger balls than you tonight, Dax.”Dax never looked away from me.“Your brother Jax stole five hundred grand from my Tijuana run.Coke, cash, and the address of my little sister.Then he disappeared.You’re the only thing he ever loved more than the needle.So tonight, Riven Kane, you’re the payment.”I leaned in, licked sweat and blood off his collarbone, bit hard until he hissed.“Jax is dead,” I whispered on his skin.

Three weeks after I stole the crown, the desert crowned me again—this time in blood, cum, and cartel gold.We were running a double load across the border:Rig one was 400 kilos of pure, wrapped in coffee to beat the dogs.Rig two was $4 million cash, vacuum-sealed under fake flooring and the drop spot was a dried-up lake bed outside Mexicali.Old-school Sinaloa Vieja crew waiting for the hand-off.I rode shotgun in the lead Kenworth.Lula drove the matte-black ’69 Charger behind us, tail-gun ready.Dax sat beside me with a sawed-off 12-gauge on his lap.Saint lay spread-eagle and naked in the open bed of the second rig, sunburned raw, cock locked in the steel cage I welded myself, sign on his chest flashing “PROPERTY OF GHOST QUEEN.”The meet was supposed to be smooth.It wasn’t.We rolled in at twilight, sun bleeding behind the mountains, dust devils dancing.Twenty Sinaloa soldiers in tan armor, AKs loose, skull paint on their faces.Three black Suburbans idling behind them.Their