Page 78 of Worth the Heat
“Oh. Whoops. You should probably follow us. We gotta get back because Montoya knows you’re coming, and he gets mean if he sends out the troops to intercept people.”
“We’ll follow,” Sebastian says curtly, before grabbing my hand, pulling me quickly toward his bike. “Isabella, I swear to God, I’m gonna light your ass red when we get home.”
As soon as we get to his bike, he rips a spare helmet off the back. “I love you too, baby.”
Sebastian glances at me before grabbing the back of my head and crashing our lips together. It’s a quick, borderline punishing kiss, but it’s full of love, pent up desire, and promise. “You didn’t have to call me. I’ve got software on your phone, and there’s a GPS tracker in the sole of your shoe.”
“In my shoe?” I ask incredulously, my mouth open in shock.
“Yup. You wear the same shoes to work every day. I figured there was a chance you might not get to grab your phone, but you’d always have your shoes on. Turns out I had two ways to track you today. And I snuck back in through the basement, so Iwas in the kitchen listening for most of the conversation with Diego. He never knew I was there, though.”
“Of course not. You’re much smarter than him,” I announce proudly, as he positions the helmet on my head. “And much more handsome.”
“I did hear the part about having a bigger dick, though. I appreciated that,” he says with a chuckle. “Hop on, but avoid these parts here. They’ll burn you.”
“I wasn’t sure if the call dropped,” I comment as I throw my leg over the bike.
“It didn’t. I had myself muted in case they could hear me. I was texting you that I was on my way. Ava would probably love to know how many laws I broke getting to you as quickly as I did,” he jokes as he climbs on.
A few months ago, I’d had a dream about riding on the back of Sebastian’s motorcycle, my arms wound tightly around him, with one of his hands running up and down my thigh. While that part of my fantasy is coming true, I certainly never thought it would be so I could go speak to a someone in a cartel.
SEBASTIAN
The only thing keeping me held together right now is Isabella behind me on my Harley. I’ve never considered myself to be a murderous person, or a man that would commit any crimes necessary to protect the woman he loved.
That changed with Isabella.
I would have no hesitation striking the match to light the whole motherfucking world on fire if it meant she would be safe.
As I follow the unmarked white van through Boulder, then into Fort Collins, I’m growing angrier. Why? Because I fuckingknowFernando Montoya.
I know him. Several years ago, I’d have considered him an acquaintance, maybe even a friend. He came into my bar a couple of times a month, and we’d always end up chatting. Never once did he give off a drug lord vibe, or that he was high up in the Salazar Cartel. Maybe he wasn’t at that time. He was just a cool dude who I felt a commonality with because of our Hispanic upbringings.
Montoya, obviously, is from Mexico. We were both raised closely with our grandparents, both brought up in the Catholic faith. We disagreed on sports, with me liking baseball, while Montoya stayed loyal to his first love, soccer. We bonded over our mutual distaste for springtime tourism in Colorado, because out-of-state tourists,especially from the south, have no idea how to drive treacherous mountain roads during an unexpected snow squall. I told him about my interest in owning a bar, and how RMRRMC came to be. But I don’t think we ever talked about what he did for a living.
I wrack my brain, trying to remember where the connection is to Salazar, and how he got here. Have I been under surveillance all this time? Was the connection to Isabella completely coincidental, or did Montoya plan to use me once Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum got past the prospect stage in the club?
Isabella snuggles in closer to me, sliding her hands under my shirt. Intrigued to see what she has planned, I let her hand wander. She settles it over my heart, and I feel a long exhale against my back. I can’t even begin to imagine how scared she must have been. I take one hand off the handlebars, placing it tightly over hers. It’s too loud to talk, and I’m not sure if I have the words to express my thoughts.
I want to put her over my knee for getting herself in danger.
If I thought she’d actually do it, I’d make her promise never to go anywhere without me.
While I get why Isabella essentially offered herself up to ensure my safety, that shit isn’t gonna fly again. Camila needs her just as much.
And mostly, I need her to promise —promise— to love, cherish, and honor me for the rest of her life. Legally. With a massive diamond on her finger, and maybe a tattoo on her forehead that says, “I love Sebastian Garcia.” If I thought she’d do it, I’d make her carry around a sign, too.
I’m surprised when we drive north of Fort Collins, around the Colorado State campus, and head west into the foothills. As we slow into a residential area, I discreetly tap a tiny button underneath the visor that alerts Trace to my location. I figure we’re gonna be checked for trackers immediately, andI wouldn’t be surprised if they completely destroy our phones as a precaution. There’s no way Montoya is going to be fine with us waltzing in there.
When we exit the residential area, and continue on a gravel road, Isabella’s arms tighten around me.
“I know, baby,” I tell her. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“I’m scared,” she confesses.
Me too.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I assume it’s Trace responding to my location. Hell, I’m surprised I even have service here. Only a couple houses dot the horizon. We’d worked out a code phrase for us to say whenever we had to share a location. The person at the Clubhouse would say, “Guys want to know if it’s tacos or enchiladas tonight.” Then the one out responds with tacos, if everything seems to be on the up-and-up, or enchiladas if the Range Riders need to get to us. The majority of the guys were with me when the van pulled over, and I assume they continued in the direction we headed. If needed, I hope they can get to us within an hour.
