Page 30 of Eight Second Hearts

The three men come striding out of the prep area, each of them with a bag slung over their shoulders that holds their gear. Beau, at some point, had removed his face makeup, leaving him fresh and clean. When he sees me, he grins, his eyes dropping to the blue chalk stain still on my ass. It hadn’t come off and I wasn’t willing to go in and wet the spot to remove it fully.

“That wasn’t funny,” I tell him with a raised brow.

“It was a little funny,” he replies, immediately wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Come on, little outsider. Time to go.”

“Are you guys sure this is a good idea?” I ask, uncertainty in my every word. “I can just go back to the one I?—”

“Stop,” Ram says, his eyes narrowed on me. “If you think I won’t throw you over my shoulder, then go ahead and keep protesting.”

I scowl at him. “You’re not the boss of me, Ramiro Mondragon.”

He steps close, his chest bumping against mine. He’s not much taller than I am, but he still looks down on me. It makes it more menacing with his cowboy hat tipped down. “You’re right, Indie,” he rasps, his voice low enough to tickle my. . . well. . . “Go ahead and argue, and we’ll just see what happens.”

I stare up at him, tempted to fight him on it anyways out of spite. “This is kidnapping.”

“Call it what you want,” he says before booping me on the nose with his finger. “Either way, get in the truck.”

Part of me wants to see what will happen if I don’t do as he says. Ram is far from cruel. In fact, I’d argue he’s the most caring of the three, but clearly that care can come with some bossiness that I’m only now seeing.

“And if I say no?” I ask, watching him carefully.

The corner of his lips quirks up. “Say no,periodista,” he purrs. “I dare you.”

Beau whistles. “I think you should say no, little outsider. Don’t let him talk to you like that.”

And Beau, I know, is the shit stirrer. He’s definitely trying to get me to fight him. Hell, I’m tempted to fight him.

“Your shoulder is probably still sore,” I point out. “And if I run, I doubt you could catch me, old man.”

His hand touches my face, his fingers cupping my chin as he laughs. “Go head and test it. Let’s see how old I am.”

I have no doubt that Ram is in better shape than me. He may be older, but to do what he does takes strength and power that I’ll never be capable of. To be thirty-nine and still going strong on bareback broncs, there’s no doubt in my mind he works out to stay in shape, to keep doing what he loves. I’m a fast runner, but I’m also out of practice thanks to this fucking hip pain. I’ll only end up hurting myself trying to outrun him.

Still, I’m nothing if not defiant.

I say no words. I give no warning. One moment, we’re toe to toe. The next, I’m sprinting in the direction of the parking lot. I get five steps, maybe six, before strong arms wrap around me and lift. My viewpoint changes and flips, before I find myself on Ram’s shoulder, thrown over it like I weigh nothing at all. His hand runs up my thigh, holding on so I don’t fall, but those fingers dig into my flesh there, burning hot.

“Naughty, naughty, little outsider,” Beau chuckles as he walks beside us.

I cross my arms, but I’m not mad. I can’t hide the smile that splits my lips.

“Naughty indeed,” Beau murmurs with a giggle.

When Ram’s hand squeezes my thigh, I give in and reach down to his ass. I’m faced with it so might as well. He’s manhandling me so I can do it right back.

“Ten Cuidado, periodista,” Ram warns. “I’m not nearly as nice as you think I am.”

“Understood,” I reply. And then I squeeze his ass again. Pure muscle. It’s a very nice ass.

His warm chuckle goes right through me, and when we get to the truck, I’m almost sad when he lifts me back off his shoulder and sets me in the backseat. He grabs my chin, his fingers a little more forceful as he looks me in the eyes, searching them.

“You have a very nice ass,” I tell him. “In case you didn’t know.”

He grins. “Likewise,periodista.” And then he presses a kiss to my lips I’m not prepared for. It’s quick, barely worthy writing home about, but. . .that brief touch of lips is all it takes for the fireworks in my chest to go off. Like Beau, the kiss is electric, and it was barely anything at all.

What would happen if we actually kissed? That question runs through my mind as he settles me more firmly in the seat and closes my door. I sit there, wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into by going to these men’s hotel room. Hell, I’ve kissed two of them, and the third, I’m pretty sure he hates me.

They all climb in and the truck roars to life, reminding me that I’m indeed going to their hotel rather than my shitty hole-in-the-wall murder motel. But fuck, what better way to convince them to give me an interview?

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