Page 32 of Eight Second Hearts

“I’ll wait until you three are done. You rolled in the dirt today. I’m hardly as dirty.”

He nods. “Then order us some pizza,periodista. Make sure at least one has pineapples on it, and another is a meat lovers. Get whatever you want.”

I nod and settle in to search for pizza places nearby. We’re surrounded by them. I’m just finishing up the order when the bathroom door opens, and Tripp walks out.

Shirtless.

The bull rider is shirtless, and holy shit, has he earned his titles with those abs alone. He doesn’t quite dry himself all the way, water droplets still dripping down his chest across the light smattering of hair, some of them glittering in his short beard. A towel is wrapped around his waist, slung low. The only tattoo I see is the roman numeral three on his hand normally hidden beneath his leather gloves. There are no other tattoos on him.

My mouth must go slack, and I know I’m openly staring, but I can’t seem to help myself. Tripp glances at me but doesn’t acknowledge my looks while he grabs clothing from a small suitcase and disappears back into the bathroom.

Beau appears in front of me with a grin. “You’re practically drooling,” he purrs.

“No. I’m not,” I deny, but it’s a lie. We both know that.

“You can ogle me anytime you’d like,” he whispers in my ear. “None of us mind it. In fact, if you ogle just right, maybe we’ll bend you over and?—”

“Alright,” I say, blushing. “Thanks. I got the picture. But it ain’t gonna happen.”

Beau grins, clearly not believing a word I say. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he chuckles, and damn if it doesn’t make my toes curl.

Asshole.

Chapter 21

Indie

If two weeks ago, someone told me I’d be sharing a hotel room with the Crimson Three, I’d have laughed in their face and dismissed it. Waking up the next morning to the sight of Ramiro Mondragon brushing his teeth shirtless while he moves about the room is a stark reminder that things have taken a turn. For better or worse is still to be seen.

I’m not sure if I’m close to an interview or not, but I choose to believe this is a good sign. While riding with them from one location to the other didn’t get me the story of a lifetime, I’m certainly gaining enough information to write an article. But if I don’t get them to do the interview, too, then it’ll all be for nothing. I promised the interview. That’s what I’m going to get.

When I sit up and stretch, Ram’s eyes flick over to me and his eyes crinkle. He spits out his toothpaste and washes his mouth out before grabbing a towel to wipe his face. Somehow, he makes the mundane act seem sexy.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he says with a grin. “How’re your hips?”

I frown and shift, before standing up entirely to test. “Better,” I admit. I’d known full well that a better mattress would makea difference but to admit I’d been suffering unnecessarily is too much. So I simply leave my answer at the one word. The ache is still there, but the numbness shooting down my leg is at least placated at the moment. Maybe today I won’t need the pills.

“So what exactly happened to your hip?” Beau asks where he perches on the edge of the small desk. “You break it?”

I snort. “What do I look like? An old lady?”

He shrugs. “You’re older than me.”

“By a few years, not a few decades. No, I haven’t broken it,” I argue before scrapping my hair until a mess on the back of my head and clipping it up. “I don’t really know what’s wrong with it.”

Ram glances at Beau. “Doctors are no help.”

“Doctors are the worst,” Beau nods. “I went in for a broken femur and the old cook lectured me on the negatives of tattoos. I mean, look at me.” He holds out his arms. “It’s too late, my guy.”

Beau Rogers is indeed covered in tattoos. Lecturing him on the downfalls of having them seems silly. He also stands shirtless, as if the three men just don’t wear shirts in the morning. But at least it gives me a good view of all his tattoos. The large bull skull on his ribs and below his chest has intricate line work, clearly done by someone who knew what they were doing. The words “Yeehaw” and “Outlaw” sit beneath the horns. Of course his signature revolvers peek over his pajama pants. I haven’t seen the tips of those yet. Not that I’m going to. On his chest, usually hidden by his hot pink crop jacket, is a horseshoe with the roman number three on it.

“That does seem silly,” I reassure him, though I’m not sure getting a lecture about tattoos is at the same level as doctors refusing to listen to you and claiming you have anxiety. There’s nothing quite so demoralizing as a doctor telling you it’s just in your head and you’re too young to have hip problems while you tell them it gets to a ten on the pain scale on your worst days.I point to his roman numeral on his chest. “Y’all have matching tattoos?”

Ram glances down at his own roman numeral on his forearm and shrugs. “We’re not the friendship bracelet kind.”

“Makes sense. So how did y’all meet?” I ask casually before moving over to my duffel bag and sorting through it, trying to find something I haven’t already worn. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring nearly enough clothing for that to be possible. I end up pulling out an ACDC shirt and another pair of black jeans.

Ram steps closer to me and I look up at him with a raised brow. “I see what you’re doing,periodista,” he purrs. “That was an almost smooth transition.”

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