Page 29 of Worth the Heat
I knew living with Isabella would be difficult for me, only because I’d have to consciously change my natural instincts while around her. A few years ago a therapist did a workshop for my guys about love languages, and I learned mine is physical touch. I’m having to sit on my own fucking hands to keep from touching Isabella. I find myself leaning toward her in an attempt to get into her space. Reaching into her space subconsciously. Brushing up against her whenever I pass, letting the backs of our hands touch, just for a little skin-on-skin contact.
I have never — nor will I ever — force myself on a woman. I’d never want to make a woman feel uncomfortable or unsafe. I feel even more unsteady with Isabella because I’ve been falling for her for years, and being this close to her day after day is likea drug. Just being in her proximity is giving me a high I didn’t anticipate. But I’ll be damned if I push her away by touching her before she’s ready to be touched. Isabella is like an injured butterfly, slowly fixing her wings so she can confidently fly.
I just hope she chooses to stay.
“Yo, Prez,” I hear called as I step into the Clubhouse on a Saturday afternoon. Following the voice, I find our newest probie, Luke, with two men, one who looks vaguely familiar. “Got two prospects for us.”
“Oh?” I go over to introduce myself, staring the one guy down. I know him, and I can’t figure out from where. Trey Mathis is tall, with wavy blonde hair and hazel eyes. Rico Delgado, on the other hand, is a couple inches under six feet, with buzzed brown hair and beady dark eyes that never leave mine. The men shake my hand, and Trey launches into explaining their back history that feels very ChatGPT-coded. I’m only half paying attention as I wrack my brain over where I know the other guy.
“So we met while we were stationed overseas,” Trey continues.
“Where?” I interrupt, watching as Trey’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. As he stammers, Rico takes over the conversation.
“Al-Asad Air Base,” Rico says smoothly. “In Iraq. There are only a couple thousand troops left there.”
“And you were both honorably discharged?”
Trey nods. “I thought about doing the full twenty years, but I was sick of deploying.”
I turn to Rico. “Rank upon discharge?”
His eyes narrow. “Staff sergeant.”
“E-seven?” I ask.
“E-six,” he corrects.
“My mistake. MOS?” MOS is the acronym for Military Occupational Specialities. It’s how the military puts a specific numberon a job type.
“Eighty-nine B,” Rico answers.
“Ammunition,” I muse. “I bet that wasn’t dull in theatre.”
He chuckles, but there’s no heat behind it. “I deployed a lot.”
“And how did you hear about Rocky Mountain Range Riders?”
Trey interrupts. “Luke here. We go to the same church in Denver.”
Luke nods excitedly. “Trey approached me a few weeks ago, wanting to know if I knew of any neat places to ride. Just moved here and saw me get on my bike after service one day. Then he told me about a buddy who also rode, and I invited them here.”
Luke is twenty-three and like a happy puppy who just found a massive bone under the Christmas tree. His energy levels rival those of a six-year-old boy, and we routinely have to remind him to be quiet whenever we have speakers, or meetings of any kind. He regularly jostles his legs while sitting, as if his energy is just zooming around his body trying desperately to get out. His glass isn’t half-full, it’s almost always overflowing. The kid doesn’t have a negative bone in his body, but at times I can only handle him in small doses.
“Well, take a look around, and I’ll give you a schedule of upcoming speakers and events. If you’re interested in joining, we can discuss the steps for moving forward,” I explain. Pulling out my phone, I send a two word text to Trace.
Me: Find me.
Trace: Clubhouse?
Me: Affirmative.
Less than a minute later, Trace bursts through the door, slightly breathless. I motion for him to approach. “Trace is my VP. He’ll show you around and answer any questions.”
Trace looks at me, and we have a silent conversation as henods. He knows to watch these men like a hawk. I notice Trey shuffling around uncomfortably, like he knows they’re here to do something nefarious, and suddenly he’s worried about his task. I watch as the four men slowly walk toward the kitchen, Luke animatedly telling them about our last meeting where an active player on the Harlem Globetrotters stopped by for a visit, and I immediately Google the two men’s names.
Fuck.
Trey Mathis comes back mostly innocent. As I expected, absolutely no military service is listed on his LinkedIn professional profile. Rico Delgado, however, is more concerning. He does show a few years in the Army as Rico. But when his middle name is searched, Diego Delgado, I see an arrest record that sends a chill down my spine. Multiple arrests and suggested ties toLa Milla Rojagang, known as The Red Mile. I’ve heard of the gang, but I don’t have any firsthand experience with them. They’ve got a reputation for drug trade, fierce loyalty to their brothers, and way too many times with blood spilled over territorial boundaries.
