Chapter 10
SEBASTIAN
W ith every passing day, I can feel Isabella’s walls slowly crumbling away. I’m not exactly thrilled with what — or who — has brought us closer together, but I’m not mad about it either.
It’s been a little over a week of Isabella living in my home, and while her apartment has been completely fixed up, wired with every fucking security measure I could get my hands on, and ready for her return, neither of us have brought it up.
She hasn’t come back into my bedroom again, but I’ve left my door open just in case.
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 like a 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 number on 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 he nods.
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 to La Milla Roja gang, 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.
Checking my photos, I find the name of the guy who attacked Isabella in her apartment.
Googling known connections, I see if Devon has any connections to Trey or Rico/Diego.
When nothing comes up, I don’t know if I feel relieved or restless.
In my gut, I know there’s a correlation.
Maybe it’s not the dastardly intentions my mind keeps thinking up, but I know it’s something.
As the men finish up their tour, I get a notification from one of the outdoor security cameras that motion has been detected between the Clubhouse and my property.
Assuming it’s an animal of some sort, I nonchalantly open my security app and do a double take when I see Isabella walking with my grandmother.
Isabella seems to be carrying something, and their direction suggests they are heading toward the Clubhouse.
I make it to the front door at the same time as the women, but I hear whispered conversations behind me coming from Trey and Rico. Fuck.
“ Mojo , Isabella made you something,” Abuela says proudly as she waves to all the men.
My grandmother loves hanging out in the Clubhouse with the guys.
They all call her Abuela , and she preens with joy every time.
She waves at me with a wicked glint in her eye as she turns around to walk back to my house.
It’s only around one-eighth of a mile, but a quick glance toward one of my men, and he immediately follows her to ensure she makes it back in one piece.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Isabella says hastily, her eyes darting in every direction, “but Abuela said I should bring these while they were warm and fresh.”
“My boys must eat them while hot,” Abuela announces, turning her head to look at us, and I hear more than one snicker.
I’ve never been able to confirm if Abuela consciously chooses to make most of her statements sound overtly sexual, or if it’s coincidental how her mind translates the words, but my guys absolutely love what she says.
“Did you know Prez had a woman?” I hear whispered.
Shit. Leaning into Isabella’s space, I whisper against her ear, “I need you to pretend we’re together, please.”
“What?” she breathes.
“Act like you like me. Put your arms around me,” I tell her as I grab the platter of pastries that smell divine, then slide one arm around her back, pulling her against me.
Isabella’s arms come around my waist hesitantly, but within a few seconds she snuggles into my embrace.
She smells like vanilla, sugar, and sunshine.
“Agree with whatever I say for the next few minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” she says softly, and the feel of her warm breath against my neck is exquisite. I forcibly tense to fight the shiver that threatens to course down my spine as I step away from Isabella, grabbing her hand .
“Range Riders,” I state clearly.
“Hooah,” they shout, jolting Isabella against me, before she giggles.
“What did they just say?” she murmurs.
“Hooah. It’s like a battle cry,” I explain quietly, before straightening to peer at my men. “This is Isabella. She’s staying in my home, and is to be respected at all times. She’s off-limits.”
“Is she yours?” someone shouts.
Turning to look down at the beautiful woman beside me, she gives me a sweet smile that is so full of trust, I’m momentarily speechless.
Her eyes, so full of innocence and longing, tell me she’s falling for me as quickly as I’ve already fallen for her.
For a long second, I have a vision of our future.
Isabella holding a baby to her chest as she watches Camila playing in the backyard at sunset.
Her arms wrapped around me while riding my motorcycle on a rare date without our children.
Isabella formally adopting Camila. Holding my woman as I fill her, watching her come as she’s wrapped around me.
I know with every fiber of my being that Isabella is meant to be mine, and I don’t care who knows.