He’s not.
Ryker quickly zip-ties the goons and shoves washcloths into their mouths. They were squealing so loud. I’m afraid people will come running.
But then again, maybe at a charge-by-the-hour motel, people mind their own business.
Ryker grabs his bag. I shoulder mine and follow him out into the wee hours of the morning.
We ride for an hour before stopping at a gas station.
I’m getting better at easing off the bike without dropping like a stone because my legs are asleep.
I shake out my limbs, pull off the helmet, and turn to Ryker. “How did they find us?”
He shrugs and moves to fill up the bike.
“We got rid of everything they can track,” I move closer to him. “Phones, the rental car. We’re not using credit cards for anything. So, how?”
“Don’t know.”
“There’s got to be something on the bike,” I feel up the fender and run my hands all over the outside of the Harley.
Ryker swallows. “I-I checked already.”
“Well, we need to check again.”
When my external inspection was over, I move to the saddlebags. They’re locked.
“Keys,” I hold out my hand toward Ryker.
He grunts but unlocks the compartments: nothing inside but our bags.
I shake my head. Then look at our bags. “Give me your bag.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What do you want, Kitten?”
“I’m going to search the goddamn bags to make sure we’re not being tracked there,” I huff. “Now, give me your bag.”
He rolls his eyes but hands over his duffle. I drag both to a nearby picnic table. I dump out mine first. I know what’s in there - a couple of clothing changes, toiletries, case files. I stare at all of it but start with the files. Nothing out of the ordinary. I set them to the side.
I open my travel-sized toiletries. Nothing looks amiss until I shake the shampoo bottle and hear a clunking sound. I remove the flip-top lid and pour out the shampoo. I’m about to get pissed about the loss of my hair products when a small, gray square drops into the puddle of ‘poo.
Motherfucker.
I immediately dump out the rest of my shit. All of them have trackers.
“Check your toiletries,” I order Ryker, who’s joined me at the table.
“Don’t carry them,” he smirks.
“So, you just roll out of bed looking all,” I pause to point at his stupid sexy face. “That?”
He shakes his head—that stupidly beautiful hair falling in sync around his stupid face.
“And your stupid silky hair? Are you seriously telling me you don’t use product in it?”
