He was around.
But he wasn't chopping cars like he'd been for years.
Nope.
He'd upgraded to a one-percent MC.
I'd scoffed when I'd first heard that, insisting that there was no way a car lover like Che would trade in his car for a fucking bike.
But, apparently, it was true. His crew had decided to change professions. And he'd gone along with them.
I couldn't picture the man on a bike, but I figured I would see it soon enough as I finally pulled down the street leading to their clubhouse, nearly delirious with tiredness, in need of a shower, a bed, and some food. In that order.
There was a tall security gate around the yard of the house. There wasn't much to note about the house itself. It was a two-story structure with nicely cultivated front flower beds. Which seemed so out of place with all the sleek motorcycles parked right beside them.
I parked the car on the street, taking a deep breath as I cut the engine.
Reaching up, I wiped the sweat off my brow, finding my hands clammy as I did so, wiping them off on my jeans.
I was nervous.
That was absurd, of course. There was nothing to be nervous about. I was just cashing in on a debt owed. Nothing more, nothing less.
My stomach wobbled regardless as I pulled down the visor, checking my reflection.
I won't lie; it wasn't good.
My hair was greasy at the roots. The dark circles under my eye had gone from shadow to looking more like actual bruises. I had a split in my lower lip where I'd chewed at it while peeling off in a stolen car with a fresh bullet graze to the ass.
Flipping the visor up, I leaned my face toward my underarm, taking a sniff, thankful that I wasn't at the stinking stage of unwashed yet. I had a feeling it was coming soon, though.
I wished I could have stopped to clean up, feeling weird about seeing Che for the first time since I was a literal teenager while looking such a mess.
But it didn't matter, I reminded myself.
This wasn't personal.
It was, in a way, business.
So I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag in case they would let me crash, then I made my way up to the gates.
You'd think men who put as much time and care into their security—which included a camera system that must have cost a mint—that they would, you know, lock the gate.
But it worked in my favor that they didn't as I made my way across the front lawn to move to the door. Taking a deep breath, I raised my arm and knocked.
There was a shushing of the voices inside, footsteps, and then the door was opening.
My stomach flipped for a second before I realized it wasn't Che who answered.
No, this was a guy around the same height but bulkier and with lighter features and a wide, strong jaw.
"What?" he asked, not one for social mores, it seemed.
"Is Che here?" I asked, finding my voice a little tighter, more high-pitched than usual.
"Who's asking?" the man asked, angling his head to the side a bit.
"His wife."
When I say the man's mouth gaped, I am not exaggerating. I wasn't sure I'd ever actually seen that reaction on a person's face outside of movies. Pure and utter shock.
And why shouldn't he be surprised?
I think a total of maybe ten people in the world knew Che and I had exchanged vows.
"Yeah, no, babe. Che isn't married. Nice try, though," he said, moving to slam the door in my face.
"Huck," another voice called, distantly familiar. "Let her in," he added. Yep, there it was. That slight accent I'd always found so smooth, so sexy, even if I hadn't ever told him that.
"You're fucking with me," Huck said, looking over his shoulder.
"Afraid not," Che said, a lot more unfazed than you'd think a man would be when his estranged wife showed up nearly a decade after the last time he'd seen her. "Let her in," he insisted again as I looked over my shoulder, scanning the street.
"For fuck's sake," Huck hissed under his breath, moving out of the way, waving me in. "Come on in, then," he said.
Taking a steadying breath, I moved inside to find myself in a space that went off in two directions.
To the left, there was what must have been originally designated as the dining room, but was now dominated by a beer pong table, a big Costco-sized bag of Solo cups sitting in the center, flanked by an assortment of beer.
Right inside the door where we were standing and to the right was the living room. The leather sectional took up most of the space, the material torn in some areas. Judging by the assortment of dogs hanging around, watching me with curious eyes, the rips were likely from their nails. It was a bare bones sort of room with no actual decor, unless the massive TV and the recently repaired holes in the wall counted.
And, you know, they didn't.
The bikes and the one expensive SUV out front must have belonged to the men gathered around.
Huck, who'd answered the door, and was still watching me with disbelieving eyes.
Then there was a guy on the couch covered in tattoos with a big pittie laying her big head on his leg. He had boyish charm and heartbreak written all over him.
Beside him, was a little person wearing a pricey-looking suit and a flat hat on. Like the others, he was watching me, but I felt a lot more exposed under his keen gaze.
There were two others. One was younger, dark-haired, tattooed, with the kind of eyes that spoke of a rough life, even if it hadn't been a long one.
Then there was a dark-skinned man with loc'd hair and a guarded, but curious look.
This was Che's old chopping crew.
At least I thought all of them but the little person and the kid were.
Turning away from them, I found Che standing off to the side.
He'd always been beautiful. The kind of attractive that could have landed him six-figure modeling contracts if that had been the kind of man he was. Time had only served to make him even more attractive, something I never would have figured was possible if I hadn't seen it myself.
He was tall, though not quite as tall as Huck.
And while he was wearing a white tee and jeans that didn't make it obvious, I just knew his body was as sculpted as ever. Not bulky, but very, very fit. I hadn't seen very many men who pulled off black board shorts and nothing else quite as well as he did. All those lean muscles under his tanned skin. Eyes followed him wherever he went.
Then there was the face.
God, that face.
Sculpted by the gods, it was.
With that sharp, angular jaw covered in a close-cut beard, those full lips, that perfect nose, the dark eyes under stern brows that gave him a perpetual bedroom-sexy look.
His inky black hair was a little longer on top than it had been when I'd known him, kept pushed back away from his forehead.
I'm not too proud to admit that I felt a little sizzle of attraction coursing over my overly-tired system. I wouldn't have been human if I didn't have that reaction to a man like Che.
"Sass," he greeted me, his tongue rolling over my name in a way that used to make my very young heart skitter.
Alright, fine, it still had more impact than it should have.
"Che," I greeted.
"Well, I see why the marriage didn't work out," Huck interrupted, tone teasing. "Your name is Sass?" he asked, eyes pinning me, forcing my gaze away from Che.
"Saskia. But, yeah, everyone calls me Sass. You're the president here, right?"