He'd never relocated.
Me? I'd been all over the place in the past few years, taking jobs, setting up shop in areas I thought I might like, only to uproot quickly after.
But Che?
Che was still in the same area of Florida we'd originally met in years before. Back when I was a little headstrong eighteen-year-old, dead-set on proving she could run with the big boys.
Oh, but to have all the arrogance of youth but with some time-earned wisdom.
I guess it worked out for me that Che had been a creature of habit. It meant that while I hadn't so much as laid eyes on him in years, I'd still heard his name mentioned in the circles we used to run in.
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.