Che (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 2)

He was a nice enough guy, but at only five-seven who liked fast food more than working out, he wasn't always the man who the long-legged, stacked women he liked flocked to first.

"They're like magpies, man," he'd told me once. "They flock to shiny shit. So I make sure I shine."

Much like me, Eddie wasn't originally from the area, from the country even. Him, from Mexico. Me, of course, from Cuba. We'd both found our way to the local racing scene a few years before. And promptly got our asses handed to us for a while until we finally started winning. The money, the pink slips, the respect. And perhaps most importantly for Eddie, the affections of the women.

"Beauty contest is tomorrow night, homie," he added, his arm around the waist of a woman in a jean skirt and crop top, her dangling butterfly belly ring sparkling against her tan skin.

"Eddie, where you been?" I asked, slapping his hand when he held it out toward me.

"Working, man, working. Car needed some work after that last shitshow."

The last big meet-up had been broken up by the cops, leaving all of us racing off in different directions, trying to outrun the cops and their new fleet of powerful—but luckily heavy—cars.

"Yeah, I heard someone said you fucked up your quarter panel on a cop car."

"Yeah, but the fucker didn't catch me, so it's all good. Got my baby back. Ready to make some of that money back now."

Depending on who originally organized the race, we were typically not paired up together anymore. No one wanted to bet on us since it was always a fifty-fifty thing, not fun odds.

"Who is running this one? You figure it out yet?" I asked, looking around.

"Donovan."

"He's back?" I asked, surprised. Last I heard, he was heading up north.

"Said one winter in the snow was enough for a lifetime. Got back two weeks ago. Threw this together."

Eddie was more social than I was, keeping contact with the rest of the major racers in the area, the organizers. I usually only knew about a race when someone texted me a time and address.

Donovan running things made the large crowd make more sense. The other organizers had different rules than Donovan did. He was the only organizer who insisted people still play for pinks in at least two of the races on any given night. Hardly anyone played for pinks anymore. It was too big of a risk. But the spectators loved that shit. They bet high on it. Which was good for Donovan. And the winners.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He's driving the blue Shelby. Can't miss it," he said, offering his hand again for a quick shake and fist bump. "I'll bet on you if you're racing."

"You should unless you want to lose your money," I told him, moving down the line of cars, checking out the competition.

As Eddie said, I found Donovan leaning on the hood of his Shelby. He'd always been a fan of muscle back when he raced. Before he realized it was more profitable for him to run the show, taking a cut from everyone's winnings instead of just his own.

Donovan was around my age, tall, covered in black and gray ink, with gray eyes, black hair, and a beard. He'd grown out his hair a bit since I'd last seen him, leaving it longer on top.

Even in the heat, he was wearing pricey gray slacks but with a black tee that showed off his Rolex.

"Donovan," I called, walking up.

"I was wondering if you were going to show up," he said by way of greeting, inclining his chin at me. "You want in?"

"Always," I agreed.

"I can put you in at—" he started, getting cut off by someone else walking up.

"Yo, Donovan, tell this bitch she can't just join a race," Mack, someone I'd never liked, but had to give him credit, was on his way up, announced.

"What bitch is that?" Donovan asked, giving Mack a hard look.

"That would be me," a husky female voice said, walking up behind Mack, chin lifted, jaw tight. Pissed, but trying not to show it.

She was too young for me to notice, but she was a fucking knockout.

Her curvy hourglass frame was in a pair of black jeans that were ripped in the knees and a lightweight blue top that tied in the front. Her long white-blonde hair was pulled into a braid down one shoulder, pulled away from her pretty face dominated by striking green eyes.

"I'm figuring your name isn't This Bitch," Donovan said, giving Mack a hard look.

"Saskia. Sass," she said, giving Donovan a small smile.

"Are you even old enough to drive, Sass?" he asked, eyeing her up in a big brother sort of way.

"I'm eighteen," she said, daring him to say she was too young. He'd be a hypocrite if he tried since he and I had both been around the same age when we'd started.