Che (Golden Glades Henchmen MC 2)

"Are you going to speak to me, or what?" I snapped. You could say that patience had never been a strong suit of mine. That's probably why fast cars appealed to me so much.

A slow, deep breath made Che's back widen for a second before he released it, turning to face me, mug in hand as he leaned back against the counter.

"You look like hell, Sass," he told me, shaking his head.

"Gee, thanks. How sweet of you to notice. It must be all the stress and heat and exhaustion and hunger," I said, giving him a hard look.

"When's the last time you slept?"

"Aside from the thirty seconds at a red light? I don't know. Two days," I said, shrugging.

"When's the last time you ate?"

"Does a snack bag of Doritos from a gas station count?" I asked.

"No."

"A day, I guess. I don't know. It doesn't matter. Where are you going?" I asked as he put down his cup with a muted clink, making his way toward the back door.

"We're going to go get you something to eat," he said, disappearing out the door, again leaving me with little to do but follow.

"I don't have time to eat right now, Che. I need to talk to you to see if you can help me or not."

"You can talk and eat," he told me, grabbing a helmet off one of the other bikes as he made his way to his own. "Put this on," he demanded, dropping the helmet into my hands as he put his own on. "Ever been on a bike?"

"They're deathtraps."

"Says a woman who once hit one-eighty when I was in the car with her."

"Yes, well, at least if I crashed in my car, they wouldn't need to scrape me off of the blacktop," I grumbled, but put on the helmet.

"You're driving that deathtrap," he said, waving toward the stolen car as he got on his bike, "and you're worried about my bike?"

There was really no good argument to that, so I took a deep breath to push back my anxiety, and climbed on the bike behind him, pausing for a long second before letting myself slide forward.

I'd been close to Che many times in the past. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, bent over the engine of my car, we'd almost constantly been brushing against one another. And back then, I'd been all-too aware of the way his skin felt, the way it made me feel when it touched me. Even though he seemed wholly unaffected.

That was forever ago, though, I reminded myself. It wasn't like I was that same, silly girl with a crush on her older male friend.

I was a grown-ass woman. I wasn't going to get little tingles of electricity if my thighs went around his legs, if my arms went around his midsection.

Though as I slid into place, there was no denying there was a tiny spark at each contact, just a flicker of a flame that quickly blew out when Che started the bike and sped off.

I shouldn't have been nervous.

Of course Che would learn to handle his bike the way he'd learned to handle his car. With a sort of effortless precision, never taking any turns too fast or braking too hard.

Within a few minutes, we were in a small town on the edge of Golden Glades, climbing off the bike on a corner near a pizza place, its neon circle sign on even in the broad daylight.

"You still like pizza, right?" he asked, hesitating when I didn't immediately move to follow him.

"I would eat the bark off a tree right now," I admitted, putting the helmet on the seat since Che had left his as well. I guess when you were a local one-percent biker, you didn't have to worry about someone stealing it.

The inside of the pizza place was about what you expected with booth-style tables with ugly red laminate tops featuring shiny metal napkin holders and shakers full of oregano and parmesan.

Che went up to order, then came back, sliding a soda across the table toward me as he twisted the top off his water.

"Okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "You wanted to talk."

"Right," I agreed, suddenly nervous. I'd been running on pure adrenaline and desperation when I'd shown up at his clubhouse. Now, though, all I felt was tired and unsure. "God, where do I start?" I grumbled, raking a hand through my hair.

"You're in trouble," Che prompted.

"Yes," I agreed, even if admitting that left a sour taste in my mouth.

"What kind of trouble?"

"A bullet wound in my ass kind of trouble," I told him, watching as the words landed, making shock and then concern cross his too-handsome face.

"What?"

"It's nothing. It's just a graze."

"Sass, anything that involves a bullet and your skin is not nothing. Who shot you?"

"Yeah, that's the part that I need help with," I admitted. "I don't know."