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And I don't remember ever thinking that about a woman before. About a person before, if I were being honest.
I mean, yeah, sure, over the years, I'd learned about Che and Remy and McCoy and Teddy's pasts. And I'd demanded Seeley tell me his in the interest of protecting the club from any skeletons in his closet. But I don't ever remember being genuinely curious about that shit before, about the parts that made up the whole.
Yet here I was, sitting on the steps of the fucking pool, thinking about that shit. Because of a blue-haired woman with a slight gaming addiction.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
"Just got off the phone with Arty," Che said, dropping down on a chaise that sat beside of the pool, his phone in his hand.
"Anything?"
"No," he said, shaking his head.
"He must be losing his shit," I said.
That was the downfall to guys like him who got obsessed with their work, who didn't settle until they figured out what they set out to. They lost their minds when some questions didn't seem to have answers. Or, at least, ones they could access.
"Pretty much," Che agreed. "But he sounds sane enough still."
When he stopped sounding that way, that was when I used to send my sister over there to get him out of his own head for a while, convince him to eat, to sleep, to shower, all that shit he forgot to do when he got too obsessed with a job.
With her up in Jersey with her man, I had no fucking idea what to do when he eventually did lose it. I had a feeling tough love wasn't exactly the best method to use on him.
"Maybe we can send Ayanna over if we get worried," I said, thinking out loud.
"Yeah," Che agreed. "Or Harmon."
"Harmon might be back to her old life by then."
"Hm."
"What?" I asked, knowing that a "hm" was never a "hm" when it was coming from someone in your life who knew you pretty damn well. What it was, typically, was them trying to let you know that they had thoughts they didn't' think you were going to like hearing.
"I guess I figured she would be around for a while."
"Well, until we figure out what this threat is, and handle it," I said, shrugging. "Of course."
"Yeah, yeah, that. But I thought it might be more than that."
"You got something to say, Che, spit it the fuck out." While Che wasn't like McCoy who didn't care what you thought about it, was blunt as fuck, refused to mince his words or bite his tongue, getting him to say what he was thinking wasn't usually so difficult either.
Che, for better or worse, was the level-headed one, the voice of reason, the devil's advocate.
I could be too calm about shit. McCoy could be cold and too guarded. Remy could be far too hot-tempered, and just as often, far too dark. Che was the middle ground none of us possessed when we were too lost in our own heads.
"She's here. She's in your room. She's got her desk and computer. She's making food. She's privy to inside information..."
"She's involved. That's why she is privy to some of the information. It affects her. And she's here because her casual association with us has put her at risk. Her desk and computer are here because she needs to work. None of those things means anything other than that."
"And the way you watch her?" he asked, gaze holding mine, challenging me to deny it.
"I don't—"
"No?" he asked, cutting me off. "That wasn't you standing in the doorway while she changed Seeley's dressings? That wasn't you watching her load the dishwasher? Watching her place a grocery order? That was someone else?"
Che wasn't a huge talker as a whole. But when he did start talking, the further on he went, the more thickly you could hear his Cuban accent.
"Che, it's nothing. She's something to look at. Don't think I haven't caught all of you looking at her, too."
"It's not the same, though." Che insisted. "She's a beautiful woman. We might look. But in passing. You look, and you get this intense gaze."
"Christ, Che, when did you get so sappy?" I teased, not wanting to admit that he was right, that there was an intensity to the way I noticed her that felt different.
To that, Che gave me a lopsided smile. "My people, we can be romantic. And that means we can see it where others might not."
"Romance? Now I am thinking you're seeing things, man. There's not a romantic fucking bone in my body."
"Men like you, you might show it different. But it's there," he insisted. "Look at how Booker is with Ayanna. He's a hard man like you. But he loves that woman. She's his weak spot."
"Well, then, you know it's not romance with me, Che. I don't have a fucking weak spot," I insisted, climbing off the steps, getting out of the pool.
