Page 19 of Gonzo's Grudge
I shook my head quickly, embarrassed, brushing at my cheeks. “No, I—my car—two tires blew.”
He glanced at the shredded rubber, then back at me. “Back roads at night. Not safe. Yet, you keep takin’ them and ended up on the side of a curve. Bad luck, girl.”
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” I whispered. “Needed air.”
For a second, his gaze softened. Just a flicker, like a storm breaking far out on the horizon. He jerked his chin toward the bike. “Hop on. I’ll take you home.”
Home. The word made my stomach twist. Home wasn’t an apartment where my roommate was in my bed with my ex. Home wasn’t Tennessee, where my mom would see my red eyes and ask questions I wouldn’t answer because she didn’t think college should be about education more than experience. She should have been Darla’s mom, they were a perfect match.
“Anywhere but home,” I squeaked, voice small, but certain.
His eyes searched mine. He nodded once, like he understood more than I’d said.
“All right. Anywhere but home. I can do that.”
The bike loomed, chrome and leather gleaming even in the dark. My heart raced. I’d never been on one before. He must’ve seen the hesitation, because his voice softened just enough. “Swing your leg over. Hold on tight. Trust the man and the machine.”
My hands trembled as I climbed on. The leather seat was warm from the engine. When he settled in front of me, solid and steady, I hesitated before wrapping my arms around his waist.
The second I did, the world shifted.
The engine roared to life, the vibration rattling through my entire body. The wind whipped my hair back as we shot forward, the night breaking open around us.
And just like that, I wasn’t crying anymore.
The road curved, trees blurring on either side, the stars overhead smeared into silver streaks. The hum of the engine, the heat of him, the raw freedom of flying on two wheels—I couldn’t think about Collin, or Darla, or anything else. It was just motion. Just release.
Freedom I had never felt before.
I held on tighter, burying my face against his back, breathing in the leather and smoke and something steady, something completely him.
I never wanted it to end.
It didn’t end at my home. Just as I asked.
When the bike slowed, it wasn’t to my apartment, not that he knew where that was. Nor did he land me at my mother’s driveway. It was a cabin tucked into the woods, its windows glowing faint gold.
He shut off the engine. The night fell silent.
“This isn’t…?” I started.
“My place,” he remarked simply. “You’ll be safe here.”
The cabin wasn’t what I expected.
When Gonzo pushed the door open and motioned me inside, I braced for chaos—empty bottles, ashtrays overflowing, maybe the smell of stale beer and smoke clinging to everything. That was what I thought an outlaw’s home would look like.
Instead, it was… clean.
Not sterile-clean like a place ready for sale, not prissy-clean like Darla always fussed over. But solid. Lived-in. The kind of clean that came from respect, not fear of judgment.
The floor was dark wood, scuffed and worn but shining faintly like it had been swept and mopped. A heavy leather chair sat by the fireplace, the kind of chair a man could sink into after a long ride. Books stacked along one wall, not just thrown in piles but lined on a shelf. Not textbooks. Real books—novels, histories, even a few that looked like poetry, their spines bent from use.
A jacket hung on a hook by the door. I watched him move. His cut draped over the back of a chair. Boots lined up neatly against the wall. It was his space and he was comfortable and confident in it.
He gestured toward the bedroom. “Bed’s through there. You should get some sleep.”
I hesitated in the doorway, my hand gripping the strap of my bag. Every instinct screamed caution. I was in the cabin of a man I barely knew, a man twice my age, a man with outlaw ink crawling up his arms.
