Page 20 of Gonzo's Grudge
But he didn’t crowd me. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t look me over like every other man who’d ever tried to get close. He just waited.
“I don’t want to take your bed,” I whispered.
He shook his head. “See the look in your eyes, baby. You need it more than I do. Whatever weight the world put on your shoulders, go sleep it off. I got a man getting your car and we’ll get the tires on it in the morning. For now, sleep.”
Simple. Final. Like there was no argument worth having.
I stepped into the bedroom.
The bed was wide, the sheets clean, the blanket heavy. A lamp glowed on the nightstand, its shade dented but steady. On the dresser sat a single photograph in a cheap frame—faded, but still remarkable. A man younger but unmistakably him, standing beside another man in a cut, both of them laughing with beers in their hands.
Pop Squally. I recognized him from the stories whispered around town, the legend of the Saint’s Outlaws MC.
The picture hit me harder than I expected. Here was this man who looked larger than life on the back of a bike, who had just scooped me out of my wreckage like it was nothing—and on his dresser sat proof that he was human. That he had people he loved, people he lost.
I laid down, pulling the blanket up to my chin. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt safe.
From the living room, I heard the couch springs creak. Then silence.
He was giving me space. Giving me peace.
And it undid me.
When I woke, sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the room golden. For a split second, I forgot where I was. Then the smell of coffee drifted in, rich and warm, and I remembered.
I padded barefoot down the hall. Gonzo stood in the kitchen, broad shoulders filling the space, pouring coffee into two mugs. He wore gray shorts and no shirt, the colors of his tattoos dancing under the morning light. He looked the same as the night before—calm, solid—but in the daylight I noticed details I hadn’t before. The silver threaded through his beard. The scars across his knuckles. The lines etched deep into his face from years of squinting against the sun on the road.
He slid a mug toward me without a word.
“Your car’s at the shop already got the bad tires off,” he said, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “Tow truck came last night. Two new tires’ll be on by lunchtime. You got class, I’ll get you there. You wanna stay here, that’s fine too. Got shit to do though so I’ll have to head out.”
I blinked, mug warming my hands. “You… did all that?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t leave you stranded.”
Just like that. No strings. No expectations.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thank you.” As much as I wanted to skip class, skip life, I couldn’t. “I would appreciate the ride to class. I can get someone to pick me up later and get me to my car.”
He met my eyes, steady. “Don’t thank me yet. Gotta get you to class first.”
The ride back in the daylight was nothing like the night before. It was louder, brighter, sharper. Cars moved aside when they saw us, the thunder of the bike clearing a path. My arms wrapped around him, the world rushing past in blurs of green and gray.
And for the first time, I thought—maybe this was what freedom felt like.
Chapter 8
Gonzo
When they told me GJ was being transferred, it felt like somebody shoved a blade between my ribs and twisted. I knew it was bound to happen, but I thought we would have more time.
County was bad, but county was manageable. County was local. I had Shanks greasing deputies, Waverly pulling strings with the sheriff’s office, and brothers making sure GJ had eyes on him every damn second. In county, I could still feel close. I could still convince myself I had some control.
But prison?
Prison was a whole different hell.
And the bastards were rushing it.
