Page 23 of Gonzo's Grudge
When we reached the bike, I did the little things that matter. Checked the second helmet. Adjusted the foot pegs. Palmed the seat to make sure the sun hadn’t turned it into a skillet. She watched my hands like they were an instruction manual for something important no one had ever taught her.
“Same as before,” I told her, voice low enough to be private. “Swing your leg over. Keep your knees in tight. Hold on to me when we start moving. If you need me to stop, tap twice on my side.”
She nodded, already moving. When she settled in behind me, her thighs bracketed my hips and it was all heat and faith. Her arms wrapped my ribs and I felt the way her cheek found the line of my back, the way she fit there hit something deep inside me.
The moment the engine came to life, she flinched a little at the first rumble and then pressed closer, letting the machine tell her what I already knew—motion was medicine for the soul.
I eased us off the curb smooth. No showing off. No hard lean to prove a point. Just clean throttle, the kind that says trust me and means it. In the mirror, Collin was a small blur shrinking to nothing. In front of us, the road opened wide and promised the freedom of distance.
We didn’t talk for the first few blocks through the campus. We didn’t need to. Her breathing synced with the rise and fall of my shoulders. Somewhere by the athletic fields, she let out a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh but had one inside it, the way thunder sometimes hides behind hills before it rolls. When we hit the long stretch that leads to the highway, she shifted closer, not scared, but there. Present. Choosing.
By the time I pulled us into the diner lot, the color had come back to her face and the tight wire across her mouth had slackened. I killed the engine and the sudden quiet felt like a blessing.
She slid off and wobbled once on unfamiliar legs. My hand was already there. She took it without looking and squeezed, not thanks, not apology—something older, simpler. Acknowledgment.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I am now,” she said, and the way she said it put another crack in something armored inside my chest. I’d been patching cracks with anger all morning—jailhouse buses, razor wire, a son disappearing behind gates—but this one didn’t hurt. It let air in.
I jerked my chin toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s feed you.”
We walked in together. I kept my palm at the small of her back—not a claim, a safety net—felt the way her stride changed under it. In the reflection of the window, I caught a last glimpse of the campus fucker tossing trash into the parking lot can and slinking off. I let it go. Let him watch, let him follow. I had bigger targets ahead. Judges who smirked while sons were caged. Mayors who paid to make truth bleed out in lies.
But right here, right now, I had one job.
Be her steady.
I’d do it in leather and road dust and silence, if that’s what it took. She was still a means to an end.
I should’ve walked away. Should’ve left her to her college world. But something about the way she looked at me—like I was the only solid thing left in her storm—kept me rooted.
Dinner was at a hole-in-the-wall diner off the highway, the kind of place with cracked vinyl booths and coffee that could strip paint. She didn’t care. She smiled, soft and tired, sipping her milkshake like it was the best thing in the world.
And then she told me. “Darla and Collin… they’re together,” she said, voice tight. “She’s my roommate. And he’s… he’s him. It’s awkward. More than awkward. I can’t even breathe in that room.”
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. “He’s a piece of shit.”
She laughed, shaky but real. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
I reached across the table, covered her hand with mine. “You don’t deserve that. You deserve better.”
Her eyes shimmered, but she didn’t cry. Not this time. She didn’t ask when I offered her another night at the cabin. She just came. I offered to take her to her car, but she said it could wait until tomorrow, she had homework and a big test to study for.
The bed was hers again. I took the couch, same as before. Nothing happened. No lines crossed. Just silence and safety.
But when I heard her breathing steady in the dark, I knew one thing for certain.
She was becoming the light in a world that was trying to swallow me whole.
And I’d burn every bridge, break every law, to keep her safe. That made her dangerous.
To me. She just didn’t know it.
Chapter 9
IvaLeigh
There was something about the man behind the motorcycle.
