Page 24 of Gonzo's Grudge
Not just the roar of the engine or the leather cut stretched across his broad shoulders. It was the way the world seemed to bend when he was near. Loud places hushed. Crowds shifted. Even fear retreated.
I should have been afraid of him. Everything about him screamed danger—the scars across his knuckles, the tattoos winding up his arms, the weight in his voice that told me he had done things most people wouldn’t even whisper about. But every time I was near him, I didn’t feel fear.
I felt safe.
And that was a danger all its own.
Classes were a blur the next day. I took notes, highlighted passages, nodded when professors asked questions. None of it stuck. My pen scribbled across paper, but my mind wasn’t in the lecture hall. It was back on the bike, the wind in my hair, my arms wrapped around him, the world shrinking to nothing but the steady strength of the man in front of me.
By the time the last class ended, my chest was buzzing like I’d swallowed a hive. Students poured out, chatter filling the air, but my eyes searched instinctively for one thing.
Surprisingly, I found him.
Gonzo leaned against his motorcycle like he owned the pavement, arms crossed, cut catching the sun. He didn’t look out of place even though he should have, standing among students in sweatshirts and sneakers. He looked like an anchor. Unmovable.
And I felt myself moving toward him before I could think twice.
“You eaten?” His voice was gravel and smoke, low enough only I could hear.
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
His mouth tilted, the closest thing he ever came to a smile. “Then ride with me. Dinner.”
I swallowed hard. Last time, dinner was greasy fries and a milkshake at a diner off the highway. This time, the way he said it felt different. More deliberate.
“Okay.”
The ride was smoother than I remembered, probably because I wasn’t as tense this time. I was beginning to learn. I knew how to move with the bike now, how to press my knees in tight, how to let myself sink into the rhythm. My cheek rested against the leather of his cut, and I closed my eyes, letting the wind pull every worry from me.
When we stopped, it wasn’t at a diner or a restaurant. It was his cabin.
Again. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, but truly I was more comfortable here in his home than my own.
He helped me off the bike, his hand steady at my waist, before he jerked his chin toward the door.
“Dinner’s on me tonight. Not takeout. Not diner food. Real food.”
Inside, the cabin smelled faintly of cedar and coffee. The kitchen was simple but clean, pans hung on the wall, counters worn smooth. He moved like he belonged in the kitchen, pulling out vegetables, a package of chicken, a skillet.
“You cook?” I asked, surprised.
He gave me a look over his shoulder. “You think I live on whiskey and beef jerky?”
I bit back a laugh. “That was my guess.”
He grunted, setting the skillet on the stove. “Pop Squally always said a man who can’t feed himself ain’t worth much.” His jaw tightened slightly, the name slipping heavy into the room. “I listened.”
I settled at the counter, chin propped on my hand, watching him slice onions with surprising precision.
“Where’d you learn?” I pressed gently.
He shrugged. “Chow hall food was shit when I was in the Marines. Ex-wife never let me in her kitchen. When I left, a man needed to eat and my son was used to his mom’s cooking. Pop Squally put me in the clubhouse kitchen for a bit. Old ladies showing me how not to burn rice was where I started. Trial and error ever since.”
“You have a son?” I acknowledged looking for confirmation. “How old is he?”
He nodded. “GJ, Gabriel Jr. is twenty-two.”
I fought back the way my heart sank that his son was my age. It was obvious he was older, but the way he kissed me, how I wished he was… mine.
