Page 31 of Gonzo's Grudge
When he finally called, I nearly dropped my phone fumbling to answer.
“I’m back.” His voice rumbled, low and steady.
My chest squeezed. “Oh.” I was confused because inside my whole chest was leaping for joy at the idea of seeing him, even kissing him again. And then the reality washed over me again. I was a fool to get tangled up with him. Yet, I couldn’t deny myself of even this moment of attention from him.
“Oh,” he repeated, amused. “That’s all you’ve got for me?”
I swallowed a laugh, my pulse racing. “What do you want me to say?”
There was a pause. Then: “I want you to come to a party tonight.”
“A party?” I repeated, unsure.
“Clubhouse,” he said simply. “My people. My world. You don’t have to stay if you don’t like it. But I want you there.”
The way he said it, like it wasn’t a request but an invitation to something deeper, made it impossible to say no. And if I was honest with myself, I was curious about him and his world.
“Okay,” I breathed.
The clubhouse swallowed me whole the second I stepped inside.
Bass rolled through the floorboards, thick enough to feel under my shoes. Neon bled across walls layered in framed photos, old patches in frames, a crooked “NO SNITCHES” sign, and a lineup of dented helmets that looked like trophies. The air was a cocktail of smoke, whiskey, leather, fryer grease, and something electric—like the sky right before lightning strikes breaking through.
I stayed close to Gonzo without meaning to. He didn’t touch me at first, just ghosted a hand at the small of my back, guiding me through bodies the way a tide guides a boat. Heads turned. Chin lifts from men, quick once-overs from women, a couple grins so shameless I felt my cheeks warm. No one said my name, but I felt it in the look they gave him then me like being beside him mattered.
A prospect hustled by with a tub of ice on his shoulder. Two women were perched on the bar like queens, their boots braced on a barstool rung while a tattooed guy poured shots down their throats. Somewhere to my left, a pool game popped and a woman cackled, hips rolling against the guy lining up his next shot. “Rack ’em,” she told him, and he did, hands lingering on her waist like they’d been there a thousand times.
Everything was too loud, too close, too much—and weirdly, for a second, I liked it. Nobody was pretending. Nobody smoothed themselves down into something polite. If they wanted a drink, they got it. If they wanted attention, they commanded it. If they laughed, it was loud. If they swore, it rattled the light fixtures. It should’ve been vulgar. Instead, it felt like… honesty.
“Gonzo.” A man with a scar through his eyebrow clapped him on the shoulder. “You back in one piece.”
“Always,” Gonzo said, and the corner of his mouth tipped in what passed for a smile.
The man looked at me. He paused studying me. “You her?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, because what was I supposed to say? Who was her? Me? I’m the college girl who can’t stop answering his calls. Gonzo saved me. I felt like a fool.
“She’s with me,” Gonzo explained without actually answering, and let his fingers settle light at my hip. It wasn’t possessive. It landed like a promise. “IvaLeigh, this is Pull.” He gave me a smirk, a nod, and passed on by.
There weren’t pleasantries exchanged of nice to meet you. Those words people shared but didn’t mean.
At the bar, a woman with violet hair handed me a beer without asking what I wanted. “On the house,” she winked. “First time in? Pace yourself. And don’t drink the jar even if someone dares you—that’s the pepper shine, it’ll have you seeing colors that don’t exist.”
“Pepper shine?” I repeated, because apparently that was a thing. Sure we lived in the mountains of North Carolina which some consider the home of moonshine, that didn’t mean I was well-versed in these things.
She laughed. “Trust me, rookie.” Her rings clinked against the glass as she slid it closer. “I’m Kate.”
“IvaLeigh,” I replied, feeling overwhelmed by all of the noise and experiences going on around me.
“Pretty,” she decided, and moved on, already shouting for limes while she shoulder-checked a guy who reached for a bottle without asking.
Across the room, a jukebox lost an argument with someone’s playlist and surrendered to a guitar riff that made the floor vibrate. A woman with sleeve tattoos and a scalp undercut used a marker to scrawl something obscene across a man’s chest while her friend howled.
I clung to the bottle Kim had given me, the wet glass sweating against my palm. If I focused on the cold, I could breathe. I tipped it back and took a swallow I didn’t taste.
“You good?” Gonzo asked, low enough for only me.
I nodded, which was a lie and also somehow true. I felt spread open, vulnerable in a way and weirdly seen and understood, accepted even. The two emotions fought inside me.
