Page 32 of Gonzo's Grudge
He bent, his mouth almost at my ear. “We can leave whenever you want.”
“I don’t,” I said before my brain caught up to my mouth.
“All right,” he said, like it didn’t surprise him at all.
We did a circle around. Brothers greeted him with the kind of simple, weighty respect that told me exactly who he was here. Some introduced themselves to me—Shanks, Disciple, Clutch, Chain, Nails—names that sounded like tools until you saw the men wearing them. The questions were light—school, classes, was I having fun—but underneath I worried if they had questions they weren’t asking. Who was I to Gonzo? Well, if that wasn’t the question plaguing me as well. Maybe that was the thing, I had questions without answers and it wasn’t them but me.
I found I breathed better with his hand at my back. That scared me a little.
Looking around, taking it all in, this wasn’t what I expected at a biker party. Sure there were some over-the-top things like the woman in a cherry-red dress grinding on a man’s lap while he massaged her breasts making me wonder if she was going to orgasm right here. Or the man with a mohawk that dropped to his knees to scoop another woman up, dropping her thighs over his shoulders while diving face first into her vagina. She was riding his face like a wild woman on a rodeo bronco. Ten seconds flat she was crying out in ecstasy. A prospect refilled waters without being asked. The way everyone moved together was magic. People looked out for each other in the way they breathed. Everything felt automatic. Consent lived here in a rough language: it looked like a chin lift, a hand withdrawn, a laugh that turned real or didn’t. Everyone seemed fluent in unspoken words between them.
I relaxed enough to let the corners of my mouth lift. That’s when she approached just as Gonzo stepped away to go talk to someone he called Tower.
She had Barbie-blonde hair and the kind of dress you had to be brave to wear. Lips painted perfect murder-red. Eyes narrowed like she could see weakness. “Hey,” she said sweetly, which somehow felt like an insult.
“Hi,” I responded carefully.
“You must be new,” she purred. “I’m Shay.”
New what? New here? New girl? New problem? “I’m IvaLeigh,” I answered, because that was all I had.
Her gaze skipped past me to where Gonzo stood five feet away, talking to Tower. An almost-smile tugged her mouth. “He brought you to a party. That’s cute.”
Something prickled at the back of my neck. “Cute,” I echoed, flat. What was she setting me up for?
“Has he told you?” she asked, tilting her head in Gonzo’s direction. Her perfume was thick enough to taste—jasmine and sugar. “About how he is?”
“He’s told me plenty,” I muttered, feeling myself step onto a trap I couldn’t stop from falling into.
Shay’s smile widened. “Mmm. He’s intense. You don’t strike me as…” She paused. “Skilled.” Her voice went lower. “Rough, if you want it.”
Heat flashed through my face so fast it hurt. “That sounds like you’re trying to tell me something.”
She leaned in like we were sharing a secret. “I’m saying I’ve had him. More than once.” Her manicured nail tapped the bar between us in a rhythm that made me want to break it. “And he always finds a new one, sooner or later.”
The room was too loud for anyone to have heard her, and yet the words hung like a neon sign only I could see. I knew I didn’t own Gonzo. I knew I had no claim. I knew this was a world where bodies and histories wrapped into one another. I had watched a woman draw the word nasty on her man’s abdomen with a marker and nobody blinked.
I had no right to feel what I felt. Except I couldn’t help it. Jealousy shot up my spine in a clean, white line. “Thanks for the tip,” I managed, amazed my voice worked.
Shay smiled tighter. “You’re welcome. It’s good to know the terrain when you’re a tourist.”
Something ugly and hot clawed its way out of my chest. I didn’t think. My hand moved before the rest of me did.
The slap cracked across her cheek like a gunshot. Heads turned. Talk paused and then tumbled on. Shay’s eyes blew wide, fingers flying to her face. For half a heartbeat I thought she might pounce. For half a heartbeat, I wanted her to, just so I could do something with the storm inside me. I didn’t wait to find out if she would react.
I put the beer down too hard—the bottle clinked off the bar and sloshed—and I walked. No, I stomped. Then I ran.
The door sucked the sound out behind me. Cool night air slapped my cheeks. The lot spread in blacktop and chrome and spilled light. Engines pinged as they cooled. I folded at the waist with my hands on my knees and dragged for breath like I’d just outrun a siren.
What are you doing? The question felt like it came from far away and also from the center of my skull.
This wasn’t me. I didn’t slap people. I didn’t start fights with beautiful women in painted-on dresses over men who warned me right up front that they weren’t safe places to lay my head. I didn’t belong in there. I didn’t belong anywhere, either.
The door banged. Boots hit asphalt. I didn’t have to look to know. He moved like thunder. I wasn’t sure what to expect.
“Hey,” Gonzo said, and his hand wrapped gently around my elbow. “Stop. Stand up.”
I straightened because he asked. Not because he held me—he wasn’t embracing me. His touch was light, a question.
