Page 33 of Gonzo's Grudge
“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, not angry. Not yet. Concern, layered with steel.
“I lost my mind,” I sputtered out, and laughed a little then, stupid, breathless. “I—this isn’t who I am.”
He looked at me like he could read the things I didn’t say. Stared long enough that the night fell away and there was just the space between us and the sound of my heart as it calmed.
“Then who are you, IvaLeigh?” he asked.
The answer should’ve been easy. I’m the girl who studies. I’m the girl who pays her bills on time. I’m the girl who doesn’t get jealous, who doesn’t make scenes, who doesn’t chase men who smell like smoke and road all cloaked in danger. But the words didn’t fit anymore. They slid off like a shirt that had shrunk in the wash.
“I don’t know,” I said, honest for once. It scared me, how true it felt. “I don’t know.”
He nodded like that was the right answer. Like uncertainty was a place to stand, not a cliff to fall from. His hand rose and brushed my cheekbone with his knuckles, rough and careful. His thumb came away with a smear of lipstick that wasn’t mine—I didn’t wear any tonight. My stomach flipped when I realized it was the red from the girl I slapped.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did.
Whatever he saw decided something in him. His fingers slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, warm and big. He pulled me in just enough that if I wanted to, I could have tipped back out. I didn’t. I went willingly, like a tide rolling in.
Then he kissed me.
Heat unspooled from the center of me like someone had lit a fuse. It wasn’t the awkward, careful kissing of boys who are scared to want. It wasn’t the greedy, sloppy claiming I’d watched through a hundred party doorways and told myself I didn’t want. It was deep. It was sure. It was full. His mouth took and gave, his other hand bracing my hip, anchoring me against the cold air and the hot panic both.
I forgot Shay’s smirk and the slap and the roar inside the clubhouse. I forgot the girl I’d been ten minutes earlier and the one I was supposed to be tomorrow. The world narrowed to the shape of his mouth and the way my name would’ve sounded if he had said it right then.
When he lifted his head, my breath came in short, shocked bursts. He pressed his forehead to mine like a promise and let me hear his, steadier and slower, like he could absorb the chaos out of me by sheer will.
“Come with me,” he said, not a statement, not a question, maybe a request laced as a command.
I didn’t ask where. I didn’t need to. I nodded, because for the first time all night, nodding felt like knowing.
He laced our fingers but didn’t pull, waited for me to move first. I did. We crossed the lot together, walking to the back of the place, the hum of the party behind us like a tide going out. A couple of brothers outside smoking watched us go and didn’t say a word, but one of them—Disciple—touched two fingers to his temple in a salute that wasn’t for me and somehow felt like it was.
We stepped into the hallway that ran at the back of the building, quieter, the music thudding through walls like a heartbeat you could walk inside. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Old flyers curled on cork-board. The carpet was ugly and clean. It looked like the backstage of a life. This part of the building was clearly an addition as none of it matched the front.
He guided me down the hall passing rooms as we went before entering one of them. His door shut soft behind us, and the noise dropped to a hum.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The party faded like a dream I’d already started to forget.
“Yes,” I said, and felt myself mean it all the way through.
The door clicked shut behind us, muffling the party into a low, distant heartbeat.
I stood in the center of his room, pulse racing, fingers clenched at my sides like I wasn’t sure what to do with them. The space wasn’t what I expected—bare walls, a dresser, a lamp with a crooked shade, the bedspread in simple dark sheets. No posters, no clutter, no trophies. Just clean, sturdy, unpretentious. A man’s room.
I felt his presence more than I saw him—broad, steady, filling the doorway. My skin prickled like the air itself knew who he was.
“Are you sure?” His voice was low, gravel sliding over steel.
I knew what he was asking, but I couldn’t get focused beyond the heat running through me. I turned to face him. My throat tightened, but I didn’t falter. “Yes.”
His eyes searched mine. Not lust—though it was there, burning. Something else. Concern. Patience. “IvaLeigh,” he said again, slower. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I repeated, firmer this time because I was more than ready to feel the heat of this passion between us. “I’m sure.”
Only then did he move.
