Page 36 of Gonzo's Grudge
She laughed. “God, no.”
Inside, the air smelled like roast chicken and lemon cleaner. Her mother was warm, smiling, ushering me into the kitchen, pressing a drink into my hand before I could say no. Her father… was another story.
He shook my hand with a grip that tried too hard. His eyes were cool, measuring, like he was trying to peel me open and see what kind of man his daughter had dragged home.
We sat at the table. It was a dreamscape all its own. The table looked like a magazine spread—linen runner, real silver, a bowl of green beans that still steamed, roast chicken set dead center like a prize. Her mom moved like she’d rehearsed the choreography: carve, pass, dab, smile. Her dad didn’t move much at all. He watched.
I took the chair IvaLeigh angled me toward. She sat next to me, knee knocking mine under the table, a small anchor I didn’t deserve.
“Dark or white meat?” her mom asked, carving knife flashing.
“Dark’s fine,” I said.
“Mashed?” She was already spooning them before I answered. “Gravy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The first bite tasted like Sundays I didn’t get as a kid—salt, butter, something green from a garden I’d never have time to tend. I set my fork down soft. “It’s good.”
Her mom’s smile warmed another ten degrees. “Thank you.”
Her father finally spoke. “So.” He didn’t ask a question. He announced a subject. “You ride.” His gaze slid to the window where the Harley sat in their drive like a wolf lying down in a pasture watching its prey. “And you work with that club in Dreadnought?”
I met his eyes. Didn’t give him an inch of blink. “I do.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” He forked white meat without looking, neat as a clock. “For a living.”
“Logistics,” I explained, giving him the truth. “We take care of our own. We move what needs moving.”
“Sounds vague,” he retorted.
“Sounds accurate,” I shot back.
Under the table, I felt IvaLeigh’s knee press a little harder into my leg. Her voice lifted—light, almost chatty. “Daddy, Gabriel fixes things. He cooks, too. He made this chicken last week that tasted like?—”
“Chicken,” Connor cut her off, with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Is that right?”
Her mom swooped in with a basket of bread. “Rolls?” She put one on my plate without waiting. “We grew up with biscuits. He eats rolls. I try to keep everyone happy.” She laughed at herself, a bright thing set in the middle of a minefield. “Marriage. Compromise is everything.”
He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, slow and precise. “How old are you, Gabriel, is it?”
I smirked trying to pull back my amusement. Why the man wouldn’t be a man and lay shit out was beyond me, but I was fine playing this game. “Old enough to know better, but still living life on my terms.”
“Mmm.” His eyes did a quiet calculation. “And our daughter is considerably younger.”
“Daddy,” she aimed to interject, but he didn’t look over.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I didn’t apologize for the numbers. “She’s a grown woman, and I treat her that way.”
“And how is that?” He poured water like he was measuring fuel for a controlled burn. “What does treating her ‘that way’ entail?”
“Like an adult. I give her respect,” I said, and let the word sit. “Safety.”
“Safety,” he repeated, tasting it like it might be poison. “From whom?”
“Anyone who’d hurt her,” I warned, letting him know with my stare that meant him too.
He held my gaze one beat longer than was polite. Then he cut his chicken into perfect squares, four by four.
