Page 66 of Gonzo's Grudge
I lasted another half hour. Didn’t touch another drink. Didn’t touch another woman. Didn’t touch the laughter or the chaos.
When I finally swung a leg over the Harley, the night air hit me like a reprieve. Cool. Clean. Honest.
I rode home.
The cabin was too quiet. Too still. The walls pressed in on me, the silence loud as a scream. I paced. Sat. Stared at the same walls until I wanted to break them. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I kicked the bike alive and pointed it toward her.
The iron gate loomed in front of me, stone pillars on either side like sentries. I killed the engine and sat there in the dark, headlights cutting a path up the drive.
I shouldn’t be here. I knew that. But knowing and stopping are two different things.
I put in the code part of me wondering if she had it changed to keep me out. To my surprise, the gate buzzed and swung open.
I rolled through, gravel crunching under the tires, the house rising like a ghost in the moonlight. I parked but didn’t dismount, just sat there with the engine ticking as it cooled.
I didn’t have to wait long.
The porch light clicked on. The door opened. And there she was.
Barefoot, hair loose, wrapped in a soft sweater that looked like it belonged to someone else. She stepped into the night, blinking at me.
The sound of the bike had pulled her out, and for once, I was grateful for the noise I carried.
I lifted my chin. “Ride with me.”
For a heartbeat, I thought she’d turn back inside.
Instead, she came down the steps, slow but sure. She climbed on behind me after taking the helmet I offered, arms wrapping around my waist like they’d never forgotten the shape of me.
The engine roared, and we left the house behind.
The gate groaned closed behind us, and the night swallowed the last of the house lights. I rolled us easy down the lane, gravel tickling the frame, her arms a careful circle around my waist like she was trying to remember the exact size of me.
I eased the clutch, fed the throttle, and we slid out into the empty road like a knife slipping into its sheath. The bike rumbled into the dark in that low language only engines know. She molded to me by inches, not all at once—the cautious press of her chest, the tender hook of her knees, then the full settle of her, soft meeting hard, like puzzle pieces figuring out they belong.
A mile in, I felt her shoulders start to unknot. The first sign is always in the hands—fingers go from clutch to cradle. I covered them with my left for a beat, glove on skin, then set my palm back on the grip.
“What do you feel?” I asked, voice pitched to the helmet, to the road, to her.
“The air,” she said, close enough that the word vibrated against the leather.
“Good. What else?”
A pause. “The wind.”
“Where?”
She hesitated, then: “Everywhere.” I could hear the half-smile in it. “In my sleeves. Under my sweater. Across my face. It pulls everything that isn’t me away.”
“Keep going.”
“The road,” she tried. “Under us. It feels like it’s talking through the tires.”
That made me smile. “It is.”
I hit a downshift with a toe and rolled off for the first tight S curve in the mountain. “Lean with me,” I said, wanting every inch of her to relax with me. “Don’t fight the turn. Trust the machine.”
