Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Freedom I had never felt before.
I held on tighter, burying my face against his back, breathing in the leather and smoke and something steady, something completely him.
I never wanted it to end.
It didn’t end at my home. Just as I asked.
When the bike slowed, it wasn’t to my apartment, not that he knew where that was. Nor did he land me at my mother’s driveway. It was a cabin tucked into the woods, its windows glowing faint gold.
He shut off the engine. The night fell silent.
“This isn’t…?” I started.
“My place,” he remarked simply. “You’ll be safe here.”
The cabin wasn’t what I expected.
When Gonzo pushed the door open and motioned me inside, I braced for chaos—empty bottles, ashtrays overflowing, maybe the smell of stale beer and smoke clinging to everything. That was what I thought an outlaw’s home would look like.
Instead, it was… clean.
Not sterile-clean like a place ready for sale, not prissy-clean like Darla always fussed over. But solid. Lived-in. The kind of clean that came from respect, not fear of judgment.
The floor was dark wood, scuffed and worn but shining faintly like it had been swept and mopped. A heavy leather chair sat by the fireplace, the kind of chair a man could sink into after a long ride. Books stacked along one wall, not just thrown in piles but lined on a shelf. Not textbooks. Real books—novels, histories, even a few that looked like poetry, their spines bent from use.
A jacket hung on a hook by the door. I watched him move. His cut draped over the back of a chair. Boots lined up neatly against the wall. It was his space and he was comfortable and confident in it.
He gestured toward the bedroom. “Bed’s through there. You should get some sleep.”
I hesitated in the doorway, my hand gripping the strap of my bag. Every instinct screamed caution. I was in the cabin of a man I barely knew, a man twice my age, a man with outlaw ink crawling up his arms.
But he didn’t crowd me. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t look me over like every other man who’d ever tried to get close. He just waited.
“I don’t want to take your bed,” I whispered.
He shook his head. “See the look in your eyes, baby. You need it more than I do. Whatever weight the world put on your shoulders, go sleep it off. I got a man getting your car and we’ll get the tires on it in the morning. For now, sleep.”
Simple. Final. Like there was no argument worth having.
I stepped into the bedroom.
The bed was wide, the sheets clean, the blanket heavy. A lamp glowed on the nightstand, its shade dented but steady. On the dresser sat a single photograph in a cheap frame—faded, but still remarkable. A man younger but unmistakably him, standing beside another man in a cut, both of them laughing with beers in their hands.
Pop Squally. I recognized him from the stories whispered around town, the legend of the Saint’s Outlaws MC.
The picture hit me harder than I expected. Here was this man who looked larger than life on the back of a bike, who had just scooped me out of my wreckage like it was nothing—and on his dresser sat proof that he was human. That he had people he loved, people he lost.
I laid down, pulling the blanket up to my chin. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I felt safe.
From the living room, I heard the couch springs creak. Then silence.
He was giving me space. Giving me peace.
And it undid me.
When I woke, sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the room golden. For a split second, I forgot where I was. Then the smell of coffee drifted in, rich and warm, and I remembered.
I padded barefoot down the hall. Gonzo stood in the kitchen, broad shoulders filling the space, pouring coffee into two mugs. He wore gray shorts and no shirt, the colors of his tattoos dancing under the morning light. He looked the same as the night before—calm, solid—but in the daylight I noticed details I hadn’t before. The silver threaded through his beard. The scars across his knuckles. The lines etched deep into his face from years of squinting against the sun on the road.
He slid a mug toward me without a word.
“Your car’s at the shop already got the bad tires off,” he said, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. “Tow truck came last night. Two new tires’ll be on by lunchtime. You got class, I’ll get you there. You wanna stay here, that’s fine too. Got shit to do though so I’ll have to head out.”
I blinked, mug warming my hands. “You… did all that?”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t leave you stranded.”
Just like that. No strings. No expectations.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thank you.” As much as I wanted to skip class, skip life, I couldn’t. “I would appreciate the ride to class. I can get someone to pick me up later and get me to my car.”