Page 3 of Gonzo’s Grudge (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Dreadnought, NC #1)

Gonzo

“ G rind down,” I bit out, voice harsh, throat raw from whiskey and smoke. “Cunt’s tight, bunny.”

She smiled as she rode me, all lips and lashes. “New to this.” Her words came out in pants. “Tryin’ Gonzo.”

The way she said my name—like she possessed a piece of me—hit me wrong.

Reaching up, I wrapped my hand firm around her throat, squeezing, claiming my authority.

“VP or nothing at all. You don’t use my name.

Ever.” That wasn’t how this shit worked.

I was nothing more than another Outlaw cock inside her pussy, I didn’t have a name and neither did she.

Her breath caught, eyes widening as I cut off her air.

She fought to push her tight cunt down on my length, every muscle straining.

I held her there, halfway impaled, watching fear bloom in her gaze like it was the most beautiful fucking flower I’d ever seen.

Yeah, she should be afraid. I released her throat just slightly so she could breathe but the pressure remained.

“You’re too big,” she gasped, panic and arousal mixing into one poisoned cocktail. “I can’t.” She was grabbing at my wrists as I tightened around her throat once again. “Breathe.” Her last word was on a choke.

I released, let her suck down oxygen like it was mercy, only to snatch it away again with my hands on her hips, yanking her down hard, filling her insides roughly now taking her breath away differently.

She cried out, body clenching, and that’s when I started the rhythm—lift, slam, grind and rock.

Flesh meeting flesh, her sounds turning from fear to something broken to sweet.

The smacking of her ass to my thighs rumbled through the empty air around us.

Relentless. That was me. Relentless in war, in the club, in bed.

My cock speared her deep, so deep I felt the tremors in her chest as her lungs worked overtime to keep up. Rocking her hips, rolling them, I teased her within an inch of freedom before driving her back down, until her body surrendered, went limp, and instinct carried her forward.

Moans spilled out of her mouth. Small, mewing sounds, like she couldn’t believe the way her body betrayed her at first before turning into full-on howls. She was lost to me.

“That’s it,” I growled, encouraging and commanding in the same breath.

My thumb found her clit, pressed hard, unforgiving. She rolled her hips in circles, chasing something she didn’t understand. “Get there,” I ordered, teeth gritted, watching her eyes roll back.

Leaning forward, I shifted, sitting upright. She fell into me, tits in my face, nipples like bullets. My cock drove so deep I swore she felt me in her fucking throat. I took her nipple in my mouth, sucked hard, then bit down until she screamed.

Her pussy clamped like a vice, milking me, ripping sounds from her throat that were half sob, half prayer. She convulsed, lost in the storm, collapsing against me while her body wrung me dry.

I wasn’t done. She was lost in her own orgasm, but I hadn’t finished yet.

Hands back on her hips, I controlled her ride, chasing my own edge. Lifting her high, letting her slide almost all the way off, then slamming her back down, over and over until the heat in my gut exploded.

My phone rang just as I spilled inside her, cum flooding her, dripping down my balls, messy and raw. The ringtone cut through the haze, dragging me back to reality.

Slapping her ass, I muttered, “Go.”

She didn’t move. Blissed out, still riding the waves, she just clung to me.

My annoyance spiked. I grabbed her hips, yanked her off, tossed her to the floor like the plaything she was. She whimpered, sprawled out, cum leaking down her thighs.

The phone buzzed on the nightstand. I glanced. GJ calling .

Fuck.

Rolling to the side, I answered. “Lo.”

“Dad, shit’s bad.” His voice wasn’t his. Panic made it high, sharp, breaking.

Instantly, adrenaline flushed the whiskey and the pussy out of me. I was on my feet, half-stepping over the bunny on the floor, dragging my jeans up without even thinking.

“Where are you?” My voice was sharp, clipped. The Marine in me back to life.

“Pop Squally’s,” he gagged through the phone, the sound of vomit wet and ugly in my ear. “Dad—Squally’s dead!”

My world cracked in two. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Everything spun out of control. My world was coming apart. No it fucking shattered.

“What?!” I roared, shirt half on, boots still unlaced. “Where the fuck are you, and who’s with you?”

“I—I was sent to get Shank’s keys. Pop took ’em.

I guess ’cause Shank got wasted. Clutch told me to ride over, grab ’em, save a fight in the morning.

Pop was waiting for me, told me hurry, he had shit to do.

When I got here…” He gagged again, retching hard enough I could hear his body seize through the phone.

“The door was kicked in. Pop’s—” he couldn’t finish, just heaved.

“You call anyone else?”

“No. But I hear sirens. Lights. They’re here.” His voice broke. “Dad, I didn’t?—”

“Don’t move,” I snapped. “Don’t talk. I’m on the way.”

I killed the call, texted the officers?—

emergency, Pop’s house, now

—then shoved my cut on and roared out into the night.

The road blurred. My mind didn’t.

Pop Squally. Dead. Gone.

Couldn’t happen. I couldn’t let it stick.

He wasn’t just president. He was the beginning for Dreadnought.

He was the piece that held us together. He’d pulled me out of the sandbox, built this club, gave me a life when I didn’t know what to do outside of the Marines.

He was invincible. He couldn’t be … not with us, not part of us.

No.

Not Pop.

Blue lights lit up the driveway like a funeral procession. Sirens wailed low, fading into the night.

I ditched my bike, unsure if I got the kickstand all the way locked in, and ran straight for the cruiser. I had one thought the moment my eyes locked to his. Save him . My son sat in the back, caged, wrists cuffed, face pale.

“GJ!” I banged on the glass. “What is this?”

His eyes were wide, hollow. “No one will tell me shit. They rolled up right after I hung up with you. Next thing I know, I’m in cuffs.”

“Sir, you need to back away.” The voice snapped sharp, female.

I turned. Waverly. Cop blues hugging her curves, hair tied tight. Same eyes I remembered from nights past, when she wasn’t a badge but a woman in my bed.

“Oh, fuck me,” I muttered. “It gonna be you tonight, Waverly?”

“Don’t do this shit, Gonzo.” She stepped into my space, chest to chest, eyes steady.

“Your kid’s in real trouble. Best thing you can do?

Get on your bike and leave. Call your boys off.

I know they aren’t far behind. GJ is in trouble, don’t make it worse.

Get him an attorney. A good one. I’ll text you when he’s booked. Come in the morning, bail him out.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then Stanley will have us throw you behind a cage too.” Her eyes softened as a woman who knew the depths of the man in front of her. “Don’t give him that win, Gabriel.”

Her words slammed into me harder than any fist. Stanley.

That son of a bitch. This was a setup, even she knew it.

I yanked my phone out and sent the text for them to regroup at the clubhouse, I’d be there soon.

While I didn’t like cops in general, Waverly was a good woman, and someone I could trust. Well, as much as I trusted anyone who wasn’t in the Saint’s Outlaws.

“GJ,” I called, ignoring her continued yapping, locking eyes with my son. “What do you want me to do?”

He shook his head, tears in his eyes. “Dad, they’re saying murder. Pop’s murder. I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t.”

The words stabbed me. I knew better. There was no way GJ did that shit. Pop Squally was family before I even had the Saints. He had been around since before GJ was born. My son didn’t know a life without Pop in it. Hell, I could barely remember life before the Corps and before Pop myself.

“Gabriel.” Waverly’s voice cut soft this time. “You can’t help him here. Call a lawyer. I’ll keep him separate as much as I can, keep him safe ’til morning. My shift ends at seven hundred but I’ll shoot a text to get someone to call out so I can hold over. But you gotta get out of here now.”

My chest heaved. Rage, grief, helplessness—all boiling into one roar that ripped out of me, aimed at the sky. “FUCK!”

GJ flinched in the back seat.

I stepped into Waverly’s space, close enough to feel her breath.

“Take care of him,” I said, voice low, deadly.

I pulled her close, not in a lover’s embrace, but in one of respect and appreciation.

Leaning in, I whispered, “I owe you.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead holding her close for a second too long wondering if I could manage to walk away from my son.

She shoved me back. “Don’t owe me shit. Just don’t fuck this up worse.” Her eyes locked to mine. “Gabriel, you know it and I know it. You gotta go.”

She wasn’t wrong, but it killed me inside. “I’m trusting you, Waverly. Please don’t let me down.”

She gave me a nod, and I had to learn to lean on her like I had never leaned on anyone. My son was my life outside of the club.

The text came half an hour later, just like she promised.

GJ booked. Murder first degree. Breaking and entering. Evidence: fingerprints all over the scene. DNA back already—his, and Pop’s. It’s buttoned up, DA moving forward.

Too clean. Too fast. I didn’t type those words and neither did she.

Scare tactic. Frame job. Didn’t matter what they said—I knew my son. He was twenty-one. He was hotheaded, yeah, but he worshiped Pop. Pop was a second father. He wouldn’t, no he couldn’t kill him.

This wasn’t about GJ. This was about us. About the Saint’s Outlaws motorcycle club. About Stanley finally finding his knife to stick in our ribs because he wanted to feel like he had some power.

A single call later, my world shattered all over again. Our lawyer, Tarte, laid it out like a bullet to the skull. “They’ve got him cold. Enough for life if you don’t prove otherwise.”

Life.

My son. My blood.

No.

I’d fucked up a lot in my life, but GJ was the one thing I did right. The one good thing I gave this world.

Now they wanted to bury him.

No.

I wasn’t gonna let that happen.

Whoever killed Pop. Whoever framed my boy. Whoever lined Stanley’s pockets and pulled Walsh’s strings, whoever had a hand in any of this was about to find out.

They would pay.

For every day GJ sat locked in a cage, someone would bleed.

And when the smoke cleared, the whole fucking town would remember what happens when you come for the Saint’s Outlaws.