Page 20 of Tank
“Honey, I’m home,” I call.
“Knock it off, shithead,” Joker growls.
“Wow, who peed in your cereal this morning, smiler?” I can’t help but bait him.
“Just anxious for today. Sorry, brother. I know therapy helps, but it also upsets her. Kills me watching her have to relive that shit,” he says, running his hands through his hair in frustration.
“I know, brother. Hopefully though, it will be over soon. She’s doing amazing, considering.”
“Uncle Tank,” comes a shout from down the hall, and the kid comes running to me.
“Hey kid, ready to spend the day with me?” I ask him, ruffling his hair.
“Hell, yes,” he shouts.
“Language Beau, if your mom hears you, you’ll be in trouble,” Joker warns him with a smile on his face.
“Sorry, Dad.”
Joker’s smile gets wider if that’s possible. Every time he calls him dad, it affects him. He loves Beau. Even though he'd missed out on the first ten years of his life, their bond is strong.
“Got you a present,” I tell him.
“It’s not my birthday or Christmas,” he says, confused.
“Don’t need to be for me to treat my number one, little dude,” I tell him as I hand him the large box.
“This is for me?” he asks with wide eyes.
“Holy shit,” he exclaims, ripping the box open, causing Joker and me to chuckle.
The kid really is a riot. Pulling the helmet out of the box, he starts to jump up and down.
“OH MY GOD, this is the best present ever,” he shouts, putting the helmet on.
“It fit okay?” I ask, checking the fit is okay for him.
“Here, got these for you too,” I tell him, handing the pack of Top Trumps, I got him.
“Thanks, Uncle Tank,” he says as he tries to hug me, but hits me in the face with the helmet.
“Okay, easy there, tiger,” I warn him laughing.
Picking him up, I sit him on the stool at the breakfast bar.
“Momma, look, Uncle Tank bought me Top Trumps and a new helmet for my bike. It’s way cool,” he shouts as he jumps off the stool, running into the living room.
Noticing Carrie in the kitchen doorway, raising an eyebrow in a‘What the fuck have you done now,’look.
“Sorry, Princess, but the kid needs a cool helmet,” I say on a shrug.
Before she can utter a word in reply, Beau comes barreling into the kitchen, with the matte black helmet on, the club’s logo on the back, and Beau written on the side.
“Look, Momma, how freaking cool,” his excited, muffled voice comes from inside the helmet.
“Really freaking cool, Beau,” she replies with a giggle.
At least he’s stopped cursing. Not that long-agofreakingwould have beenfucking. Clearly having heard all the brothers and his dad’s language. That was an awkward conversation, explaining why they could cuss, but he couldn’t.
