Page 10 of Tank
Whoever this is, they’ve got balls.
Either that, or they’ve got a death wish…
I push through the door, the smell of cheap beer and sweat hitting me like a fist. The place is packed—locals, drunks, and a few bikers from rival crews.
This is neutral territory, but I\m aware that a wrong look or too much booze and the whole place could light up with fists, knives, and who knows what. I need to stay focused, move as subtly as a man like me can, and get to the bottom of this damn bike.
The jukebox blares some old metal tune, and the bartender, a grizzled guy named Pete, gives me a nod.
I lean over the bar, keeping my voice low. “Who’s new here, Pete? Any strangers?”
Pete jerks his chin toward the back corner. “Kid over there. Showed up an hour ago. Ain’t seen him before. Came in on that fancy bike outside. Running up a tab too.”
I follow Pete’s gaze, and my breath catches.
The kid’s leaning against a pool table, a beer in one hand, his posture all cocky defiance. He’s young—early twenties, maybe—lean but muscled, with dark hair falling into his eyes and a smirk that screams trouble.
Tight jeans hug his legs, and his leather jacket’s worn but fits like it was made for him. He’s hot, no question, the kind of pretty that makes you look twice.
But it’s his eyes that hit me hardest—sharp, green, and burning with something I can’t place.
Hunger, maybe.
Or hate.
Right off the bat, I know he’s the one. The bike, the attitude—it’s him. I straighten, my boots heavy on the sticky floor, and weave through the crowd.
My Wolf Rider kutte draws stares, but I don’t care. I’m a Wolf through and through, and this kid’s about to learn what that means. He spots me coming, and his smirk falters, just for a second, before he leans back, playing it cool.
“You the one riding that Fury bike out front?” I ask, my voice low but hard, stopping a foot away. Up close, the boy is even better-looking, all sharp cheekbones and full lips.
My blood hums, but I shove it down. This isn’t the time.
The boy raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Maybe. Who’s asking?”
“Tank. Wolf Rider MC.” I cross my arms, letting my size do the talking. I’m built like a damn wall, and I know it intimidates.“That emblem on your bike—it’s got history. Bad history. You wanna tell me why you’re flashing it in my town?”
He shrugs, his eyes locked on mine, unflinching.
“Bought it cheap,” the boy says, not showing any signs of bullshit but not sounding like he’s Snow White either. “Guy said it was stolen, but I didn’t ask questions. Looks cool, though, right?”
His tone’s light, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s testing me.
“Stolen,huh?” I step closer, crowding his space. He doesn’t back down, and fuck if that doesn’t stir something in me. Most guys would flinch by now, but this kid’s got steel in him. “You know what that emblem means? The Fury ain’t been around for years. And that’s the way we like it around here.”
The boy tilts his head, that smirk back in place.
“Oh, is that so?” the boy smirks. “Sounds like there’s a story to tell. You gonna tell it to me, big guy?”
The “big guy” hits like a spark to gasoline.
He’s playing with me, and I don’t know if I want to deck him or drag him somewhere private.
“Watch it, kid,” I growl, but there’s no heat in it. “What’s your name?”
“Rocco,” he answers, his voice smooth, like he’s daring me to do something. “Just passing through. Heard the Wolf Riders are the real deal. Thought I’d check it out. Maybe even prospect, if you’re recruiting.”
I narrow my eyes.
