Page 11 of Tank
He’s lying, or at least not telling the whole truth.
My instincts scream danger, but there’s something else too—something about the way he looks at me, like he’s sizing me up and liking what he sees.
It’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at me like that, and it’s messing with my head.
“You wanna prospect?” I baulk. “You got a funny way of showing it, riding in with a Fury emblem.”
Rocco laughs, low and rough, and it does things to me I don’t want to think about.
“What can I say? I like to make an entrance.”
Before I can respond, a shout cuts through the bar. Some asshole in a rival jacket—Desert Reapers, by the look of it—stumbles toward us, his face red with booze.
“Wolf Rider scum,” he slurs, pointing at me. “Think you own this town? Fuck you and your shitty club.”
The bar goes quiet, all eyes on us.
I step forward, ready to shut this down, but the Reaper swings first, his fist aimed at Rocco.
The kid’s faster than I expect, dodging, but the punch grazes his shoulder.
I don’t think—just act.
I grab the Reaper by the collar, haul him back, and slam my fist into his jaw. He drops like a sack of bricks, blood spraying from his lip.
The bar erupts, chairs scraping, bottles smashing as the Reaper’s buddies jump in…
“Fuck, why always me?” I roar, landing a right cross that turn’s a Reaper’s lights out on impact.
I’m in the thick of it now, my blood pumping.
A fist flies at me, and I block it, throwing a hook that sends another guy sprawling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rocco holding his own, his movements quick and sure. He ducks a swing, lands a solid jab, and doesn’t back down, even when a Reaper twice his size comes at him.
The kid’s got fire, and fuck if I’m not impressed.
I step in, yanking the big guy off Rocco and tossing him into a table. The fight is over fast—Reapers don’t have the stomach for a real brawl.
The bar’s a mess, broken glass and spilled beer everywhere.
Pete’s yelling about the damage, but I ignore him, turning to Rocco. He’s breathing hard, a cut on his cheek trickling blood, but his eyes are bright, alive.
“You good?” I ask, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“Yeah,” Rocco says, wiping the blood with his thumb. “Thanks for the save, big guy.”
There it is again, that “big guy” that makes my gut tighten. I want to grab him, shake him, demand to know what his deal is. Instead, I say, “You didn’t back down. Not bad for a drifter.”
Rocco grins, all cocky charm. “I can handle myself. But I gotta say, you throw a mean punch.”
I grunt, fighting the urge to smile.
This kid’s trouble, no doubt about it, but there’s something about him—defiance, energy, that spark in his eyes—that’s got me hooked.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, noticing him grab his jacket.
“Yeah,” he says, heading for the door. “Got places to be.”
