Page 13 of Tank
The bar fight was chaos—glass shattering, blood spraying, Tank throwing punches like a goddamn machine.
But what sticks with me isn’t the fight.
It’shim.
The way he moved, all power and control, protecting me like it was instinct. And me, holding my own, not backing down, earning that grudging respect in his eyes.
Fuck, I liked it too much.
I’m supposed to hate him, to be plotting his death.
But all I can picture is that moment outside the bar. It wasn’t just suspicion on Tank’s part, it was desire.
I pull off the road, my tires kicking up dust as I stop at the edge of town.
The desert stretches out, black and endless, the stars sharp overhead. I yank off my helmet, my breath coming fast, and run a hand through my hair.
What the hell am I doing?
My father’s voice is in my head, like always...Tank took everything, Rocco. You’re gonna make him pay.
But what would my father say if he knew what I’m feeling?
If he knew his son’s getting hard thinking about the man who crippled him?
I’d be a traitor, a failure. And I know that my father would turn on me, send men after me… it’s how he’s always lived, it’s what he’s always believed in. Loyalty or death.
The thought twists like a knife in my gut, but it doesn’t stop the heat pooling low in my belly when I think of Tank’s hands, his voice, the way he fills up a room.
I’m young enough to be reckless, old enough to know better.
I’ve always had a thing for guys like Tank—older, commanding, the kind who take charge and don’t apologize.
Tank’s the real deal, a Daddy in leather who could break me in half and make me beg for it. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I hate myself for it. I’m here to kill him, not fuck him.
But the line’s blurring, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I kick the bike back into gear and head toward the Wolf Rider clubhouse. It’s a risk, showing up there after the knife I left on their doorstep, but Tank’s words are burning a hole in me. But it’s not just Tank’s words, it’s mine…
I’ll find you.
I said it, and now I’m making good on it.
I need to get close, to keep my plan on track, but part of me just wants to see Tank again, to push his buttons and see how far I can take this before it blows up in my face.
The clubhouse looms ahead, a concrete bunker behind a chain-link fence.
The lot’s busy, but I spot Tank’s Harley parked near the door, black and chrome, mean as hell. My pulse kicks up. He’s here. I park across the street, next to the spot where I left that Fury bike last night.
It’s gone now, probably towed or trashed, but the knife’s done its job.
The Wolf Riders are rattled. I can feel it.
I’m about to cross the street when the clubhouse door swings open, and there he is…
Tank.
He steps out, lighting a cigarette, the flame catching the hard lines of his face. He’s all muscle, broad shoulders stretching his kutte, his dark hair graying at the temples.
