Page 4 of Tank
Me, I’m not ready to sleep.
Not with that emblem burning a hole in my brain.
I head to the bar, the floorboards creaking under my boots, and grab a bottle of Jack from the shelf. The glass is smudged, but I don’t care. I pour a double, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and settle onto a stool.
“Hell yeah,” I say, eyeing up the drink with thirsty eyes.
The clubhouse is empty, just me and the ghosts. I take a sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down my throat.
It’s late—past midnight, probably—but time doesn’t mean much in this life.
Days bleed into nights, and the only thing that keeps me grounded is the patch on my back.
Wolf Rider MC.
My family, my blood.
But tonight, even that feels hollow.
I lean back, my eyes drifting to the photos tacked to the wall behind the bar. Clay, our president, grinning with his arm around his boy, Dylan, a wiry kid with a smile that could light up a storm. Jace with his boy, Caleb, always whispering something to make Jace laugh. Arch and his love, Keegan, who’s got a mouth on him but keeps Arch sane. Even Raze, our resident psycho, found his match in Nico, a spitfire who matches him blow for blow.
All of them, paired off, settled.
Forever boys, they call ‘em.
The kind you don’t just fuck and forget.
The kind you keep.
And then there’s me. Tank. The lone dog. Forty-five years old, and what do I have? A bike, a gun, and a rap sheet longer than the highway to Vegas.
I swirl the whiskey, staring into the glass like it’s got answers. I’ve had my share of hookups—pretty boys who like the danger, the leather, the way I take control.
But it’s always temporary.
They come, they go, and I’m left with nothing but the road.
I’m good at being the Daddy, the one who lays down the law, who protects, who takes care. But who’s gonna take care of me?
I snort, shaking my head.
“Getting soft, old man,” I mutter to myself. This isn’t me. I don’t sit around pining likesome lovesick kid. I’m Tank, the guy who breaks bones and keeps the club in line.
But the thought lingers, heavy as the kutte on my shoulders.
My closest friends have all found something I haven’t. Someone who fits, who stays. I wonder if I’ll ever find mine. If there’s a boy out there who can handle me—gruff, stubborn, and too damn old to change...
“Pffft,” I spit. “Pull yourself together, man…”
The whiskey’s half-gone now, and I’m starting to feel the buzz, warm and loose in my veins. I shouldn’t be drinking this much, not with trouble sniffing around.
That Fury bike is still out there, parked under the streetlight like a bad omen.
Twitch’s words echo in my head:a ghost from the past.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe in enemies. And enemies don’t just vanish. They wait. They plan. They strike when you’re not looking.
I down the rest of the whiskey in one gulp, the burn snapping me back to reality. Enough of this moping bullshit. I need air, need the road. Nothing clears my head like a late-night ride, the cold desert wind cutting through the haze.
