Page 22 of Tank
The Fury bike, the knife on the doorstep, the ambush last night—it’s all pointing to Rocco, and I need answers.
More than that, I need to know why I can’t stop thinking about him, why my blood heats every time he calls me Daddy.
So I invited him to my place, told him it’s to “talk strategy” about the next run.
Bullshit, mostly.
I want him alone, where I can look him in the eye and figure out what his deal is for real…
My place is a small house on the edge of town, more a crash pad than a home. The living room smells of leather and motor oil, with a beat-up couch, a coffee table scarred from years of boots, and a fridge stocked with beer.
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, a whiskey in my hand, when Rocco pulls up outside, his bike’s rumble cutting through the desert quiet. He steps through the door, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, jeans hugging his hips like they’re painted on.
That smirk’s in place too, but his eyes are wary, like he knows this isn’t just about strategy.
“Nice place, big guy,” Rocco says, tossing his jacket onto the couch. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”
I grunt, pouring him a whiskey and sliding it across the counter.
“Sit. We need to talk.”
Rocco takes the glass, his fingers brushing mine, and the contact sends a jolt through me. He settles on the couch, legs spread, looking too damn comfortable.
“Strategy, huh?’ Rocco snickers. “Or you just wanted me alone?”
I narrow my eyes, taking a sip to cover the way my pulse kicks up. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. Last night’s shitshow with the Vipers has me thinking. You show up… then we get ambushed.Coincidence?”
Rocco’s smirk falters, just for a second, but he recovers fast, leaning back with a shrug.
“Itold you, I bought that bike cheap,” Rocco says, and he seems to mean it. “Didn’t know it’d cause this much drama.”
“Okay,” I say, stepping closer, my voice low. “You’re not some drifter. You know more than you’re letting on. So let’s try this again. Who are you, Rocco?”
He meets my gaze, unflinching, but there’s a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or fear.
“I’m just a guy looking for a place to belong,” he says, his voice softer now, almost convincing. “The Wolf Riders seem like a good fit.Youseem like a good fit.”
The words hit harder than they should, stirring up that ache I’ve been fighting since I met him. I want to believe him, want to think he’s just a kid with a chip on his shoulder, but my gut’s screaming he’s tied to The Fury, or even the Vipers.
I sit across from him, my eyes locked on his.
“You wanna belong? Then start being straight with me,” I say. “I’ve done things in this life I’m not proud of. Things that haunt me. You know anything about that?”
Rocco stiffens, his fingers tightening around the glass.
“Likewhat?” the boy asks, his voice careful.
I take a breath, the guilt I’ve buried for years clawing its way up.
“Fifteen years ago, we fought The Fury,” I begin. “Bloodiest war I’ve ever been in. I hurt people, Rocco. Bad. One guy—Marco, their sergeant-at-arms—I left him broken. Crippled. Not dead, but close enough. That’s on me.” I pause, watching his face for any sign, any crack. “If someone’s coming for me all these years later, because of that, I need to know.”
The boy’s eyes flicker, just for a moment, and my heart sinks.
He knows something. But he leans forward, his voice low, intense…
“You think I’m here for revenge? For some guy I never met?” Rocco baulks. “I’m not that deep, Tank. I’m just… me.”
I want to call him out, push harder, but he’s close now, his breath warm, his eyes burning into mine. The air’s thick, the whiskey doing nothing to dull the heat between us.
