Page 7 of Tank
It’s reckless, but I want them to see it.
I wanthimto see it.
And I know he saw the old bike I stole and painted the emblem on last night too.
I pull on my helmet, the leather gloves creaking as I flex my hands. My heart’s pounding, but it’s not just nerves. There’s something else, something I don’t want to feel but can’t help myself…
I’ve seen Tank from a distance—tall, broad, with a face carved from stone and eyes that could pin you to the wall. He’s everything my father described: brutal, commanding, dangerous.
But pop never mentioned how fuckinghotTank is.
Understandable on my father’s part, but there we go. I can’t unsee it, I can’t unthink it… Tank is all kinds of hot.
I shake my head, cursing under my breath.
“Get it together, Rocco,” I mutter. “This isn’t the time to let your dick do the thinking.”
I’ve always had a thing for older guys, the kind who take charge, who look at you like they own you. Tank’s the walking definition of that—a Daddy in leather, all muscle and menace.
The thought of confronting Tank, standing toe-to-toe with that intensity, sends a shiver down my spine. Not fear. Well notjustfear. It’s want, raw and unbidden, twisting up with the hate I’m supposed to feel.
I step outside, the desert air sharp against my face.
The motel’s neon buzzes, casting long shadows across the lot. My bike gleams under the streetlight, the Fury emblem a quiet challenge.
I swing my leg over, the seat cool against my jeans, and fire up the engine. The roar cuts through the silence, grounding me.
I ease onto the road, the headlights slicing through the dark as I head toward the clubhouse. The plan’s simple: drop the knife, get out, let the Wolves sweat. But nothing about this feels simple anymore.
The town’s asleep, just a few drunks stumbling outside the bars.
The Wolf Rider clubhouse looms ahead, a squat concrete building behind a chain-link fence. The lot’s empty, the bikes lined up like soldiers. I slow, cutting my lights, and coast to a stop across the street. The Fury bike I parked here is still there, untouched, its emblem glaring under the flickering streetlight.
Good.
I want them paranoid.
I dismount, my boots silent on the asphalt. The knife’s heavy in my pocket, a reminder of why I’m here.
I creep toward the clubhouse, sticking to the shadows.
The desert’s quiet, just the hum of crickets and the distant howl of a coyote.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I reach the fence. The gate’s locked, but the doorstep’s close enough. I pull the knife out, the blade glinting as I kneel. I set it down carefully, the rose-and-barbed-wire handle facing up.
A message.
A promise.
The Fury are back, and we’re coming for you…
I stand, my breath catching. For a second, I imagine Tank finding it, those hard eyes narrowing, his big hands closing around the handle.
I wonder what he’ll think, what he’ll do. Part of me wants him to know it’s me, wants to see the look on his face when we finally meet.
I want to hate him, to channel Dad’s rage, but all I can think about is how it’d feel to have those eyes on me, that voice barking my name.
Fuck, I’m messed up.
