Page 8 of Tank
I know, I know… but that’s just me.
I back away, my boots crunching softly. The clubhouse stays dark, no sign of life. I did what I came to do.
Time to go.
I jog back to my bike, my heart racing like I’ve just run a mile. The engine growls to life, and I peel out, the wind tearing at my jacket.
The desert opens up around me, endless and black, the stars sharp overhead. I twist the throttle, pushing the bike faster, trying to outrun the thoughts crowding my head.
Dad’s voice is there, always there...
Tank took everything from me, Rocco. My legs, my club, my life. You’re gonna make him pay.
I’ve heard it so many times it’s carved into my soul. But the more I think about Tank, the less it feels like Dad’s story.
I’ve seen him at the bar, at the gas station, always with that aura of control, like he owns the world.
He’s not just a monster.
He’s a man—gruff, stern, with a presence that makes my knees weak.
I imagine confronting him, my knife in hand, his eyes locked on mine.
Would I do it? Could I?
Or would I freeze, caught in that gaze, wanting something I shouldn’t?
The road stretches on, and I let the bike carry me. I’m supposed to be a weapon, Dad’s avenger, but I feel like a kid playing a game he doesn’t understand.
I don’t know Tank, not really.
All I have is Dad’s hate and a blurry photo from years ago, Tank’s face younger but just as hard. I’ve built him up in my head, half demon, half fantasy. The Daddy I’ve always wanted, the kind who’d take me in hand, make me his.
It’s fucked up, but it’s there, burning hotter than the revenge I’m supposed to want.
I pull off the highway, stopping at an overlook where the desert meets the sky. The bike idles, the vibration steadying me. I pull off my helmet, letting the cold air hit my face.
My hands are shaking, not from the ride but from the war inside me.
I came here to kill Tank, to give Dad the justice he’s been chasing for fifteen years.
But what if I don’t want to?
What if I want something else—something impossible?
I think about the knife on the doorstep, the Fury emblem on my bike. I’ve set something in motion, and there’s no going back.
Tank’s gonna find that knife, and he’s gonna know someone’s coming for him. Maybe he’ll come for me first. The thought sends a thrill through me, fear and desire twisted together.
I want to see him up close, feel the weight of his stare, hear that growl in his voice.
I want to know if he’s as dangerous as Dad says, or if there’s something else behind those eyes.
The horizon’s starting to lighten, dawn creeping in.
I need to get back to the motel, plan my next move. I’ll get close to the Wolves, play the drifter looking to prospect, whatever it takes to get near Tank.
But as I kick the bike into gear, I know I’m not just doing this for my father.
