Page 60 of Tank
But I don’t say no.
I let him take my hand, fingers warm and sure around mine. I let him lead me outside, the weight of everything falling further away with each step. Even the darkness is liberating, the night sky stretching wide above—an endless canvas of possibilities. And there, waiting for us like something from a dream or a perfectly wild nightmare, is a motorcycle that practically promises freedom.
I stop short, staring at it, all the questions in my head tumbling out at once. “What’s this about?”
Tank only grins with infuriating confidence, wicked and knowing, as if he’s guessed my every doubt. He hands me a helmet, his expression leaving no room for argument. “No questions. Just hop on.”
My heart pounds in my chest, a drumbeat of exhilaration and fear of the unknown, each thud daring me to take the plunge. The night air is crisp against my face, charged with a restless, electric energy. The world feels too big, too uncertain, too thrilling—and somehow, exactly what I need. I hop on.
He does, too, settling in front of me, solid and reassuring. His presence radiates heat, a protective barrier against everything. Then I put my hands on his hips, feel the engine roar to life, vibrating with raw power between my legs. Wind tangles in my hair as we take off, and just like that, I let go.
Chapter Thirty
Bianca
I grip Tank’s waist as the motorcycle shudders beneath us, a wild beast barely restrained and eager to break free. Its growl vibrates through my entire body as he maneuvers us with raw expertise through the hectic streets of Boise. The city is a flickering blur around me, a chaotic backdrop as we weave through traffic. We speed past the dull, watchful glow of streetlights and the looming, shadowy silhouettes of buildings. The wind thrashes wildly against my face, cool and sharp, an icy whip that makes my breath catch somewhere between lungs and throat. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, reckless. It’s everything I haven’t let myself feel. For a second, I think we’re flying—untethered, unbound. For a second, I believe we might never come down. It feels like freedom.
Tank takes a sudden turn, leaning into it faster and sharper than I’m ready for, and instinctively I squeeze him tighter, my fingers digging into the firm warmth of his body. He’s solid, reliable, a rock in the middle of chaos. I want him to be. I need him to be.
“Having fun?” he shouts over the roar of the bike. His voice is playful, taunting, daring me to admit what he already knows.
I laugh breathlessly, my heart pounding in my throat. “I feel like I should be terrified, but…”
“But you trust me.”
It’s not a question. It’s a fact. Or what I want to believe is a fact. I tell myself it’s true, even let it cut through my doubts—about him, about his tattoos, about who he really is—because I so desperately want it to be. I want to trust him. To let down walls I’ve had around me for so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be without them. I want to love him. A part of me has already started to.
I don’t answer, because I don’t need to.
Instead, I close my eyes for a second, breathe it all in—the scent of leather, of him, the rush of speed, the feeling of letting go. I haven't let go in a long, long time.
Tank slows as we turn onto a quieter street, all the noise and chaos fading into the background. Suddenly, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a nice-looking restaurant. It’s not over-the-top fancy with crystal chandeliers and white linen tablecloths, but it’s definitely not a dive bar that smells of stale beer and desperation either. It screams date night.
I raise an eyebrow as he kicks the stand down and turns to me. “What?” I ask, my voice teasing. “No sketchy bars this time?”
Tank smirks, a flicker of amusement in his sharp blue eyes. “I figured you deserved something decent for once.”
“Gee, thanks.” But the sarcasm fades on my lips when he helps me off the bike, his touch lingering just a little longer than necessary, sending a shiver through me. I forget how to be sarcastic for a second. I forget everything except the way he’s looking at me.
The restaurant has an understated sign — Bolero — that emits a soft glow into the dark night. Couples are filing inside, laughing and brushing off the cold, their hands intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A slow warmth spreads through me. He really is taking me on a date. I’m not sure why this surprises me, but it does.
We step inside, and I notice how intimate the atmosphere is. Warm lighting, a little rustic, a little elegant, with tables set just far enough apart to feel private.
Tank and I get seated in a booth, and when I glance at him, I realize he’s watching me carefully, his expression softer than usual.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He leans back, folding his arms. “I spent the entire morning thinking about you.”
My stomach flips. “Oh?”
“About how much stress you’ve been under, how hard you’re working for this event.” He leans forward, and I feel the warmth of his words as much as I hear them. “I wanted to help you relax.” A fluttery warmth unfurls in my chest, spreading like a soft glow. I can't stop the smile creeping onto my lips. And then he chuckles, the sound low and easy. “Plus, I saw what was in your fridge when I made you breakfast.”
I blink. “And?”
Tank shakes his head. “Pastries. A ton of them. And nothing much else.”
I cross my arms. “I’ve been busy. And you make good pastries. Is it a problem I like your food?”
