Page 41 of Tank
Which, okay, technically we have. Even if it was against each other. But still.
This time, it’s… different.
It’s exhilarating in a way that’s new and unfamiliar, a rush that has me grinning like I’ve lost my damn mind. Tank never stops smiling either, a grin plastered on his face the whole damn time. He’s loving this, enjoying every second, and more than anything else, he seems to enjoy me. Like I'm fun for him, like this is some kind of game we’re playing and he’s thrilled that I’m in on it with him.
And for some baffling, infuriating reason, that sends a rush of heat through me that has absolutely nothing to do with the fight. I feel it like a shockwave, a jolt straight to my core.
We’re just about to really finish this, to put an end to these jerks once and for all, when a voice cuts through the chaos like a bullet.
"Hey!"
There’s a moment of confusion, and I blink through the sweat and adrenaline, panting and whirling to locate the source. That’s when I see him: the pissed-off bartender, muscles tense and eyes glaring.
"You four: get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the cops.”
His voice leaves no room for argument, and I exchange a look with Tank, neither of us willing to push our luck with the law. We’ve had our fun. In unison, our eyes meet, sparkling with shared understanding. Then, without a word, we burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the night like fireworks.
We stumble out into the cool night air, still laughing.
Tank shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning at me. "Thought you were the non-violent type?"
I shrug. "They started it. The stuff they said to that woman, and then to me… Yes, they started it.”
"And you finished it?"
"Damn right."
He chuckles, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "I respect that," he says, amusement lighting up his face. Then his grin turns wicked and teasing. "Don’t respect how weak your right hook is, though."
I stop walking, incredulous, a shocked laugh escaping me. I blink at him like he’s lost his mind. "Excuse me?"
Tank leans back against the hood of my car, his body relaxed, arms crossed like he just said something completely reasonable.
I take a step closer, glaring at him, my voice sharp. "Did you not see that right hand I hit that guy with?"
He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. "I saw it."
I wait, expecting him to say more. He doesn’t. My patience snaps. "And?"
"And," he finally says, drawing it out, "I also saw how you didn’t follow it up with a hook or, I don’t know, kick him in the face."
I sputter at the absurdity. "Kick him in the face?!"
Tank nods, completely serious, a glint of laughter in those sharp blue eyes. "You had an opening."
I scowl, but damn it, I can’t stop myself from laughing at the ridiculousness. "Alright, then, Mr. Expert. Show me: what should I have done?"
He grabs my wrist, lifting my hand with a gentleness that is at odds with his gruff demeanor. "Your form’s decent," he murmurs, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. His fingers run up and down my forearm, his trailing touch leaving heat in their wake. "But when you throw a punch, you’ve got to commit. Follow through. Like this."
I barely hear his instructions, my thoughts scattering. Because now I’m not thinking about fighting. I’m thinking about how big his hands are. How warm his touch is. How damn close he is.
His voice lowers even more, gruff and quiet. "And if you ever need to throw another punch…"
I swallow hard, my pulse slamming against my ribs. His face gets so close to mine, my heart hammers against my ribcage, pushing me to lean forward. I can feel it. This is it.
He chuckles, a deep rumble. “Hold your hand right, or else you’ll break your wrist."
He’s toying with me. I should step back, call him out.
