Page 11 of Tank

“And your bestie still doesn’t have a friendship bracelet,” he glares at her.

“I’m waiting for the perfect time,” she shrugs.

“Get your fucking arm off my Ol Lady,” a deep voice growls, sending shivers right down to my undercarriage.

This guy is big and looks somewhat familiar, but I know I’ve never met him before. “This is my Ol Man, Rhodie,” Chewy says, beaming up at him, the first time I’ve seen her make any sort of eye contact.

“He’s Marx’s biological brother,” Remy adds, and it makes sense now. Rhodie is a lighter, leaner version of Marx’s dark and huge. “Both Rhodie and Chewy are the DRMC Enforcers.”

“Wait, Chewy is an MC member?” I ask. That makes the DRMC way more interesting. I never knew they had female members. I thought that was pretty rare amongst MCs.

“Yes and no,” Rhodie answers me. “Not an official member, but Chewy has a certain set of skills that we use.” He winks.

Man, I hit the jackpot accidentally assaulting that man that day and getting hauled into RGPD and meeting Tank and then using his name to get my foot in the door. This place is perfect for my research. I watch as they all mix and mingle. The men who have Ol Ladies all come over and introduce themselves before wandering off with their women and children, and I try to commit everything to memory. Well, the stuff that seems helpful. Like the family vibe and how everyone seems to get on like siblings. There are brothers ragging on each other, children running around, women mixing with the men, the children and each other. Although I wonder where the female entertainment is. The club bunnies or whatever you call them. So far everyone is fully dressed, not an areola to be seen. Maybe they come out under the cover of darkness. Once the kids go to bed they sneak out of their rooms in the back of the clubhouse, bringing with them their dancing pole so they can put on a show. Glancing around I try to make a mental note of where naked bodies and fluids may be.

“It’s a lot, huh?” a gentle voice says, breaking me out of my thoughts to focus on Lovely smiling softly at me.

“Is Lovely a nickname because you’re so lovely?” I ask her, wanting to know more about everyone here.

She giggles softly. “No, it’s my birth name. In Eden’s Keep we all were given “virtue” names. Blanche’s real name is Patience and our brothers are named Wisdom, Victory, and Christian. They run a swamp boating and gator rescue place in Louisiana.”

Ah, now I know why there’s a disabled gator living in Rose Grove, Texas. This is all just so weird and wonderful and my brain is firing on all cylinders thinking up scenarios and characters and ideas and oh man I need to get this all down.

I drop down at the table and open my laptop, vaguely hearing a soft, sweet giggle moving further and further away from me as I get to work. I have spreadsheets out the wazoo to help with word counts and characters and plans and all manner of things, so I work my way methodically through them. By the time I’ve finished planning and plotting and brain dumping everything I sit back and realize the common room is quiet and still. There’s a plate next to me with a selection of little sandwiches and cakes and the clock on the wall says it’s after 10pm.

“Christ on a cracker!” I mutter to myself and set about packing my things up.

“I wondered when you were going to come out of your writing fog,” a voice says, scaring the crumbs out of me, this morning’s breakfast trying to beat a hasty retreat out of my bowels. “Shit, sorry Mira! It’s me, Tank.”

“You need a bell! You move far too stealthily for a big man, holy cluck nuggets!”

He chuckles at me, shaking his head. “I saw you come on your push-bike. Can I drop you home? Or you can stay here in one of the guest rooms. Marx offered.”

“Oh, can I?! I’ve never stayed in a clubhouse before, it’ll be a good story. When I tell people I bunked here for the night they’lltotally think I had a moment of adventure and became a club ‘entertainer’ for the night. That’ll blow their socks off!”

He gives me a puzzled smile then waves his hand in the direction of the hall, “Come on then Miss Adventure, let me show you to your room.”

Chapter 3

Tank

Ilead Mira down the long hall to the spare rooms. We may not be a large MC, around a dozen members so far, but we’re lucky enough that when Marx and Rhodie’s dad and his buddies were setting this place up they had the forethought to put in a lot of rooms, with ensuites for a bit of luxury after the military.

“Whoa, this place goes on forever! What’s in all these rooms?”

I turn back to look at Mira, her head whipping this way and that, taking it all in.

“Nothing much. The brothers’ rooms are further down, there’s a couple of larger rooms for the families. A room that Mama Debs has turned into a movie room for the kids.” I shrug.

“Who’s Mama Debs? Is she like the woman who rules over the club entertainers? Where are the club entertainers? I haven’t seen anybody with their boobs and butts hanging out.” She stops in the middle of the hall, hands on hips, clearly wanting answers.

“Well, they had a run in with the Ol Ladies. Marx kicked them out and now the brothers have to go to town to pick up women.”

“Huh. This place is not what I was expecting.” She says, her brows pinch, a little crease forming between them.

“What did you expect?” I ask, curious, as this woman’s way of thinking is a little out there.

“Hazy smoke, the place smelling of vagina and baby oil; the slight rubbery smell of condoms, the used ones tossed carelessly on the floor. Poles in the common room with busty women working them. Public shows of debauchery and in the middle of it all an older woman with a permanent cigarette in her mouth and teased bleached hair making sure the women are doing their jobs. The Pres would sit on a throne like chair, with two women on their knees performing fellatio as the brothers brought another sorry soul to him, this guy not being able to make payments for the loan you gave him. With the flick of the wrist Pres would send him to his doom in the dark, damp basement, where he would be held in chains and beaten to a pulp by the enforcer. Then he’d be tortured until he couldn’t take it anymore and he’d be put out of his misery with a well-placed bullet to the brain. His body would then be dumped on the front lawn of his home as a warning, with the message ‘Don’t funk with the DRMC’.” She takes a deep breath and looks at me with her large green eyes, chest heaving with the effort of getting her story out and taking as few breaths as possible.

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