Page 12 of Tank

She’s magnificent when she voices the world inside her head, her creativity blowing me away. I stare at her, words not coming to me other than to say “Wow. That was a lot.”

“Yeah, sorry bout it. I get a little carried away sometimes.” She ducks her head and I can see a slight blush on her cheeks, although I doubt it’s from embarrassment, more excitement.

“Let’s get you to your room so you can write about this MC that is a lot more exciting than ours.”

We start moving again and I stop in front of her room for the night. “Well, this is you.” I turn the handle and swing the dooropen for her to peek in. Her shoulders are tense, however, when she sees inside they drop in disappointment.

“Darn it all. I was sure that the room would be a cesspit with filthy sheets from many nights with unknown women.”

It’s the opposite. For a long time the spare rooms were just that, spare and barely used. Half the time they had no bedding. If we needed them one of the Ol Ladies would make up the room. Tav was charged with getting them set up so the Ol Ladies didn’t have to hustle to prepare them, so they sit looking like a hotel room with way too many pillows and cushions. Shit, they even have art on the walls.

“You might have to take that up with Tav. He’s the reason the rooms aren’t filthy.”

She harrumphs at me, then moves inside. “Tav, that’s Blanche’s Ol Man, right?” I nod in reply, “Yusss. I’ll learn the ins and out of biker life before you know it! Maybe I should get a bike? I ride a bike at the moment. An acoustic one, not one like yours, but I do have free will to do whatever I like, so maybe I’ll look at getting a bike one day. Perhaps I can see if someone will let me sit on theirs? Get a feel for it, you know?”

I wait a moment or two, not sure if she’s finished or is just taking a breath.

“You can talk now. I think that was the end of it. Maybe.”

“You use a lot of words, Writer Lady.”

“It’s a gift,” she shrugs one shoulder then eyes the desk that sits under the window in her room for the night. “I have an idea. Thanks Tank!”

With that she shuts the door abruptly and I let out a surprised chuckle as I make my way to my own room. Much like Mira’s in size, it’s quite different in decor. Tav may have been let loose with flair and soft furnishings in the other rooms, but mine is still almost as stark as the day I first arrived. Everything is put away neatly in its place. The walls are a light gray, the beddingdark and there are two pillows, that’s all. There are no real personal belongings here other than my clothing, and I’m fine with that. I bet Mira would be horrified by my room. From what I saw of her house that time we dropped her off, she would have an abundance of belongings. All things that mean something to her.

I toe off my boots, making sure to line them up, toes to the wall, next to the bathroom door. That’s where they go, just like my cut that gets hung over the back of the chair that matches the dark wood desk and dresser. Lowering my bulk onto my bed, I lie on top of the covers. My grandfather would think this was pure luxury, how I’m living now. Shit, it is compared to how we lived when I was a kid.

My parents were career Army. Because of their constant deployment I was sent to live with my gramps, a career military man himself. There was no softness about him at all, only rules. Rules to live by, rules to die by, as he would say. It wasn’t a bad childhood. I had good food to eat, a roof over my head, and someone who gave a damn, which is more than a lot of kids get. The old man was fair, but tough and he had ideas on how to raise a child, which was to give him a purpose. From a young age I had chores, physical training and the belief that everything had to be earned. When I was around 7 or 8 I discovered a love of reading, but other than reading to pass my subjects, my grandfather thought fiction books were a waste of time. Who has time to daydream when you have practical things to be doing? Because of his mindset I would spend the evenings reading my books in secret with the pen torch I got in a tool set for my tenth birthday. Around my thirteenth birthday I won a writing competition at school. It wasn’t anything special, just a certificate presented in front of the entire school, and a pizza voucher. I was embarrassed by the praise and terrified my grandfather would find out. He did, after a few moms stoppedus at the supermarket to congratulate me. I braced myself for that car ride home thinking he’d be disappointed that instead of excelling on the football team, I was excelling in English.

“Proud that you’re using your brain at school boy, it’ll come in handy when you join the military.”

“I was thinking about maybe going to college,” I said, biting my lip.

Gramps let out a sigh, “Listen kid, that path, the college path, it’s not for this family. We’re military through and through, and shit, we’re good at it. That’s your calling son. But writing, that can be your outlet. Trust me, when you’re lying on the hard ass ground in a country being torn apart, you’ll need your stories to keep you sane.”

I shake off the memory. That is the conversation that stopped me from entertaining ideas of going to college. Instead I knuckled down, got good grades and then enlisted as soon as I was able, following my parents and grandfather before me. Now, ten years and a few scars later I’m here, lying on my bed thinking about the scraps of stories I have locked away in a suitcase under my bed.

Letting out a sigh I get myself up, strip off and place my things in the laundry basket before getting into the shower, not even waiting for it to warm up. I need the jolt to my system to stop me from thinking about what ifs and the gorgeous, bubbly blonde down the hall.

Mira

“Ugh” I groan out, flopping over onto my stomach. My eyes are scratchy as all get out from the long hours of writing that I pulled last night. Normally my peak writing time is during the day, then I have a nice early night as I’ve always been an early riser. Put me into an MC clubhouse and I want to pull an all nighter.

As rough as I feel though, I’m happy with what I got down. The start of a new novel is always the hardest part for me, but that monologue I gave poor Tank last night really had the juices flowing. And not just the brain juices because holy fish sticks could that man be any hotter? I don’t think so. He’s so big and gentle and has a jawline that could cut glass. He’s not super hard looking, more the type of man who is thick from his work, rather than spending hours in the gym building muscles and then going on a two week diet where all he’s eating is boiled chicken breast and sweet potato for every meal. OK, I dated a bodybuilder once. Why is it that gym-going muscle men always want the big girls? Anyway, that was a total mistake because it turns out I don’t really like spending my days rubbing tanning lotion onto hard muscles until the owner of said muscles looks like a ginormous oompa loompa.

I flop back over to my back and think about getting up for the day. I’ve never been one to sleep away the day if I could help it. Thank you Nana. “Go out and greet the day, Mira,” she would say in her sweet old lady voice, and by heck would I greet the day. Probably a little too hard knowing the child version of me. I always thought I would grow out of being the odd child. The one who loved to wear all the colors of the rainbow and say what she thought and felt. Instead I grew into an odd adult and I’m funking fantastic so it wasn’t a total loss.

A clacking noise goes past my room, followed by the sound of little footsteps running, the patter of the owners’ feet a fast beat instead of the steady slow thuds I’ve heard go past. Tossing off the covers I roll out of bed, getting to my feet and puttingon yesterday’s outfit: my purple pants, black and white top and pink heels. What can I say? The girl loves color. I straighten up the bed and then head out, following the chorus of voices and the heavenly scent coming from the kitchen.

“Hi, Miss Mira!” the little poppet I think is called Jovie calls out waving.

“Good morning!” Her much louder friend Cove, I think her name was, joins in. Her brother sits quietly next to her, pretty much ignoring everyone, eating a dry pancake.

“Well, hey there kiddos! Fancy seeing you here.” I smile down at them. The boy, Elio gives me an odd look then goes back to whatever he was doing.

“Well, course you’d see us here. Jovie lives here and Tav is taking all of us to school so we get to have Mama Debs’ breakfast while the Bigs get Mom’s breakfast.” She says very loudly. Just as I’m questioning her volume control she leans forward and tries to whisper, “Mom isn’t as good at cooking breakfast as Mama Debs.”

When Cove leans back Jovie leans forward and whispers, “She isn’t very good at whispering, so maybe don’t tell her any secrets.”

---