Page 6 of Tank

Mira. I had forgotten that’s what Davies called her. I’ve only really called her as Writer Lady, just like she’s only ever called me Biker Man. Or some form of that.

“Tank?” Ana says, drawing Mira’s attention again.

She turns to look at me, “Oh, I can see how that works. Yeah, Tank. Me and him go way back,” she says, throwing me a wink, those green eyes dancing. She stops looking at me long enough to look around the room. “Whoa, this place is magical. I gotta take some notes.” She pulls her notebook out of her cleavage along with her little pencil and starts taking notes, to the amusement of my brothers.

“Good luck brother,” Judge murmurs, slapping a hand on my shoulder.

“Mira? Writer Lady?” She holds her long, slender finger in the air for a moment before looking at me.

“Yeah?”

“Mind if we talk?”

“Oh yeah, totally. I bet you’re wondering why I’m here, huh? Well, after meeting you I had an idea for a new book, an MCbook. First, I had to finish my shifter book. Anyway, then I talked about the MC book with my ladies when I was in Vegas and we all agreed it’s a great idea, people will love it. So anyway, you said to call if I needed anything but I figured why waste the phone call when I could just come here? And now that I’m here in this wonderful place,” there’s a snort that’s covered by a cough, “Well, now I think I’m in the exact place I’m meant to be. Hey, do you think I could commandeer this table? I’ll set up my laptop here, it’s perfect!” she beams up at me and my mouth opens and closes, nothing coming out.

Did she just say she was going to work here? In the clubhouse? Shaking it off I look toward my Pres, who has a weird as hell look on his face. “Um, an MC book sounds cool and all, but you can’t work here. I’m sorry but it’s for club members. Pres would never allow it.”

Her brows pull together over her bright green eyes and her shoulders slump. Fuck, it’s like kicking a puppy. She looks around the room for a moment, her gaze zeroing in on Marx. Not only does he have the word “Pres” under his name patch on his cut, but he exudes leadership. Even someone new to MC’s like Mira would recognize he’s the boss.

Her eyes narrow slightly before her lips twitch. Marx’s eyes widen slightly as they stare at each other for a moment.

“Mr. President, I would like a moment of your time,” she says, formally.

“Right this way,” Marx gestures toward his office and she follows after him, but not before spinning to look at me, and giving me two thumbs up and a wink.

“Well, don’t know about you all, but I like her. Nice work, Tank,” Nat smirks.

Mira

OK, so maybe it’s not the best idea to turn up to a biker compound out of the blue and demand entry, but I’m sure jail biker guy will remember me. I mean, he did stop by my house to invite me to Christmas dinner. If I wasn’t booked in to see my writer lady crew, I would have taken him up on the offer. Not just because he is panty meltingly hot, but since Gran died Christmas dinner for one has been decidedly lame.

“So, who are you looking for?” The kid in charge of the gates asks me.

“The Sexy Wrongly Accused Big Blonde Biker. Tell him I’m here. My name is Mira.” I tell him. I’m sure Biker Man will remember me. I mean I felt like we really bonded when we were in those holding cells. He was perhaps the most exciting cell neighbor I’ve ever had. Most of them are drunks.

“He said you could go on through.” The guy whose vest has “Prospect” on it says, opening the gates. “Just follow the drive and you can park your, um, bike just by the door.”

“Thanks buddy.” I give him a friendly wave and start pedaling my way to what I’m guessing is the clubhouse.

It’s some type of brick monstrosity, like in the olden days it could have been a warehouse or a school or something. The Devil’s Rose logo is on the side facing the road and as I get closerI see a long row of motorcycles all parked up, glistening in the sunlight. I stare at them in awe as I glide past them on “Freda.” My bike also isn’t something to be sniffed at. She’s baby blue with a large leather seat with springs for my comfort and she has a basket in the front. She also has a carrier at the back for my groceries and the like and just recently I got new flower shaped spoke decals that glint in the sunshine. She’s a real beauty.

I park up next to the front door, flicking down Freda’s stand. Should I knock? Or should I just walk in? I mean, they know to expect me so I shrug to myself and push in through the front door. Looking around the room I try to find my biker. Well, not mine per se, but the one I know the best. The one I used to get my foot in the door, and there he is. Our eyes meet across the room and if this was one of my books I’m sure we would both be feeling a jolt at that eye connection. I know I did. His bright blue eyes find mine and he looks momentarily shocked.

“There you are, prison buddy!” I walk toward him with full enthusiasm, but then get sidetracked when I see women and babies arriving.

I take a detour and stop to coo over them. The babies, not the women. Although given that I tower over all three that are standing there, I could probably coo over them too.

“Mira? Writer Lady?” Tank, as I have found out is his name, calls out to me. I was momentarily distracted. I would like to say that doesn’t happen a lot but that would make me a liar and Gran didn’t love no liars, let me tell you. “Mind if we talk?”

I wander closer to where he’s standing near a leather couch that has seen better days. He has a quiet, solid presence about him, the exact opposite to what I’ve got going on. By the time I stop in front of him I notice that he’s so tall he towers over my 5’9” frame, and I find I like the feeling of being petite. He’s so pretty up close, all manly but somehow gentle. His face is nice too. Sure he is ruggedly handsome, with a small scar onhis top lip, but he has crinkles next to his eyes which makes me think he smiles regularly. His face is so kind and somehow that underlying kindness reminds me of Gran. She had a similar face, a face well lived in, she would say.

Oh pumpernickel! I stopped listening to what he was saying because he’s too darn pretty. Maybe I’ll just launch into my intentions for being here. So I do. And I let him have it.

“OK, an MC book sounds cool and all but you can’t work here. Pres will never allow it,” he says, trying to let me down gently.

Well, I’ll just have to have a word with this so-called “Pres.” Looking around, my eyes fall on the ridiculously large man standing just inside the doorway. A man that looks very familiar to me even though his name tag is a name I don’t recognize.

Deciding to use his formal biker title I call out, “Mr. President? I’d like a word please.”

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