Page 62 of Tank

“Fine! Fuck, if I tell you will you fuck off?” He’s sweating and looks really fucking green, like he could pass out at any time. Fucking pussy.

“Baby! Stop! Don’t tell these assholes anything!” Whitney screeches from the sidelines. “Don’t say another word!”

Judge sighs deeply and clamps his hand over her mouth again.

“We’re an MC of our word. You tell us what we want to know, we fuck off.” Marx says. Big D looks sceptical, but he doesn’t really have a lot of options seeing as his men are outnumbered and Chewy is more than happy to keep slicing parts off the man.

“Ugh, OK, OK.” He takes a couple of breaths, nursing his hand against his chest in case Chewy wants to cut off anotherdigit. “Don’t know her name, blonde, really short, slicked back hair. She runs a disposal business in Ironwood.”

“Svetlana,” Tav says, sharing a look with Jules who nods in agreement.

“And how do you know her?” Marx grills him.

“I use her, ah, services sometimes.” He swallows thickly.

“You’re a piece of shit,” Marx says, standing to his full height.

He holds his hand out, waiting for Big D to take the bait. All of us except for him know what’s going to happen next. We don’t let a slight go unpunished. He stands on wobbly legs, using the table to hold him upright. I would almost feel sorry for him, but I don’t. He slips his hand into Marx’s and six soft pops ring out in the room, five of Big D’s men hitting the ground while red blooms across the front of Big D’s slightly off white button down.

“That’s for Jimmy,” Marx says softly.

Whitney stops her incessant fucking screaming for a minute to glare at us all, her hands fisted by her sides. “I will fucking ruin you, you hear me?”

“Good luck with that,” Chewy says, wandering up to her with Gretchen. She corners Whitney against the wall, then turns slightly to look at Marx. “Pres?”

Marx tips his chin at her, giving her the green light. Whitney whimpers, eyes like fucking saucers, whining, pleading with Marx.

Chewy tsks at Whitney, drawing her attention. “You breached your contract, Whitney. Gretchen here is going to make sure that the punitive damages DRMC is seeking are paid in full.”

“She’s so hot when she talks like that,” Rhodie says, watching his woman with dreamy eyes as she and Gretchen advance the bunny that started this shit storm.

The ex-bunny screams, her eyes roll back and she falls to the floor.

“Didn’t anyone tell her that you never play dead around a gator?” Chewy shakes her head, removing a container of something from her pocket. Whatever it is has Gretchen looking excited. I think.

Chewy tips the contents over Whitney’s prone body, humming an upbeat tune. “There you are girl,” she unclips the lead from Gretchen and I turn away when the gator opens her jaws wide, the snapping sounds on flesh causing a ripple down my spine.

“Pres,” Switch yells, grabbing my attention as he stands over Big D. “He’s still breathing.”

“Leave him. He’ll die, or he’ll wear a colostomy bag. Either way, he’ll know never to fuck with the DRMC.” Marx takes one last look at the carnage in the room then leads us out of the weird ass function room and out the front doors, stopping abruptly when we see Roman and Sasha leading four women out of Spinners, coats draped over their half-naked bodies.

“What in the fuck are you doing here?” Marx growls.

“Ah Marx, fancy seeing you and the DRMC in these parts.” He ushers the one nearest him into the back of his car.

“Roman, I’m only going to ask one more time, what the fuck are you doing here?” Marx’s jaw clenches.

“I’m taking four trafficked young women home to their families. As you know, I. Don’t. Deal. In. Flesh.” He stares Marx down, and for once there is something honest in his eyes. Maybe there’s more to him than we think. “Besides, I thought I’d check out the club. I’ve heard the last guy who ran guns and drugs here is feeling a little unwell. There may be a gap in the Roxburgh market for me,” he smirks at Marx who glares at him and steps back.

He gets into his car along with Sasha, and the four scared young women who look more than happy to be getting out of here. His window rolls down, slowly showing his face. “My menwill clean up the mess,” he nods toward the back end of the building. “Good night Marx, I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure.” He gives a finger wave and drives off.

“I really fucking hate that guy.”

Mira

The men have been gone for half an hour and I’m already getting antsy. I tried writing, but nothing is sticking at the moment. In my novel the FMC has been kidnapped after she made a series of terrible decisions where she knew better than everyone else blah blah blah. She’s currently in a dank basement and her kidnapper is about to be revealed. Am I going to go with her love interest’s jealous ex, or her jealous ex? Decisions, decisions.

“Mira, you’re a writer, do you think you could perhaps give Jovie a little authorly advice?” Remy asks, taking a short break from whatever it is she does on her computer. I know it’s super important hacker-y stuff, but that’s as far as my knowledge extends.

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