Page 25 of Tank
I crush the cigarette under my boot, my heart pounding.
I don’t know who to trust, but I know one thing…
Dead or alive, I’m not letting Rocco go until I find out.
Chapter 8
Rocco
“Jeez, this is hard work,” Twitch says, his hands on his hips.
“Yup,” I reply, distracted. “But you have to pay the price to see success.”
The sun’s high, baking the desert as I finish scrubbing the last of the Wolf Rider bikes in the clubhouse lot.
My hands are raw, grease-stained, and my back aches from hours of prospect grunt work. Aside from Twitch and me, the other prospects are inside, grabbing beers, but I’m out here, trying to keep my head straight.
Tank’s been watching me all morning, his eyes hard but burning with something else—something that makes my skin heat every time I catch his gaze.
Last night at his place, what we did on that couch, his body claiming mine, his voice growling Daddy like it was a vow—it’s fucked me up worse than I thought possible.
I’m supposed to kill him, but all I can think about is how he made me feel alive.
I toss the rag into a bucket and wipe my hands on my jeans and watch as a tired Twitch heads inside to join everyone else.
Tank’s leaning against the clubhouse door, his Wolf Rider kutte stretched over his broad shoulders, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s all muscle and menace, but there’s a softness in the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m his or his enemy.
My gut twists.
Tank doesn’t know the truth yet, but I’m starting to think I can’t keep it from him much longer.
“Done for the day, kid?” Tank calls, his voice rough but warm.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smirk. “Gonna case a joint in town. Word is it’s a spot we might wanna turn over. Figure I’ll check it out, prove my worth.”
Tank raises an eyebrow, taking a drag. “You don’t gotta prove shit to me. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
I nod, my throat tight, and head for my bike.
The lie tastes bitter.
I’m not casing any joint.
I’m going to see my father, to face the chain he’s wrapped around my neck. His call last night, threatening to send men if I don’t kill Tank, is still ringing in my ears.
I swing onto my bike, the engine roaring to life, and peel out of the lot, Tank’s eyes burning a hole in my back.
The ride to Dad’s trailer is straightforward, but it feels like a tortuous mission through the wilds.
The place is a dump—rusted metal, weeds choking the yard, a broken-down Harley under a tarp. He’s sitting on the porch in his wheelchair, a bottle of whiskey in his lap, his face gaunt and angry.
The man he was—the Fury’s sergeant-at-arms, all swagger and strength—is long gone, replaced by this bitter shell.
I cut the engine and step off, my boots crunching on the gravel.
“You’re late,” he snaps, his voice slurred. “Tank dead yet?”
I swallow, my stomach churning. “Not yet, Pop. I’m close. It takes time.”
