Page 5 of Tank
I push off the stool, my boots heavy on the floor, and grab my keys from the bar.
The clubhouse feels too small, too quiet, like it’s closing in. I need to move.
Outside, the night is sharp, the kind of cold that bites at your knuckles. The lot’s empty, the boys’ bikes lined up like soldiers.
I pause, my eyes drifting to the street where that stranger’s motorcycle was parked earlier. It’s still there, gleaming under the flickering light, the Fury emblem staring back at me.
My gut twists.
I should check it out, maybe run the plates, but I’m too buzzed, too restless.
I shrug it off, telling myself it can wait till morning.
Whoever left it there isn’t dumb enough to make a move tonight. Not on our turf.
My bike’s waiting, a black-and-chrome beast that’s carried me through more shit than I can count. I swing my leg over, the leather seat creaking under my weight.
The engine roars to life, a deep growl that vibrates through my bones.
It’s the only thing that feels right tonight. I pull on my helmet, the weight familiar, grounding.
Right now, I need the road.
I ease out of the lot, the clubhouse fading in my rearview.
The desert stretches out ahead, endless and dark, the stars sharp as knives overhead. The whiskey’s still warm in my blood, but the cold air hits like a slap, waking me up.
I twist the throttle, the bike surging forward, and for a moment, it’s just me and the highway.
No club, no ghosts, no lonely nights.
Just the rumble of the engine and the wind tearing at me like a wild banshee.
But even out here, I can’t shake it—the feeling that something’s coming.
I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things that keep me up at night. The turf war, Marco, the blood on my hands—it’s all there, waiting in the shadows.
And now, someone’s out there, watching, maybe planning to make me reckon with it.
I lean into a curve, the bike handling like a dream. Maybe I’m too old for this shit, too old to be riding drunk and chasing ghosts.
But I’m a Wolf Rider, through and through.
I’ll fight for this club until my last breath.
And if there’s boy out there for me, someone who can handle the mess of my life, I’ll find him. Or he’ll find me. Either way, I’m not done yet.
The road stretches on, and I ride, the Fury bike a distant speck in my mind.
Whatever’s coming, I’ll face it. I always do.
Chapter 2
Rocco
The motel room smells like mildew and stale beer, the kind of place where dreams go to die. Or worse, turn into nightmares…
“Fuck,” I sigh, looking around and feeling like I need to get out of here right now.
