Page 1 of Tank
Chapter One
Tank
“Oh, fuck yeah. Work it for me. Work those sweet fucking buns.”
I sink my fingertips in deep, squeeze them, hold them, knead them. It’s fucking heaven, sweet fucking heaven, and I never want to stop.
“That’s exactly what I want. Just like that. Now, let’s put some sugar on it.”
I slap them — hard — and they jiggle and shake in a way that makes my mouth water while the sound of the firm slap echoes through the room. Slowly, I run my tongue across my lips; I can’t wait to get deep into these buns.
“I know what you need. Exactly what you need. I got it, and I’m going to give it to you, until you’re overflowing with it.”
Another thwack echoes through the room as I slap my hand hard into the buns again. They jiggle once more and then, biting my lip, I dust some cinnamon on top, watching it rain down like sweet confetti. My palms are still red from the impact, and I grunt with satisfaction.
"Fuck, that's good. So fucking good. Hold still for me. Stay right there."
They spread under my touch, yielding to my every command. I'm the boss here. I control how far it goes, how much it takes, and I’m going to push it to the limit.
"You like that? You want more?" I mutter, running my hands along the surface, feeling the smooth, soft texture beneath my fingertips. Delicious, irresistible. "I'll give you more. I'll give you everything I've got."
Sweat beads on my forehead as I work. The kitchen's hot as hell, but I don't care. This is worth it. Always worth it.
"Gonna fill you up real nice," I growl, spreading the brown sugar mixture. My fingers get sticky with it, and I lick one clean, moaning at the sweetness. "Fuck, that's delicious."
I roll the dough tight, pressing and squeezing as I go. It's all about the pressure. Too soft and you get nothing. Too hard and you ruin it. But work it just right, and you get a sweet treat that will make you sit down and light a cigarette.
"That's it. Take it all in. Every. Fucking. Inch."
When I slice into the roll, it makes a sound that sends shivers down my spine. Each cut reveals perfect swirls of cinnamon and sugar. A work of art. Delicious, decadent art that I want to shove into my mouth and eat while the crumbs coat my chest.
"Look at those sweet rolls," I whisper, arranging them in the pan. "Fucking perfect."
I slide the pan into the oven, step back, and set the timer.
It’s early—too damn early for most people—but for me, it’s perfect. The world is still quiet, just me and the dough. The smell of cinnamon, butter, and yeast fills the air. For once, there’s no violence, no war, no blood. Just the steady rhythm of kneading, proofing, baking. I should feel out of place here, a former Army Ranger, a Twisted Devil running a bakery as a front for a mission I’m not supposed to fail. But this? This feels right. I move through the kitchen with practiced ease, pulling treats from the oven, lining up pastries, and preparing another batch of my grandmother’s sticky bun recipe from memory.
It’ll be hours before the sun is up, but I’m running on a river of caffeine and a lifetime’s worth of excitement. Today is opening day. If anyone from the MC knew how much I cared about this, I’d never live it down.
But they’ll never find out.
All they know is that I’m here in Boise, going deep undercover to scout on one of the club’s enemies. That’s all they know, and that’s all they’ll ever know, until I bring them the head of Victor Moretti.
By the time the doors open, the glass cases are full—sticky buns, croissants, beignets, loaves of fresh bread, kouign-amann, cinnamon rolls, danishes, canelé, palmiers, and half a dozen other types of cookies and pastries. I should be thinking about Victor, about Club Sin, about what I have to do here. But all I’m thinking is: this is the happiest I’ve been in years.
The little bell I have hanging from the door chimes once, twice, three times, and I look up to see the first wave of customers isn’t what I’d hoped for. A group of construction workers rolls in—the early morning crowd. Hard-hats, work boots, and safety vests. Rough blue-collar guys, the kind I usually get along with, but not today. Today is different. They look at the glass cases with blank stares. Then they look at me, and their confusion turns into shit-eating grins — I know what's coming, I see it in their eyes. They see it in mine, too, and the smiles get wider. There’s no mistaking me for anything other than what I am: a big, bearded, tatted-up motherfucker wearing a damn apron and covered in flour, cinnamon, and sugar. I brace for it, and it doesn’t take long.
“Didn’t take you for the Betty Crocker type, big guy,” one of them says, leaning across the counter, flashing a crooked smile. The others nod, throw elbows at each other, snicker like they’ve never seen a guy bake before.
“Shit, I was expecting some little old lady running this place. You got a cute apron, though. Your mommy know you borrowed it?” This one’s got a smoker’s rasp and a missing tooth, but I can’t help noticing he’s eyeing the beignets like he's about to drool all over himself.
“You takin’ special orders, ma’am.. I mean, man?” They laugh in unison, a chorus that drills into my skull, pushing all the wrong buttons.
But I want to start this business of right, and that means not starting a brawl with a group of construction workers.
“What can I get you guys?”
“I’ll take a coffee. Can you pour me one, doll?” Says another.
