by Chiah Wilder
Lena packed away all those thoughts into neat little boxes in the back of her mind to go over tonight, when she was back at home alone, vulnerable, and able to pick over everything to her heart’s content. For now, she had a business to run. The restaurant wasn’t going to close down because she hit a snag in her love life. The only thing that could cause any problems at this point was the lack of profits she was drawing due to the thugs who were hungry for her bottom dollar.
If they ran her out of business, they wouldn’t have any more revenue to steal from her. Yet they didn’t seem too concerned about that problem.
A long sigh slipped through her lips. Turning back to the computer screen, she began to work.
Tank
“Yo, Maniac, pass the fries.” Tank jerked his head toward the communal basket of fries at the center of the table.
“Sure thing, bro.” Maniac stuffed a handful in his mouth and passed the basket down the table at Dominic’s bar, a local hangout on the main strip the club frequented more often than not. “You get the next round.”
“Yeah, in your dreams. This is gonna be my last one for the night. I gotta head home.”
“You got a nice piece of ass waiting for you there, huh?”
Tank nursed his beer and checked his phone.
Still nothing.
Why he was even bothering to worry about the fact that Lena hadn’t texted him back in her normal two-hour window was beyond his comprehension. Meanwhile, Quinn had been blowing up his phone for the past half hour after her little surprise call that afternoon. Whatever the hell that was all about was another thing he wasn’t going to entertain. He rubbed a hand down his face and looked around the mostly buzzing bar.
“Not so much, man. Keeping my shit on ice for a while.”
“I get you. Stupid, but I get you.” Maniac saluted him with a beer and took a big swig. “What about Quinn? You been tappin’ that? She’s practically following you around wherever you go, isn’t she?”
“Pretty much.” Tank dug into the fries sitting in front of him.
Things had been electric with Lena—amazing, even. But women were always on their best behavior in the beginning. He remembered that clear enough during his first marriage. Trish had blown his mind six ways to Sunday, and he hadn’t thought it was possible to find anyone so perfect for him. That had been the first few months of bliss, knock-his-socks-off sex, and devoting herself to making him happy.
It had been a honeymoon without a marriage, the best of both worlds, until it had gone so fucking wrong. As soon as she had a ring on her finger, she’d done a complete one-eighty. He couldn’t even fathom that she was the woman sleeping in bed with him every night. Not that he was sleeping in his own bed at that point, anyway. By then, she had it in her head that he was cheating on her with anything in a skirt that moved. Her suspicions were immoveable, so he had a permanent spot on their couch.
Fuck, that had been a shitty time. He hardly liked to think about it, let alone dwell on it. Because of Trish’s hyper-crazy ways, he became well-aware of how intimately women could draw a man into their web before turning on him and eating his still beating heart from his chest. She had been his first and only indoctrination to serious relationship life.
Although he and Lena had a good thing going, that wasn’t any indication that it was going to continue to be good. Damn, he was obsessing over this like a woman, and it was getting truly pathetic.
“I’m getting a shot.”
Tank pushed back from the table where a handful of his brothers were drinking and shooting the shit. There was nothing in his head right now that needed to be there, which meant it was time for a major attitude adjustment. He went to the bar and tried to get the bartender’s attention. Yeah, like that was going to happen anytime soon. A group of eager bachelorettes were crowded around his half of the bar, making it highly unlikely he would get any halfway decent service.
He leaned against the bar top and closed his eyes, trying to think about anything but Lena’s gorgeous, soft skin draped underneath his body. She was… life-altering. And that was the fucking problem, wasn’t it? There was nothing in this world that could make him commit again. Nothing that would drag him back into that hellish pit he’d sunk into as soon as he got married the first time. He sure as hell wasn’t looking for marriage this time around, but that’s where all serious relationships led to. All women dreamed of that shit.
“White picket fence, dog, and two point five tiny screamers,” Tank muttered to himself as he rubbed the back of his neck.
The last thing he wanted was to be tied to someone who was only going to be fake as fuck, and then show their true colors once he exposed his belly and was all in for the ride. There wasn’t much that could convince him otherwise—even Lena. Sure, they had their fun. That morning with her was amazing, easy, and enjoyable. And he was doing his due diligence by checking up on her, seeing how she was doing every day since then because, well, because that was the fucking polite thing to do.
Yeah, he could just keep convincing himself of that fact. He tried to hail the busy bartender again. The truth was he liked spending time with Lena, reading her texts, and hearing her voice on the phone. His throat was starting to close up at the ideas that were spinning through his head.
Suddenly, glass was shattering. As soon as his head jerked up, a sonic whoosh of an explosion. followed the commotion. He would know that sound anywhere. Without waiting, Tank threw himself into action. His long legs ate up the distance from the bar to the front door, and he was outside on the sidewalk of Main Street, looking across at Dresden Dry Cleaners before he could process that he’d moved at all.
He watched the tail end of a group of motorcycles pull out from the dry cleaners’ parking lot, and his hands curled into fists at his sides. They were wearing the club’s cuts on their backs. As rage tightened in his belly and throat, he took a deep breath and tried to assess the situation.
“Motherfucker,” Tank swore, watching the swirl of fire blaze through the shop window. “Those sonsofbitches.”
Maniac nearly barreled into him in his rush to see what had happened.
“Make sure they call 911. Go!” Tank yelled.
Maniac wasted no time and headed back inside the bar. For all Tank knew, units were already on their way to put out the blaze. But as he stared at the senseless destruction, he didn’t want to take any chances. He’d known Gus Dresden for years, since he was fourteen, and got his after school job at the shop sweeping the place up. Now, to see the old man’s store go up in flames like so much garbage… Fuck. It was uncalled for and insane. This isn’t how the club should be doing shit. Dammit.
“This shit pisses me the hell off,” Maniac said from over his left shoulder. “Gus is a cool dude—he never did a damn thing to the club.”
“Where the fuck are the damn badges?” Ice said, joining them on the sidewalk.
“I told Lou to call 911,” Maniac replied.
“I’m sure a dozen citizens are calling in, so where the hell are they?” Lynch asked. “Doing this to Gus fuckin’ blows!”
“Collecting protection money is one thing, but this is out of line,” Tank seethed, unable to see past the thick anger and dark plumes of smoke clouding his vision. “We didn’t talk about this shit in church. It’s not fuckin’ right.”
“Do you think Raptor knew about this?” Ice said.
“I can’t believe he’d be okay with this,” Lynch replied.
Ice shrugged. “That’s what we thought about the collection shit. Who knows what’s goin’ on in his fucked up mind?”
“No fuckin’ way Raptor would be okay with this, and if Hammer says he is, it’s a damn lie,” Tank said.
“I know you were tight with Gus. I get it. Come back inside and we’ll talk about it, bro,” Lynch said.
“Talk about what? I’m sick of this bullshit. I’m going to the damn clubhouse tonight to get some fuckin’ answers. You guys down with me?”
“Yeah. We got your ba
ck.” Maniac didn’t even hesitate, already making his way toward the front door as Tank flexed his numb fingers and tried not to focus on the acrid smell of burning fabric, plastic, and wood charring his nostrils. “I’ll call the others that are on our side. We’ll do an emergency meeting.”
“You can count on us,” Lynch said, and Ice nodded in agreement.
Nodding, Tank was unable to look away from the burning blaze as sirens flared to life in the distance. About damn time. Something had to be done to put a stop to the bullshit, or the club was going to get ripped in half trying. The club was supposed to make Santa Teresita a better town by keeping bad shit out, and not destroying it for Hammer’s or Fitzpatrick’s greed. It was time the members took the bull by the horns.
An hour later, members crowded the great room of the clubhouse where Tank was holding court. He didn’t even bother calling Raptor. The dude had made it clear he had enough on his plate, and his head and heart weren’t with the club. Tank had seen the despair and defeat in Raptor’s eyes the day he’d gone over to confront him. At this point, Tank wasn’t sure if the brothers could count on the president.
The members were clearly assembled in varying tribes—those who were with Raptor, and those who sided with Hammer.
Tank wasted no time laying into his brothers. “Seeing the room divided like this only makes us weak as hell, and you all know it. I don’t know what the endgame is here, or what we think we’re playing at, but if we bend the law any further to line our damn pockets, we’re gonna bring the Feds breathing down our backs, and destroy our town. Did you consider that in your plans?”
Hammer sat with his followers on the other side of the room, his boots up on the coffee table, a sick, satisfied smirk on his mug. Clearly the fucker didn’t have a care in the world. Tank was seriously starting to consider that the asshole was a sociopath, beyond saving, and they just needed to vote the waste of space out of the club once and for all, but he knew that he or any other member couldn’t initiate that or put it in motion without the president on board.
Hammer stretched and put his hands behind his head. “I don’t see any problem with it. The dirtbag wouldn’t pay up. You know we don’t tolerate that kind of disrespect. We’re not doing anything but covering our asses, protecting our name, and getting our dues. It’s all above board from my and Raptor’s view of things. You remember Raptor, don’t you, Tank? He’s the fuckin’ president, not you. And if you have a fuckin’ problem with it, then that’s on you, because I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”
“Oh, I very much fuckin’ doubt that shit,” Tank snarled, taking a few steps toward the sanctimonious bastard. “You don’t see a problem with burning down a main revenue source in town? By taking away his chances of paying us at all by immediately going off half-cocked and screwing up his place of business right off the bat? Nothing wrong with that at all?”
Hammer shrugged, not caring one bit. Smug sonofabitch. A wealth of pent-up injustice ate at Tank’s gut until he couldn’t see straight, he was so pissed. His brothers behind him were backing up his every word, adding in their two cents as he ripped into the asses of opposing club members.
“I’m with Tank on this one. That fire wasn’t sanctioned by the club. None of us discussed it in church. And if it had been put on the table, it never would have happened because the majority would’ve voted against it,” Maniac said.
Hammer shook his head. “What? If this had gone by the president, you mean? Raptor hasn’t seen the inside of this clubhouse in over a month, and a little thing like a useless fire isn’t going to keep him up at nights. You whining pussies are being fuckin’ ridiculous. What happened today was what was best for the club, what’s completely in line with our new direction that Raptor sanctions, by the way.” Hammer stared at Tank. “If you got a problem, Nomad, then get the fuck outta the club. You made the choice not to be a full-time member, so you can’t come barging in here telling me—the Vice President—what the fuck I can and can’t do. You’re way outta line, and I’m sick of your bullshit.”
Tank shot forward, and only Reaper, Snake, Neon, and Chainsaw grabbing on his arms and legs to restrain him, kept him from going after the bastard. Hammer knew damn good and well that Tank decision to go nomad had nothing to do with his devotion to the club and everything to do with taking care of his sick mother. The low blow cut what little self-control he had left in him.
“What, are you going to come after me now? Is the spokesperson for peace losing his fuckin’ cool? How sweet.” Hammer held up his middle finger and chuckled, throwing his head back. “No one’s gonna do shit, and you know it. So stop fighting a useless battle and get the fuck in line, pussy. Illegal makes us more money than any shit above board, and Raptor needs dough for medical bills right now. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing the prez a solid, and you’re not gonna change my damn mind on the subject. Fall the fuck in line or we’ll make you.”
Several members yanked Tank back into a half-closed circle of brothers. A literal wall of flesh, holding him back from rearranging Hammer’s face and some of his internal organs until he couldn’t draw another damaging breath to talk. The idea of watching that asshole bleed on the wooden floor was Tank’s whole focus as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Adrenaline charged through his brain, making everything hazy around the edges. He ran forward again, but they held him off, digging into his flesh and his upper chest as he continued to surge forward. Mindless. Willing to do almost anything so he could get hold of the useless waste of space across the way, still running his mouth to his other brothers.
“This shit is done. You can’t fight me. You’ll come around sooner or later, Tank, or you won’t. That’s not my fuckin’ problem. But me and my brothers are outta here. We’ve got more important shit to do than sit around for and listen to this bullshit. I’m in charge, running the show. Accept that and bow down, or get the fuck outta this club.” Hammer looked around the room, his glare fixed on the men surrounding Tank. “And that goes for all members. I’m sick of this pussy BS.”
Hammer strode out of the door with several of his cronies in tow.
Tank waited until he could hear their Harleys’ backfiring down the road, then he pushed past the men who’d been holding him back.
“It’s cool. Move. I got this shit under control. I’m good. It’s all good.”
Maniac edged close to Tank, giving their other brothers the side-eye. “What they’re doing isn’t fuckin’ right. We’re not gonna roll over like dogs because Hammer thinks he’s the fuckin’ voice of reason in this club.”
“No. We discussed that.” Tank blew out a long breath. “Damn. I fuckin’ lost it.”
“It’s hard not to do,” Ice said.
“We need to play it cool. We don’t want them thinking we’re planning anything,” Snake said.
Nodding, Tank ran his hand through his hair. “I fuckin’ blew it.”
“Nah. Hammer knows there are members who don’t agree with him,” Fester said. “We need Raptor to agree to step down then we can restore order back in the club.”
“Like I said, I’ll talk to him,” Tank replied.
“Let’s get some shots. Nothing’s gonna change today,” Snake said, heading to the bar.
When Tank went up to the counter, a glass of bourbon, no ice, was on the top. He lifted his chin at the prospect and picked up the tumbler then chugged it down.
The club girls came out of their rooms now that the ruckus was over and started mingling with the members. Someone turned the music back on, and Chainsaw was playing a game of pool with Lynch. The club was back to normal.
Tank looked around the room, watching the club girls prance and show their wares, and all he wanted was to see Lena again.
As much as his common sense begged him not to do it, he shifted his phone out of his pocket and pressed autodial. He started in on his second bourbon, feeling it burn down to his stomach, waiting as each ring brought him closer to a better night.
“
Hi, you’ve reached Lena. I’m not here right now, but if you leave your name and number—”
Disappointment wove through him and it pissed him off. So what if she hadn’t returned his text or didn’t pick up her phone? It was no biggie. She was clearly a busy woman. She’d told him that enough times. His hand tightened around the glass, savoring the oak taste on his tongue.
“You doing okay, man?”
“I’m rock solid.” Tank looked dead on at Omen, who was a little smaller than him, but well-built—less like a pro wrestler, more like a CrossFit addict or something.
The other man rubbed a hand across his buzz cut and shook his head.
“You know we got your back, right?”
“I know, bro. No worries.”
Omen shifted awkwardly before slapping Tank on the back and joining the others who were mingling around the clubhouse in tight packs. There was probably going to be a rousing game of Halo on the horizon now that everyone was so pumped full of adrenaline.
Over the next hour and a half, he found himself checking his phone constantly, like a damn dog with a bone. If he wasn’t so exhausted, he might have been disgusted with himself. But really, every minute that went by without a text from Lena drove him a little bit more into siding with his previous thoughts on their relationship. She clearly wasn’t into him anymore. She had ignored three of his texts and one of his calls throughout the day.
The nail in the coffin was when he texted her about a late dinner. He promised himself it would be his last text of the night, and after that, he was turning off his damn phone and handing it over to one of the brothers. Her reply was short, and to the point. And it boiled down to her being busy and she didn’t have time for anything more than her business.