TANK: Lords of Carnage MC

by Daphne Loveling

  It takes me a second to realize he’s making a joke at his own expense.

  “Maybe you’re just not typing in the right search words,” I reply.

  “I tried ‘how to instantly learn four years of parenting in a week,’ but I didn’t get any hits,” he says dryly.

  That gets a laugh out of me.

  “I don’t think you’re doing that bad,” I admit, softening just a little in spite of myself. “You’ve kept her alive for what? A couple of weeks now? That’s gotta be worth something.”

  “Yeah,” he deadpans. “Alive is the bare minimum.”

  I hesitate. “You know, I used to be a little girl myself. And I had a little sister. Just in case… you know… you had any questions.”

  The offer hangs in the air. A few seconds pass.

  “Well,” he says abruptly, as if I haven’t spoken. “I’ll be back sometime tonight. Shouldn’t be too late. I’ll text you to let you know when I’m gonna be back in town.”

  My cheeks redden. “Okay.”

  Another second of silence. I look up at him. He glances at me briefly, then away.

  “Well, thanks again.” The words are grudging. Tank lifts an indifferent shoulder.

  A flash of anger courses through me. God, the arrogance of this man! I feel like letting him have it with both barrels — throwing his cocky bullshit in his smug face — but Wren is right here, just a few feet away in the car. I don’t want to argue in front of her. So instead, I clamp my jaw together and turn away.

  “Okay. Bye,” I snap through gritted teeth.

  Not waiting for a response, I get in the car, start the engine, and pull away from the curb.

  I can’t resist one last look as I drive away. He’s standing in front of his house, tattooed arms folded in front of his chest, staring at the car like he’s having second thoughts about this whole arrangement.

  Me, too, you jerk. I telegraph at him angrily. Believe me.

  I suck in a few deep breaths as I drive, willing myself to calm down. I’ve actually been looking forward to this day with Wren, and I don’t want to ruin it by being angry. I mentally run through the list of activities I’ve planned as options. I figure she might like to go back to my place and paint for a while, but first I want to give her some time outside to run around and get some exercise.

  I point the car in the direction of Lundy Park, which I remember has all sorts of playground equipment for her to mess around on. Since it’s a school day, the other kids there are young like Wren. At first, she’s too shy to play with any of them, and she won’t leave my side. I push her on the swings for a while, then watch her go down the slide. We send Snoopy down a few times, too, which makes her giggle.

  A couple of the other children come near, and start to play in the sandy area a few feet away from the slide and jungle gym. And then, in the miracle of uncomplicated childhood friendship, somehow they’re all playing together. Wren hands Snoopy off to me for safekeeping while she runs around with her new friends — with no words required, other than their laughter and shrieks of pleasure.

  Eventually, Wren gets tired and comes back to where I’m sitting on a nearby bench. She looks up at me.

  “You ready to go?”

  She nods.

  Back at the car, I strap her into her seat. Tank’s stern face appears in my mind’s eye, as though he’s right here, watching to make sure I don’t screw it up. Jerk, I silently say to him. I figure it’s probably time to take her to my place for a while. I realize I forgot to ask Tank if Wren takes naps, but stubbornly, I decide I’m not about to call and ask him. I climb into the driver’s seat and start the car. The radio station I have on is playing a pretty harsh-sounding rap song, so I shut it off.

  “Did you have a good time at the park, Wrenny-wrenny-bo-benny?” I ask, glancing in the rear-view mirror. She hesitates for a second, then nods happily.

  “Yay! I’m so glad!” I pull up at a stop light. “Did Snoopy?”

  Another nod.

  “Hey, do you know that song? The Name Game song?” I wait for a second, and then start singing it:

  Wrenny-wrenny-bo-benny,

  Bo-nanna-fanna-fo-fenny.

  Fee-fi-fo-menny… Wrenny!

  Wren’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. I can see hers crinkle up in amusement, though I’m not hearing her laugh yet. Still, I’m encouraged to keep going.

  “You can do that song with anyone’s name. Come on,” I urge. “Let’s do Snoopy now!” I crank all the windows down and shout-sing, hamming it up for maximum effect. “Snoopy-snoopy-bo-boopy! Bo-nanna-fanna-fo-foopy! Fee-fi-fo-moopy… Snoopy!”

  By now, Wren is full on giggling in the back. It’s such a joyful sound that I start laughing, too.

  “You think that’s pretty funny, don’t you? Okay, now it’s time to do me. Help me out here, Wren, will you? Come on!”

  I take a deep exaggerated breath and begin:

  “Cady-cady-bo-bady…”

  This time, a second after I start the rhyme, a little voice pipes up to join me.

  It’s soft. So soft that at first, I think I’m imagining it. But as I lower my own voice just a notch to hear her better, Wren surrenders to the fun of singing the nonsense song. The first time, she’s uncertain, hesitant, but when we’re done, I yell, “Again!” and start the round all over.

  This time, by the end, she’s bo-nanna-fanna’ing like a champ.

  For good measure, I have us go through one more round of Wrenny and then one more of Snoopy. By now, Wren is singing right along with me, all shyness forgotten in the fun of the song.

  It’s a tiny miracle.

  As we sing together, I’m already growing excited to tell Tank about this breakthrough. His cranky exterior notwithstanding, I know he’s worried about Wren, and I know he’ll be thrilled to know she’s one step closer to talking.

  And right then — right out of the blue, with Wren’s little voice ringing in my ears — is when the memory hits me.

  Right in the gut.

  Cassie used to sing this song with me. I taught it to her, too. So, so many years ago.

  Tears spring to my eyes and are rolling down my cheeks before I even realize it. I manage to croak out the end of the song, but my final words end in a sob.

  I glance up at the mirror, and I see that Wren has noticed. She’s looking at me in alarm, little brows knit together in worry.

  “It’s okay, Wrenny,” I rush to tell her, sniffling loudly and pulling a sleeve over my wrist to mop my wet eyes. “You just reminded me of someone. Hey, I have an idea — you want to go have a treat somewhere with me?”

  And just like that, all is forgotten as she bobs her head. The promise of sugar is universally guaranteed to solve everything for a four-year-old.

  I take Wren to a coffee shop I like in Tanner Springs, called the Golden Cup. It’s a favorite place of mine to go when I have a day off, though I don’t go there nearly as often as I’d like to. The place is also known for having really good homemade cookies and pastries, which I know Wren will love.

  Sure enough, Wren immediately points to a giant chocolate chip cookie when we get up to the pastry case. I tell her we can split it, and she nods. I order a cup of tea for myself and a milk for her.

  The striking redhead who I think is the owner rings us up, and also gives Wren a little trinket from a bowl next to the register — a plastic ring with a sparkly daisy on it.

  “Here you go, honey!” The owner croons, leaning down with a smile. “This ring will look so pretty on you. What’s your name?”

  I hold my breath, willing Wren to speak. But she’s overcome with shyness, and instead turns away and buries her face in my pant leg. Oh well, baby steps. “Her name is Wren,” I smile.

  “That’s a beautiful name,” the owner smiles. “Enjoy your cookie, Wren.”

  I decide to push my luck. “Say thank you, Wrenny-bird.”

  I hear a mumble that might be a thank you from my pant leg. I’ll take it.

  We sit down at o
ne of the small, two-top tables. The ring is too big for any of little Wren’s fingers, but she keeps it on the whole time, anyway. It slides all over as she eats her half of the cookie and pretends to feed a few bites to Snoopy. She talks to the stuffed dog in a low voice — too low for me to hear what she’s saying — and when I ask her if he likes it, she not only nods but gives me a soft, “yes.”

  I feel like I’ve just climbed Mount Everest.

  It takes everything I’ve got not to push Wren to talk more, or to act like it’s too big a deal. The last thing I want is for her to close up on me again. But at the same time, the idea of showing Tank her progress makes me so freaking excited I want to burst. I tamp down my impatience, and try to exude calm as Wren finishes her cookie and milk. On the way home, we do another round of the Name Game with her name and Snoopy’s, and she belts it out like a champ.

  Oh please, oh please… Let her do it for Tank when he gets back.

  10

  Tank

  All the way out and back on our run, the Death Devils are on my mind. And Wren. And Cady.

  Angel and Beast are on their bikes in front of the van we take, with our shipment loaded in the back. Brick’s driving the van, the rest of us — Ghost, Striker, and me — with him. This is the first delivery we’re doing to a new client, a crew headed by a guy named Cobra, as part of expanding our territory. It’s bad fucking timing, given this RICO shit with the Death Devils and Oz. But if we don’t deliver, we’ll lose this client, and we need the money. So we take extra precautions, and extra men. And all of us are on edge.

  We’re going into territory that’s right on the edge of Death Devils turf. If the Devils hadn’t had to go to ground, we probably would’ve transferred the product to them and let them deliver it for a cut of our profits. But that ain’t possible right now given the circumstances. We meet Cobra and his crew at a club they own. Brick and Ghost stay outside with the van; Striker and I go in with Angel and Beast. We’re selling them heroin and coke, which they’ll be selling on the street. But inside the club as we make the transaction, it’s pretty fuckin’ clear they’re keeping part of it, and it’s pretty fuckin’ clear why.

  The strippers.

  This club used to be just your basic strip joint: watered down drinks, lap dances, a place for bored insurance salesmen to drink their lunch and come get their afternoon jollies. I’ve even been here before once or twice, way back in the day. But this crew that owns it currently took over a couple years ago, and it’s an open secret that now it’s mostly a front for prostitution.

  The chicks up on the stage dance like sinewy robots, with vacant looks in their too-tired, glassy eyes. The lights are low, and it doesn’t take a genius to know it’s to keep the customers from looking too closely. To a woman, it looks like they’re all hooked on dope to keep them compliant. Even the young ones look old as hell, used up and spent. The staff don’t even try to hide it when a customer grabs a passing server or a dancer coming off the stage and pulls her away down the back hallway.

  As I size the place up, I can’t help comparing it to Club Haven. The girls we hire are clean and healthy. Any customer who tries to solicit sex is thrown out on his ass, and any girl who tries to trick is fired on the spot. We pay well, and the Haven is already getting a bit of a reputation throughout the dancer community as a good place to work.

  This place, on the other hand… Jesus. It reeks of seedy desperation. Fuck, I want to close it down myself. The more I watch the women wander around here like zombies, the more I think about the old ladies of the club. And Cady, for some reason.

  The handoff of our shipment goes off without a hitch. After the money changes hands, the four of us go out back with Cobra and his crew and load the product into a recycling bin they brought out, then haul it back inside the loading dock of the club.

  “Hope they don’t toss that shit out by mistake,” Striker jokes as the two of us go back to the van, leaving Angel and Beast behind to finish up business. “That’d be one hell of a surprise down at the old recycling plant, eh?”

  “Hey,” Ghost calls to us as we reach the van, pulling open the side door. “You ready to go?”

  We climb in, Brick starts up the engine, and we’re on our way back to Tanner Springs. The usual banter between us goes on for a bit, and then one by one, we go silent.

  “That club was fuckin’ rough, eh?” Striker mutters.

  “Yeah.” I grimace.

  “Did Angel know about that shit?”

  “I dunno.” Ghost shrugs. “Doubt it. He was just movin’ the goods, man.”

  “I don’t like it, man. That crew looks fuckin’ shady.”

  “We ain’t exactly Girl Scouts ourselves. We ain’t the morality police, brother.”

  “We don’t drug our fuckin’ women,” Striker says sharply.

  “Yeah. And they ain’t gonna be careful enough to not get themselves caught by Vice.”

  “No shit. I don’t know, man. I don’t want Vice sniffin’ around us by association.”

  “Especially if they start coming around our legit businesses.”

  “Let’s hope this RICO shit with the Death Devils dies down by the time we’re due to run our next shipment to Cobra.”

  There’s silence in the van.

  “You ever think about gettin’ outta this shit?” I finally ask.

  “You mean drugs?” Brick grunts.

  “The hard stuff, yeah.” I pause. “I dunno. It’s a hassle, and sometimes it doesn’t feel like it’s worth it. Sometimes it seems like our time is comin’ up pretty soon.”

  “Yeah. It’s occurred to me.” Brick swears softly. “I value my freedom. I can’t be locked up, with Sydney and the kids at home.”

  “No shit.”

  I light up a smoke and contemplate Brick’s words. It’s one thing to get locked up when you got no other obligations but the club. Hell, I did a stint myself behind bars a few years ago. Sure, it wasn’t fuckin’ pleasant, but I did my time. I’ve always just told myself that whatever happens, happens.

  But now, I got more shit than just myself to think about. I wonder what would happen to Wren if I got sent away. I still don’t know where her mom is. And shit, if Jess thought I would be a better parent to the kid than she would, I don’t even know what sorta shit she’s gotten into. She’s definitely not the first woman I’ve ever known who used up all her money numbing herself from her problems. Hell, my own mom did the same thing, just with alcohol and pills. Which is why my grandma ended up raising me instead of her.

  But I do know one thing. If I went away now, whatever would happen to Wren wouldn’t be good. The cops would take her. They’d probably try to find her mom, but if Jess is as bad off as I think she is, they’re not likely to give Wren back to her. She’d probably end up in foster care. Shit. My stomach churns at the thought. She’s already been through so much. I don’t know what exactly, but you can see it in her face plain as day. Wren’s such a careful kid — like she’s afraid of even one false step. She’s got a wary look in her little eyes that no four-year-old should ever have.

  I can’t go away. I can’t get sent to prison. I couldn’t do that to the kid. It would wreck her.

  For the first time, I realize there might be a limit to what I’d do for my MC.

  And I’m not sure what the hell that means for me.

  As a Lord, or as a dad.

  When I get back into town and head up the stairs to Cady’s place, it’s like I’ve entered a different world. There’s music playing that wafts down the hall toward me — cheery, upbeat music that reminds me of those DVDs Wren likes to watch so much. But even with the music going, Cady must hear the sound of my boots, because she flings open the door to greet me. When her eyes meet mine, I notice they’re shining.

  “You’re back! Wren and I have something to show you,” she says with a wide, excited grin. She’s bouncing on her heels, so much that she’s practically jumping up and down. This is a different Cady than I’ve ever seen. It’s so un
expected and so fucking cute I have to bite my lip to stifle a laugh.

  “How could you hear me over that racket?” I mock-scowl as I walk towards her.

  “I was listening for your truck,” Cady replied. “I’ve been so excited to show you this!”

  “I honestly can’t imagine what this is about.”

  “You’re gonna love it, I promise.”

  She ushers me through the doorway. Inside the tiny apartment, Wren is sitting on the couch, playing with what looks like some sort of kit.

  “What’s that she’s doing?” I ask Cady, nodding.

  “She’s making jewelry out of pop beads,” Cady explains. “I got her a kit at the store yesterday. I figured she could play with it when she’s here.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” Cady draws in a breath. “She likes it. She’s really into pretty much anything creative, I’m finding. But that’s not what we wanted to show you.”

  “Okay,” I frown.

  “Are you ready?” Cady sits down next to Wren, her eyes bright with excitement. “Are you ready, Wrenny?”

  The little girl nods.

  “Okay, then. One, two, three!”

  Cady starts to sing: “Wrenny-wrenny-bo-benny…”

  Then, a half-second later, Wren joins in.

  “Bo-nanna-fanna-fo-fenny…”

  I stand there fuckin’ stupefied as I watch the two of them sing.

  Cady, her pink cheeks flushed with pleasure and pride, looking down at Wren with an expression any child would only see as love. And Wren looking up at her trustingly. Seeking Cady’s approval. The two of them smiling at each other as they finish the song.

  Fuck, it chokes me up.

  “That was pretty great,” I manage gruffly when they’re done.

  “Hey, Wren, I have an idea,” Cady says then, turning to the little girl. “How about if we do Tank’s song next, since we’re so good at this?”

  Wren hesitates, then ducks her head and gives Cady a shy nod.