Pulling herself together, she straightened her shoulders and flicked her long wavy blonde hair that was currently loose and spilling down her back away from her face. Priss narrowed her eyes and tapped Tank on the shoulder. Now there were two horrified people when Tank caught sight of her. Remorse and apology shined from Tank’s eyes, and if I didn’t know Tank any better, I’d have said he looked on the verge of tears.
Clearing her throat and putting on the best front she could possibly muster, Priss looked Tank dead in the eyes saying, “The feeling is completely mutual, Hunter Adams.” No one called him that bar Priss and Tilly, it also signalled he was in deep shit. I couldn’t help but chuckle internally at his predicament. Not that it was funny, just that someone was daring to put the big hulking man in his place. “But to be perfectly clear, you are a fucking asshole. Stay the fuck away from me when you come to see Tilly, from now on. And on the off chance you are paid to touch me, shove the money so far up your ass that you spit confetti for the rest of your life you fucking dick.” With that she stomped away, joining Lou and Kendall at the bar.
Interestingly enough, Priss never told a soul about what Tank had said or why she was upset that night. Even after him being an asshole, and she was right, because he was being an asshole, Priss protected him from Lou and Kendall’s wrath. If nothing else, that only further solidified that Priss was a good woman in my eyes. Her anger at Tank didn’t affect her desire to protect him from what would be, two screaming banshees willing to kick his ass if Lou and Kendall found out what he’d said. Okay, so maybe they themselves couldn’t kick his ass, but they did both have men that would be willing to do it for them.
It took about five months for them to get back to on speaking terms with each other again and somewhat back to normal. That was the longest they’d ever gone after one of their arguments. I could see the situation was taking its toll on my brother, in a big fucking way. To say it was strained, when Priss would drop Tilly at the clubhouse to see him, or when Tank would drop Tilly off to Priss at the diner, was the fucking understatement of the century. Priss shot daggers at him anytime he looked at her and Tank, well Tank just looked like someone kicked his fucking puppy every time she did, or refused to speak to him.
Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I figure I best confirm whether my suspicions are correct or not. “What’s up with Priss, and why aren’t you speaking to her for a year this time?”
Tank has threatened not to speak to Priss for a year every other week. This isn’t a new thing, and it’s not a threat he’ll ever carry out. He cares too much about her to follow through with it. After that five month hiatus, I don’t think he would risk having to go through that again; for his sake, let alone hers. If there was one thing I was positive of, Tank would never intentionally hurt Priss, he would lay down his life for her, in fact.
Huffing out a breath, Tank frowns at the beer in his hand that he manage to snag without me noticing.
“In a show of fucking solidarity or some shit, she’s decided, since V is gettin a tattoo today she would, too. I told her it’s bullshit her marking up her skin like that, but she told me to go fuck myself and stormed out. I warned her that if she went through with it I wouldn’t talk to her for a year. She laughed in my fucking face, blew me a kiss, waved as she hopped on her fucking bike, and rode off.” With that I bust out laughing. I probably shouldn’t because Tank is fucking pissed but shit, that’s too fucking funny. Why he thought he would get away with telling her what to do or his idle threat is beyond me.
Now, is probably a good time to mention that Priss is the only one of the women that actually owns and rides her own Harley. Not a completely uncommon occurrence in our world, but rare enough that it’s still a sight to behold. A sexy woman, dressed in all leather, is not something you take a look at twice, but maybe even three or four times. Regardless of the fact that Tank would more than likely fucking kill you for it. From her leather jacket to her skin-tight pants, long blonde hair braided tightly down her back and hot as fuck riding boots, Priss is every man’s wet dream when she gets around on that fucking bike.
Poor Tank when she does. Aside from constantly wiping the drool from his own chin, he has to contend with every other fucking asshole checking her out, panting after her. More than a handful of times he’s threatened death, in creatively painful ways, to brothers or prospects that stare after her too long.
Safety being Priss’s first priority means she’s also got a run around beater car for taking Tilly where she needs to go. One that Tank makes damn sure is in good working order, at all times, for Tilly of course. But when she’s on her own Priss always rides her dad’s custom hog.
It’s a sweet fucking ride. All chrome forks and pipes, midnight blue pearlescent paint with a lighter blue flaming skull airbrushed on the gas tank. It’s a phenomenal piece of artwork and the machine itself, is fucking custom all the way. Most of the work was done by her dad in the MC’s shop, Chasers, before he passed. Now, it’s Tank that has taken on that job, he wouldn’t remotely consider letting anyone else touch it.
Bringing me back to the present Tank spits out, “Fuck you, Brother. She’s got virgin skin, that’s a fucking rarity around here. I don’t want her marking it up to show she’s one of the girls or something. It’s fucking stupid and she’s stupid for doing it.” He huffs and falls back onto the couch making it creak again as he does. I swear sometimes this dick acts like he’s a cross between her old man and a six-year-old tantrum throwing kid.
He’s got no claim on her and has no say in anything she does. Doesn’t seem to matter when he gets his mind set on something regarding her, though. Tank just steamrolls the fuck out of anyone in his way, and in this, Priss is not the exception; she’s the rule.
“Brother, chill the fuck out. I’m sure she’s doing it because she wants to, not for some show. Priss isn’t stupid. She wouldn’t ink herself to prove a point or some shit.” It’s true. Priss is probably the most responsible, put together person I know. I respect the fuck out of her for it.
After raising Tilly from the age of eleven to the fifteen-year-old she is now, Priss only being nineteen herself at the time, she was given no choice but to grow up fast. At the time she should have been out having fun, partying with friends and heading off to college, Priss was working fulltime, keeping house, playing chauffer, and raising a juvenile into teen hood. If that’s not responsible, I don’t know what is.
Tank says nothing more, I never expect him too either; he’s a moody bastard and one of very few words. Sometimes I have to chuckle to myself at the false perception everyone has of Tank.
At twenty six, after spending eight years as a Navy SEAL weapons specialist, Hunter ‘Tank’ Adams, was honourably discharged and found a home as a prospect with Devil’s Spawn MC in Blackwater Colorado. A far cry from the deserts and solitude he’d called home for nearly a decade. His road name was apt; Tank was a huge motherfucker. At six foot seven and 280 pounds of solid muscle, he could scare the piss out of most people just lounging on a damn bar stool. Add to that his shaved head, almost down to the scalp, two full sleeves, a nearly covered chest and back of some of the most demonic looking tattoos I’ve ever seen, who gets a fucking skull with a dagger impaled in it anyway? With the Enforcer patch on his cut, he’s had grown men turning pale and breaking out in a sweat just conversing with them.
The misconception about Tank is one that he carefully constructed to protect parts of his life he doesn’t want anyone privy to. Coming across laid back, friendly and calm, despite his appearance and the fact he knows sixty-seven ways to kill someone with his bare hands, and probably used all of them, too, is the complete opposite of who he really is.
Tank has managed to share very few personal details about himself, fuck knows how he kept it quiet with the nosy bastards that belong to this club, but he did. Priest, Pipe and Reaper all know the basics and nothing more.
He was a SEAL, specialised in weapons, discharged after his contract was up for renewal the t
hird time. The fact that he’s single was all most people knew. I felt privileged Tank trusted me enough to share the kind of person he truly was, the man behind the façade.
The atrocities Tank saw, while serving his country in Kandahar, turned my stomach. The way he described the violence, degradation, and torture of innocents by the native rebel soldiers, made me question if it was possible to recover from being thrust into that environment for years on end. It didn’t surprise anyone that when Tank came home from his last tour he was diagnosed with PTSD. However, not one to be labelled, he placed it in a box permanently, and discarded it. Tank sought help, doing something that a lot of soldiers were too proud, too stubborn, or unable to achieve.
Part of his healing came in the form of Devil’s Spawn MC. Tank once told me that the togetherness, the brotherhood within the MC was one of the turning points in his recovery. Leaving the SEALs, Tank felt cast aside, no longer a part of a close-knit group of men that had each other’s back and worked together toward a common objective. He was thanked, patted on the back and given his discharge paperwork, leaving him without a safety net of men that understood the trials and horrors he’d faced. The MC filled that hole, gave him back something he thought he’d never have again and desperately needed. I understood that, Devil’s Spawn MC had done something similar for me, too.
Brothers came from all walks of life: shitty families, abuse, having been thrust into dangerous situations, with very few choices but to do what they had to for survival
We have a hierarchy, certain rules, granted not many, but some, to live by, and consequences metered out with a heavy hand for fuck ups severe enough to warrant intervention. We live, ride, play and fuck free, it is our code to live by. That doesn’t mean we don’t have strong morals and values, a set of priorities to live by, because we most certainly do. We don’t hurt women or children, this is vehemently upheld, and there is no judgement passed on brothers’ past or present choices.
It doesn’t matter if you have money or you have none, you are educated or barely hold a GED, brothers are accepted for who they are, the strength of their character, and their loyalty.
Tank has one of the strongest characters among us. Irrespective of what he’d seen, done, or been ordered to do, he is loyal, fearsome, focused and has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. Tilly and Priss are a testament to that.
He may have been originally assigned, not volunteered, by Priest to oversee the prospects maintaining Priss and Tilly’s house, but Tank is now the one that ensures they have all the support and help they ever need, most of which is in the form of Tank himself, without request.
More than once, try multiple handfuls of times, it is fucking hilarious really, how often it happens, Priss summarily dismisses Tank. She tells him she can manage on her own or more specifically to, “Fuck off and die in a hole.” Tank just laughs her dismissal off and shows up again the very next day.
Priss must not be very devoted to the idea of getting rid of him because she never takes it further than to yell at Tank herself. She knows, full well, if she approaches Priest or Pipe, Priss can have one of them tell Tank to back off and let her handle her own business, from now on. They might not agree with her, but they definitely would have had a word with the man.
To be honest, I think it was more than likely, a slightly twisted game of push-pull those two have going on. Tank will do something to piss her off, usually becoming too involved in her personal life, and Priss will throw sass, mouthing off about him being a, “Douche Canoe” or, “King Fucktard”.
In the end, they always find a way to move past whatever shit they have going on. More often than not, that comes in the form of ignoring anything ever happened and they go on about their lives.
I am certain of one thing though; in all this back and forth they have going on, neither of them will do anything to upset or jeopardise Tilly’s wellbeing. Tank is nothing, if not ultra-sensitive to Tilly’s feelings, Priss even more so.
Tilly isn’t high strung or even a necessarily sensitive teenage girl. She is just far too acquainted with loss and sadness that neither Priss nor Tank wants her to feel she will lose either of them if they fight.
It is funny as fuck seeing Tank pander to a little slip of a thing like Tilly. Not that Tilly demands that of him, no, he does that all of his own accord. At five foot three, her body still in that awkward lanky, not quite filled out stage, that all fifteen-year-old girls have to go through, Tilly is delicately built; unlike her sister’s toned, athletic, perfectly proportioned body.
Priss and Tilly shared the same gorgeous, long blonde hair, but where Priss’s eyes are the colour of the Mediterranean Sea, Tilly’s are a deep chocolate brown, just like her dad’s. Where Priss has done years of gymnastics, starting at the age four, and yoga, tends to speak her mind and is strong willed; Tilly has forgone sports, preferring to draw with charcoal and is quiet and reserved by nature.
Regardless of their differences, that is what made Tilly and Priss such a good team throughout all of the hardship they faced. If Tilly had been a difficult kid, rebellious, high maintenance; there would be no way Priss could have kept things together, as well as she had.
Snapping me back to reality and the game on TV, I see Tank making a move to leave. I look at the clock and notice an hour passed while I was wrapped up in my head. Throwing out a brief goodbye, he heads out.
No doubt the nosy bastard will be down at Skin Fusion within the next twenty minutes, pissing Priss the fuck off, ensuring yet another round of her telling him to go fuck himself.
All I can do now is sit and wait. Ronnie isn’t due home for at least another hour and a half. I have fuck all to do today, besides stopping in at the clubhouse a bit later to catch up with Priest.
In the weeks that followed Ronnie’s hospital stay, the club had come to the conclusion that the shooting injuring Ronnie and costing Isabella her life, was solely planned, and executed by Cage’s deranged ex-wife. Unfortunately, the likelihood there was some level of involvement by the Satan’s Sons was high. Something I happened to wholeheartedly agree with.
It wasn’t that Isabella wasn’t capable of carrying it out on her own. Fuck, she did, in fact, shoot my woman, after all. It just struck the MC as unlikely; she would willingly go into a situation that she knew would cost her life. Isabella was nothing, if not narcissistic. It didn’t gel. Isabella made no secret of the fact that she wanted Cage back. For fuck’s sake, she spent the six months prior, sending text messages, making phone calls at all hours of the day and night, and sending naked fucking pictures of herself to Cage’s cell phone, in an effort to entice him to reunite with her. Each time she was met with a, “Fuck No” from Cage. Isabella escalated her attempts until Reaper paid her a friendly visit. At the time, she was holed up in a little town about fifty miles away. After his visit, where he diplomatically delivered the message that it wasn’t going to happen and the consequences, which were many and colourful if she continued to hassle Cage, there had been radio silence.
Connecting all the dots, that message would have been delivered not long before Isabella shot Kendall. Reaper wasn’t unaware of the timeline and the guilt he harboured, unnecessarily, became so overwhelming for him that he snapped about a month back, destroying a pool table and half the fucking bar at the clubhouse. It took three brothers and a visibly distraught Kendall to calm his ass down. Irrespective of the fact, Reaper held no responsibility for Isabella’s actions, I didn’t know if that was something he would ever be able to set straight with himself and overcome. If it had been me, I don’t think I would have been able to, so I completely understood where the man was coming from.
Currently, the club is in the process of gathering information, trying to establish what the Satan’s Sons end game is. There is no way, whatever they had going on, stopped with Isabella’s death and Ronnie’s shooting. They wanted to get to Kendall for some reason. Ronnie was simply collateral damage.
The thing is; we are completely in the dark
with all this shit. Devil’s Spawn hasn’t been in an altercation or turf war with Satan’s Sons for fucking years. The two clubs aren’t friendly, the total opposite in fact, however, we haven’t actively done shit to piss them off, either.
Vengeance MC, yet again, stepped up and offered to help wherever they can, seeing as we are sitting around with our dicks in our hands. Boss, Vengeance’s president, and Diesel his VP, are travelling back and forth between Blackwater and Furnace at least twice a week, meeting with Priest, Pipe and Reaper.
Even with the extra assistance, no reason for the unprovoked attacks has been uncovered. Information is scarce, people aren’t talking and the added connection and contacts through Vengeance have yet to turn up shit. We won’t stop digging until we have answers but this is seriously fucking wearing on everyone.
I am in the kitchen, heating up a tray of lasagne Ronnie made the night before, when I hear the front door shut with a bang. Following closely on its heels was a muttered, “Jesus Christ,” signalling Ronnie had made it home in one piece.
Floating Page 9