Tank (Dark Falcons Book 2)

by Em Petrova

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  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  Tank

  Dark Falcons MC

  Book 2

  Copyright Em Petrova 2020

  Ebook Edition

  Electronic book publication 2020

  Cover Art by Em Petrova

  All rights reserved. Any violation of this will be prosecuted by the law.

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  More in this series:

  DIXON

  TANK

  PATRIOT

  DIESEL

  BLADE

  RIO

  Rob Parker, aka Tank, is the unluckiest bastard alive. After losing his job and wrecking his bike, his days are filled with boredom and too many bad habits to count. He also can’t seem to get away from the woman who torments the hell out of him—and worse, she belongs to another.

  Each time Catarina’s boyfriend rips her heart out, her best friend Tank is there to listen. He’s also the guy with the strongest arms to run to. When her life takes yet another nosedive, Tank can’t keep his hands off her, and she finds just how good his rough touch makes her feel. But losing her best friend isn’t an option—what would she do without him? Scarier question is…what will she do if she doesn’t act on her growing feelings?

  TANK

  A Dark Falcons MC

  Novella

  by

  Em Petrova

  Prologue

  Tank stretched out his arm to bring his hand in contact with the wrench. His fingertips brushed cool steel, and he dragged the tool across the concrete shop floor and hefted it in his grip.

  It seemed like every few days he found himself in the shop, tweaking some part of his bike. The guys of the Dark Falcons Motorcycle Club razzed him about needing a new hobby besides bikes, but fact was, they’d been his life for as long as he could remember.

  In the early days of his youth, his old man would let him sit in the garage with him and watch as he ripped apart engines or trick out the motorcycles he created. Sometimes he thought the things he built with his own two hands and the guys in the club were more than family—they were his life source.

  Fitting the wrench over the bolt, he gave it one hard twist, and it took some muscle. Good thing the football days started me off right. Then came years of manual labor and his current position doing factory work, though he didn’t love it. Tank considered the job as a means to live his life the way he saw fit, nothing more.

  With a grunt, he moved the bolt into place.

  “Oh! Someone’s in here!” The feminine voice startled him, and he dug in the heels of his boots to push himself out from under his bike.

  His friend’s mom, Mrs. Rothchild, pressed a hand to her heart. “Rob, it’s you.”

  Tank grinned. “Yeah, just me. Sorry to frighten you. Dixon said it was fine if I used the shop to work on my bike.”

  “Of course that’s fine. I came out here to gather the invoices that Dixon never brings to me to file.”

  Tank shoved to his full height of six-two and grinned at his friend’s ma. She returned his smile, and it was just as bright as ever, though he noted the amount of silver running through her dark hair these days. He knew better than to say so.

  “I think I saw the invoices on the desk.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I see the pile.” She clucked her tongue. “Dixon can be such a pain sometimes, but I’m so glad he’s home. And that he’s found such a nice woman to fill his life.”

  “He and Fiona are a matched set, that’s for sure,” Tank referred to the president of the club and his girl, which Dixon referred to as his old lady, in line with the MC life.

  “Have you had supper yet, Rob?”

  Few people ever called him by his Christian name, and it made him smile wider. “Had a late lunch.”

  “There’s plenty if you’ll join us.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll get on home. Want me to lock up the shop on the way out?”

  “The main door please. I’ll lock this one.” She pointed to the one she’d entered through.

  “Will do.” Tank put away his tools as Mrs. Rothchild gathered the invoices for the mechanics shop that Dixon and his father ran together. She threw him a wave and left, closing the door and locking it behind her.

  Tank rolled his bike out the big garage door that would accommodate even large trucks. After he set the kickstand, he returned to hit the automatic door button. He stood watching to ensure it closed all the way and secured the shop for the night. Then he swung his leg over his bike and started the engine.

  The purr ignited that familiar excitement deep in his veins. Nothing like that sound existed in this whole world. For him, it was like breathing. The open road was a close second on his list of necessities.

  As he rolled out of the Rothchilds’ parking lot, he checked for other motorists and then pulled onto the highway. The secluded road leading to Mersey, Tennessee was cast with slanting shadows of trees. Sunlight flickered in his side vision.

  The Tennessee air flooded his brain with the tang of tree sap, and anybody who lived near the Smoky Mountains knew they had a smell of their own. He inhaled deeply and took a curve, leaning into it.

  Been too long since he’d been on the road. Heavy work shifts and erratic hours ate up much of his time. When he wasn’t bustin’ his ass at the factory, he spent his days with the guys in the club. Dixon, Blade, Rio, Patriot and many more. Their ranks grew by the week, it seemed. After they succeeded in driving out a rival gang who reaped havoc in their small town, a lot more men and women wanted to be associated with the good Tank’s club planned to do.

  Right now, the Dark Falcons were in the process of finding a place to relocate their club. Holding meetings in the back of the Painted Pig bar was all right, but they needed their own space.

  He leaned into the next curve and the next. The town came into view, as picturesque as a postcard. Hell, there actually were postcards of the town, they had so many tourists visiting all year round. In the distance, the big Ferris wheel of the fairgrounds rose up into the cloudy sky.

  He hit a straight stretch and ramped up the speed. The bike felt like an extension of himself. Every piece he’d lovingly fitted together with the next and the next to build one of the most coveted bikes among the Dark Falcons.

  Slowing a fraction, he eased into the final curve. Under his tires, loose gravel crunched. When the motorcycle weaved on the asphalt and rolling gravel, Tank tightened his grip on the handlebars and downshifted—too late.

  He started to slide—seeing the end before he could even adjust his actions to right himself.

  No time. “Motherfuck!”

  The side of the bike hit guardrail and he dumped it, skidding on denim and leather. His shoulder dug into unmoving, unforgiving pavement. The crash of steel and metal shrieked in his ears. He came to a stop. Pain gripped him, and Tank rolled onto his back, seeing only the cloudy sky.

  Chapter One

  “Take it easy tomorrow. You’re pretty banged up.” The pretty nurse with the soft brown eyes held out the clipboard with his emergency room discharge papers and a pen.

  Tank took the pen from her hand with a wince of a smile and scrawled his name. He’d spent three hours in the ER being looked over for major injuries, and he knew how d
amn lucky he was that he didn’t have any. Other than being ‘banged up’ like the pretty nurse said, he was fine.

  No way his bike would be, though.

  The nurse handed him the papers and then stood back to watch him stand from the hospital bed to his full height. She walked with him to the doors and saw him out.

  He swung back to look at her. “Thanks again.”

  “Don’t get in any more accidents, ya hear?” She smiled.

  He turned forward again to see his guys standing there. The whole club filled the waiting room, from wall to wall with leather and patches bearing the Dark Falcons logo.

  “Dude. You scared the hell outta us.” Dixon was there first, his hand out for Tank to clasp. He gripped it hard and Dixon looked him over. “You look like shit, but that nurse is lookin’ at you like she wrote her number on your discharge papers.”

  He didn’t pivot to see for himself. He’d been getting looks from her all night. Thing was, she was all wrong for him. Pretty but not interesting. Kind, not mouthy. He definitely preferred his girls mouthy.

  Next in line, Patriot gripped hands with him. “Don’t worry about a thing, man. We got your bike picked up off the road and took it back to Rothchilds’.”

  He nodded and continued to move through the group of guys there to offer help in rebuilding his bike and glad tidings that he hadn’t broken his damn neck when he hit that guardrail.

  “Yeah, I know I’m damn lucky,” he told Blade. The nickname hadn’t caught on with Tank yet. In high school, he was just Titus, the loner who sometimes edged closer to his and Dixon’s group of friends.

  “I’ll drive you home.” Dixon’s offer sounded like the best idea anyone had all evening.

  “Thanks, man.”

  Dixon nodded. They all drifted out of the hospital, and the guys split off to their motorcycles dotted all over the lot. Tank stared at the ambulance parked near the doors and wondered if Catarina was one of the paramedics on duty. While in the ER, he’d spent too much time watching the doors for a sight of her.

  Dixon led the way to the truck he’d driven. When Tank climbed in, he felt the aches that would soon become major pains as soon as his meds wore off. “Gonna be stiff as hell come morning,” he said.

  Starting the truck, his buddy nodded. “Fiona sends her best. Said if you need anything at all, she’s happy to help.” Dixon tossed him a grin. “I told her I draw the line at her giving you sponge baths, though.”

  Tank chuckled. “I’ll thank her next time I go into the Painted Pig.” The most popular bar in Mersey was not only owned by Dixon’s woman, but it served as their club for the time being. They held meetings after hours, seated around the big table in the back. Usually Fiona cleaned up as she listened to their talk about club laws they were still instating and charity rides to be organized.

  “Shit.”

  Dixon pulled out of the hospital parking lot. “What is it?”

  “The big ride’s Sunday. I don’t have a bike.”

  “Man, you’re going to sit this one out. You’re not in any shape to ride.”

  “Nothin’s broken.”

  “You’re lucky. What happened, anyway? The guys and I were speculating, but nobody could really piece together what happened from the accident scene.”

  Even shrugging hurt, but Tank did it anyway. “Hit some gravel. It sent me fishtailing and I turned the bike before I hit the guardrail head-on.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “I kind of skimmed the rail. Laid down the bike. I remember skidding and looking up at the sky.”

  “That’s how the driver passing by found you. Scared the fuck out of us, Tank. Don’t do it again.”

  “I don’t plan on it.” He examined his knuckles, which had road rash and were bandaged with gauze.

  “Thank God you had your helmet and leather on. Cut the worst of it.”

  Tank looked at him. “How bad’s the bike?”

  Dixon’s jaw tensed.

  Tank nodded. “Got some work to do, I guess.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I’ll start on it after my shift at the factory tomorrow.”

  Dixon glanced at him. “You plan on working your usual shift?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? I ain’t dead.”

  Dixon laughed. “True enough, brother. I’m damn glad of it.”

  Tank’s lower back was stiff and his knee felt so swollen he didn’t know how he’d managed to put his jeans on for work. Working second shift gave him time to stretch out the worst of the kinks from the accident, and he got a lift to work from one of the brothers in the Dark Falcons.

  He strolled into the office to punch his timecard and threw a smile at the receptionist, Nadine.

  Her eyes widened. “Rob! We didn’t expect you in today.”

  He offered a crooked smile. “Nothing could keep me away from this place.” While his passion didn’t lay in being a machine operator in the plant, he didn’t mind it. He liked clocking out at the end of his shift and leaving it all behind him. Not once did he drag work home with him or even give it a second thought after he left. Better than being a doctor thinking about patients and getting calls at all hours of the night, or a lawyer dragging home case files and drinking away the cases he lost.

  He knew a few of both types and always thanked God he hadn’t been pressured to do something different with his life.

  Slicing his fingers through his too-long hair, he started toward the time clock.

  “Oh. Rob. Wait just a minute.” Nadine’s strained Southern drawl stopped him in his tracks.

  “What is it?”

  “Uh…we thought you got that memo.”

  He arched a brow.

  “In your…uh, last paycheck.”

  He usually pulled the check from the envelope and threw the rest in the wastebasket. “What did it say?”

  “Maybe you should…” She pointed to the door leading to the boss man’s office. “Why don’t you speak with Mr. Ray?”

  Throwing her a suspicious look, he headed to the door. He knocked once, and Mr. Ray called out to come in.

  When the guy saw him, his eyes widened the same way Nadine’s had.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Tank asked.

  Running a plant full of roughneck workers, the boss didn’t take offense to his language.

  “Rob didn’t get the memo, Mr. Ray,” Nadine explained.

  “Ah. Okay. Why don’t you sit, Rob?”

  “Hurts too damn much. I wrecked my bike yesterday.”

  “Yes, I heard. We’re surprised you came in today.”

  “I have a feeling the bike crash isn’t the only reason you’re surprised. What’s going on?” He waited for the man’s response.

  He was also a straight-shooter, which Tank appreciated. “The memo stated we were in the process of cuts around here. We’ve got more parts machined than we have buyers for, so we’re shutting down some shifts.”

  Fuck.

  “I’m laid off?”

  Mr. Ray nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until we get some big orders again. It could be months. It was all in the memo.”

  Hell. He was out of work and had no bike. What money he had in the bank would need to last him until unemployment kicked in, but that might not be enough to live on let alone buy new parts needed for his bike.

  “Guess next time I’ll read the memo. Thanks for your time.” He walked out of the office, past Nadine, who compressed her lips in a sympathetic way that only pissed Tank off further. The last thing he wanted—or needed—was sympathy. He needed a job and his damn bike so he could hop on it and get the hell out of Mersey.

  He called Rio again for a ride back. He couldn’t have driven far after dropping Tank off at the plant. As soon as he answered the phone, Tank said, “Can you turn around? I need a ride home.”

  “Sure, Tank. Be there in a few.”

  At least his brothers hadn’t abandoned him, and Jay Rio wa
s one of the best.

  “Goddammit,” Tank muttered. He curled his fingers into fists, which stretched the sore skin of his knuckles and broke open what scabs had formed. He dragged his stiff ass out only to discover he no longer had a job. Indefinite layoffs sounded like a permanent situation to him.

  A few minutes later, Jay rattled up in his old car, and Tank crammed his sore body into the small seat. He barely got the door shut.

  “What the hell happened, man?” Rio asked.

  “Layoffs.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah, you’re tellin’ me. Sorry to call you back.”

  “It’s fine. I hadn’t gotten far, and I got no place to be.” Jay turned back for Mersey and the small rental house Tank probably could no longer afford.

  The sun was making its way across the sky, reminding Tank he should be at work. The second shift was Tank’s favorite. He could put in four to midnight and then still hit the Painted Pig and hang with the guys until close. Hell, sometimes they got so caught up in talking that they didn’t head home before sunrise and ended up grabbing plates of ham and grits at the local diner.

  As they moved through town, he glanced over at the diner just in time to see Catarina.

  “Slow down,” he ordered Rio.

  “What for? Oh.” He braked and they rolled by the parking lot slow enough that he saw who Catarina was with.

  Fucking great. She and her boyfriend were back together. The fucker didn’t deserve her and never had—why did she keep going back to him? Then they’d break up and she’d run to Tank for advice and comfort food. Why did he always put her back together?

  That asshole slid his arm around Catarina’s waist.

  “Keep driving,” Tank grated out.

  “Don’t touch me, Chad. It’s not going to work this time.” Catarina speed-walked away from her…what did she even call him? On again, off again boyfriend. She couldn’t figure out why she kept giving him another shot when they fought all the time.