Chapter 3
Tank
The sun’s barely up, and the clubhouse is already buzzing with rumors as the young guns arrive early for their chores.
But these rumors are more than the usual bullshit…
My head’s still fuzzy from last night’s whiskey, but Twitch’s nervous chatter about a “ghost from the past” and that damn rose-and-barbed-wire emblem on the bike across the street have me on edge.
The Fury are gone, scattered to the wind after we crushed them fifteen years ago.
But two bikes with their mark in as many days? That’s no coincidence.
Someone’s playing games, and I’m done waiting for them to make the next move...
“Twitch, you’re in charge of the morning chores,” I bark. “Don’t let me down. Everyone else, fall in line. Or face the consequences.”
The young guns nod in unison and I know that my word alone is enough to ensure that they get the club house looking how it should ahead of later when the place will be full of members.
In the meantime, I’ve got things to do.
Clay’s still in Nevada with Jace and Raze, so it’s on me to handle this. I grab my keys and head out, the morning air sharp against my face.
The lot’s quiet, just the hum of the desert and the glint of chrome from our bikes. That Fury bike from last night is gone—someone must have moved it before dawn, which only makes my gut twist tighter. I swing onto my Harley, the engine roaring to life, and head into town.
Whoever’s behind this, I’m gonna find them.
The day drags, and I spend it riding the streets, eyes peeled for anything out of place.
I check the gas station, the diner, every back alley where a bike might hide.
Nothing.
By evening, my patience is fraying like an old rope. I’m about to call it quits when Arch texts me…
ARCH: Heard from a prospect. Another so-called Fury bike at Rusty’s Bar. Be careful.
The bar is a dive on the edge of town, a place where bikers and lowlifes mix like oil and water. If someone’s bold enough to park a Fury bike there, they’re either stupid or looking for a fight.
I roll up to the bar as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky blood-red. The bar’s a shithole—neon sign half-broken, windows grimy, the lot littered with cigarette butts.
Sure enough, there’s a bike parked out front, black with red flames, the Fury’s rose-and-barbed-wire emblem gleaming on the tank. It’s not the same one from last night—this one’s newer, sleeker, but the mark’s unmistakable.
My jaw clenches.
Whoever this is, they’ve got balls.
Either that, or they’ve got a death wish…
I push through the door, the smell of cheap beer and sweat hitting me like a fist. The place is packed—locals, drunks, and a few bikers from rival crews.
This is neutral territory, but I\m aware that a wrong look or too much booze and the whole place could light up with fists, knives, and who knows what. I need to stay focused, move as subtly as a man like me can, and get to the bottom of this damn bike.
The jukebox blares some old metal tune, and the bartender, a grizzled guy named Pete, gives me a nod.
I lean over the bar, keeping my voice low. “Who’s new here, Pete? Any strangers?”
Pete jerks his chin toward the back corner. “Kid over there. Showed up an hour ago. Ain’t seen him before. Came in on that fancy bike outside. Running up a tab too.”
I follow Pete’s gaze, and my breath catches.
The kid’s leaning against a pool table, a beer in one hand, his posture all cocky defiance. He’s young—early twenties, maybe—lean but muscled, with dark hair falling into his eyes and a smirk that screams trouble.
Tight jeans hug his legs, and his leather jacket’s worn but fits like it was made for him. He’s hot, no question, the kind of pretty that makes you look twice.
But it’s his eyes that hit me hardest—sharp, green, and burning with something I can’t place.
Hunger, maybe.
Or hate.
Right off the bat, I know he’s the one. The bike, the attitude—it’s him. I straighten, my boots heavy on the sticky floor, and weave through the crowd.
My Wolf Rider kutte draws stares, but I don’t care. I’m a Wolf through and through, and this kid’s about to learn what that means. He spots me coming, and his smirk falters, just for a second, before he leans back, playing it cool.
“You the one riding that Fury bike out front?” I ask, my voice low but hard, stopping a foot away. Up close, the boy is even better-looking, all sharp cheekbones and full lips.
My blood hums, but I shove it down. This isn’t the time.
The boy raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his beer. “Maybe. Who’s asking?”
“Tank. Wolf Rider MC.” I cross my arms, letting my size do the talking. I’m built like a damn wall, and I know it intimidates. “That emblem on your bike—it’s got history. Bad history. You wanna tell me why you’re flashing it in my town?”
He shrugs, his eyes locked on mine, unflinching.
“Bought it cheap,” the boy says, not showing any signs of bullshit but not sounding like he’s Snow White either. “Guy said it was stolen, but I didn’t ask questions. Looks cool, though, right?”
His tone’s light, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s testing me.
“Stolen, huh?” I step closer, crowding his space. He doesn’t back down, and fuck if that doesn’t stir something in me. Most guys would flinch by now, but this kid’s got steel in him. “You know what that emblem means? The Fury ain’t been around for years. And that’s the way we like it around here.”
The boy tilts his head, that smirk back in place.
“Oh, is that so?” the boy smirks. “Sounds like there’s a story to tell. You gonna tell it to me, big guy?”
The “big guy” hits like a spark to gasoline.
He’s playing with me, and I don’t know if I want to deck him or drag him somewhere private.
“Watch it, kid,” I growl, but there’s no heat in it. “What’s your name?”
“Rocco,” he answers, his voice smooth, like he’s daring me to do something. “Just passing through. Heard the Wolf Riders are the real deal. Thought I’d check it out. Maybe even prospect, if you’re recruiting.”
I narrow my eyes.
He’s lying, or at least not telling the whole truth.
My instincts scream danger, but there’s something else too—something about the way he looks at me, like he’s sizing me up and liking what he sees.
It’s been a long time since anyone’s looked at me like that, and it’s messing with my head.
“You wanna prospect?” I baulk. “You got a funny way of showing it, riding in with a Fury emblem.”
Rocco laughs, low and rough, and it does things to me I don’t want to think about.
“What can I say? I like to make an entrance.”
Before I can respond, a shout cuts through the bar. Some asshole in a rival jacket—Desert Reapers, by the look of it—stumbles toward us, his face red with booze.
“Wolf Rider scum,” he slurs, pointing at me. “Think you own this town? Fuck you and your shitty club.”
The bar goes quiet, all eyes on us.
I step forward, ready to shut this down, but the Reaper swings first, his fist aimed at Rocco.
The kid’s faster than I expect, dodging, but the punch grazes his shoulder.
I don’t think—just act.
I grab the Reaper by the collar, haul him back, and slam my fist into his jaw. He drops like a sack of bricks, blood spraying from his lip.
The bar erupts, chairs scraping, bottles smashing as the Reaper’s buddies jump in…
“Fuck, why always me?” I roar, landing a right cross that turn’s a Reaper’s lights out on impact.
I’m in the thick of it now, my blood pumping.
A fist flies at me, and I block it, throwing a hook that sends another guy sprawling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rocco holding his own, his movements quick and sure. He ducks a swing, lands a solid jab, and doesn’t back down, even when a Reaper twice his size comes at him.
The kid’s got fire, and fuck if I’m not impressed.
I step in, yanking the big guy off Rocco and tossing him into a table. The fight is over fast—Reapers don’t have the stomach for a real brawl.
The bar’s a mess, broken glass and spilled beer everywhere.
Pete’s yelling about the damage, but I ignore him, turning to Rocco. He’s breathing hard, a cut on his cheek trickling blood, but his eyes are bright, alive.
“You good?” I ask, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“Yeah,” Rocco says, wiping the blood with his thumb. “Thanks for the save, big guy.”
There it is again, that “big guy” that makes my gut tighten. I want to grab him, shake him, demand to know what his deal is. Instead, I say, “You didn’t back down. Not bad for a drifter.”
Rocco grins, all cocky charm. “I can handle myself. But I gotta say, you throw a mean punch.”
I grunt, fighting the urge to smile.
This kid’s trouble, no doubt about it, but there’s something about him—defiance, energy, that spark in his eyes—that’s got me hooked.
“You’re leaving?” I ask, noticing him grab his jacket.
“Yeah,” he says, heading for the door. “Got places to be.”
I follow him outside, my boots heavy on the gravel.
The Fury bike gleams under the streetlight, and I feel that twist in my gut again.
“I wanna see you again,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
It’s not just about the bike or the Fury. It’s him.
Rocco pauses, his back to me, then turns, his eyes glinting with something unreadable...
“I’ll find you,” Rocco says, his voice low, like a promise.
He swings onto his bike, the engine roaring, and peels out into the night.
I stand there, watching the taillight vanish, my heart pounding. He’s a mystery, a danger, and fuck if I don’t want to unravel him.
That “I’ll find you” is ringing in my ears, driving me wild inside.
I know he’s tied to the Fury, to whatever’s coming for me.
But right now, all I can think about is how much I want to see him again—and how much trouble that’s gonna bring…
As I ride back to the clubhouse, I feel the engine rumble underneath me and my mind fill with thoughts of Rocco.
That smile, those lips.
The ways his legs filled those jeans.
That ass…
I allow myself a little chuckle as I realize that my cock is rock-hard and throbbing inside my jeans. The boy might be a dangerous mystery right now, but I’m all man and when I see something I like, I find it very hard to hide.
I’d give anything to have Rocco sitting behind me, his body pressed up against mine, the pair of us riding together.
And even though I know there’s every chance that he’d be gripping a knife, poised to drive it into my ribcage, I can’t help but fantasize about what it would be like to keep him close, make him a Wolf, and make him mine at the same time…
All these thoughts and more are on my mind as I pull into the club’s parking lot and am greeted by the sight of Arch and his boy, Keegan…
“You look happy to see me,” Arch laughs, his eyes trained on the rather prominent outline of my hard cock at the front of my jeans.
“Shut the hell up,” I laugh. “Getting hard on a ride is an occupational hazard. You know that.”
“Ha!” Arch laughs. “Come on, let’s get inside and you can tell me and Keegan all about that mysterious Fury rider.”
I nod and we head inside.
But as close as I am to Arch, I can’t help but wonder precisely how much I should reveal…