Chapter 5 Tank
Tank
The clubhouse is alive tonight, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the clink of beer bottles. The jukebox is pumping out some old-school rock, and the boys are scattered around, laughing, arguing, blowing off steam after a long day.
I’m leaning against the bar, a whiskey in my hand, my eyes locked on the pool table in the corner. Rocco’s there, cue in hand, grinning like he owns the place. He’s playing against Keegan, Arch’s boy, and the two of them are getting along like they’ve known each other for years.
Keegan’s all sharp wit and quick moves, his hair falling into his eyes as he lines up a shot, but Rocco’s holding his own, his lean frame relaxed but focused. That cocky smirk of his hasn’t left his face since we got back from the overlook.
My cock is still tingling from the memory of what went down out there. Rocco, pressed against that tree, his jeans around his ankles, his skin red under my hands. The way he called me “Daddy,” his voice breaking with want, even as he yelped from the sting.
It was more than just punishment—it was a connection, raw and real, and it’s got me all kinds of fucked up. I can still feel his body against mine when I pulled him close after, his face buried in my chest, like he was looking for something safe in the middle of his own storm.
But safe’s the last thing he is.
That Fury bike, the knife on the doorstep, the way he pushes my buttons—it’s all screaming trouble. And yet, here I am, watching him laugh with Keegan, wanting him closer.
Arch is next to me, nursing a beer, his eyes flicking between the pool game and me.
“Kid’s got charm,” Arch says, his voice low so only I can hear. “Fits right in. You sure about him, though?”
I grunt, taking a sip of whiskey to cover the twist in my gut.
“Not sure about shit,” I say, a wry smile on my face. “I don’t buy the drifter act. That Fury emblem’s no accident.”
Arch nods, his hair catching the dim light.
“Yeah, that bike’s a problem. And that knife? Same emblem,” Arch says, his voice low. “Someone’s sending a message, and I’m betting it’s him.”
I clench my jaw, the memory of that rose-and-barbed-wire handle flashing in my mind. I found it on the doorstep at dawn, right where Rocco—if it actually was Rocco—must’ve left it. The kid’s bold, I’ll give him that.
“I’m digging into him,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Got Twitch asking around town, checking for anyone who knows a Rocco. Kid’s hiding something, and I wanna know what.”
Arch leans closer, his voice dropping.
“You think he’s tied to The Fury? I mean, they’re gone, Tank,” Arch says. “We made sure of that fifteen years ago. But…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing like he’s remembering something.
“But what?” I ask, my grip tightening on the glass.
Arch hesitates, then sighs.
“The turf war. You remember Marco? Their sergeant-at-arms. Big guy, mean as hell. You fucked him up bad, left him crippled,” Arch says. “Word was he had a kid. Young, back then. What if…” He glances at Rocco, who’s laughing as Keegan misses a shot. “What if that’s him?”
The name hits like a punch to the chest.
Marco.
I can still see his face, bloodied and broken, his screams echoing in the desert. I didn’t kill him, but I took his life all the same. Left him in a wheelchair, his club in ruins.
I know it’s supposedly all fair in love and war, and shit goes down all the way from time to time.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to live with the consequences.
Well, not for me anyhow. The guilt’s been buried deep, locked away with the other shit I don’t let myself feel, but Arch’s words drag it up, raw and ugly.
“You think Rocco’s his kid?” I ask, my voice low and serious.
Arch shrugs, but his eyes are sharp.
“Could be. Same build, same fire in his eye,” Arch says.
“And those Fury emblems? That’s personal.
I’ll dig into it, see what I can find on Marco.
If he’s still alive, where he’s at, if he’s got a son.
But, hell, it could all be one wild goose chase, you know?
Maybe this kid really is a cock sonofabitch drifter. Life’s like that sometimes.”
“Do it,” I say, my mind racing.
If Rocco’s Marco’s kid, this isn’t just a game. It’s revenge. The kind that ends in blood. But even as I think it, I’m watching Rocco lean over the pool table, his jeans hugging his ass, that smirk still in place...
The way he looked at me at the overlook, all defiance and want, calling me Daddy like it was the most natural thing in the world—it’s got me twisted up.
I want to believe he’s just a drifter, but my gut says he’s more.
And if he’s here for Marco, for me, I need to keep him close until I know for sure. And then I’ll do whatever needs to be done, no question.
The pool game ends with Keegan sinking the eight ball, throwing his hands up in victory.
Rocco laughs, tossing his cue onto the table, and says something that makes Keegan grin.
They’re easy together, like brothers, and it stirs something in me—jealousy, maybe, or just the ache of wanting what Arch and the others have…
A boy who fits.
A boy who stays.
I shake it off, but it lingers, heavy on my shoulders.
Rocco catches my eye across the room, and that smirk turns into something else, something knowing. He says something to Keegan, then heads toward us, his walk all swagger and confidence.
Up close, he’s even more dangerous—those green eyes, those lips, the way his leather jacket clings to his shoulders. My cock twitches, remembering how he felt under my hands, and I curse myself for it. This kid’s a threat, and I’m thinking with the wrong head.
“Having fun, boy?” I ask, my voice gruff, trying to keep it neutral.
“Beats getting punched in a bar,” Rocco says, leaning against the bar next to me. His arm brushes mine, and it’s like a spark jumps between us. “Keegan’s cool. Says you’re the guy to talk to if I wanna prospect.”
I raise an eyebrow, glancing at Arch, who’s watching us like a hawk. “That what you want? To be a Wolf?”
Rocco shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
“Maybe. I like what I see,” Rocco says. “Tough crew, loyal. Figure I could fit in. What do you think, big guy? Got room for me?”
There it is again, that “big guy” that makes my blood heat.
Rocco’s pushing once more, like he did at the overlook, testing how far he can go. Part of me wants to grab him, drag him upstairs, and show him exactly what I think.
But the other part—the part that’s kept me alive all these years—is screaming to watch my back. If he’s Marco’s kid, he’s not here to join us. He’s here to end me.
“Prospecting’s not a game,” I say, my voice hard. “You gotta earn it. Blood, sweat, the works. Doing all the shitty jobs no one else wants. No backtalk either. You think you’re ready for that?”
Rocco’s smirk doesn’t waver. “I’m ready for anything you throw at me, Tank.”
Arch snorts, breaking the tension. “Kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that. But you better be sure, Rocco. Wolves don’t take kindly to liars.”
Rocco’s eyes flicker, just for a second, but it’s enough to make my gut twist.
He’s hiding something, no question.
“I’m an open book,” Rocco lies, spreading his hands. “Ask me anything.”
I lean closer, my voice low.
“Where’d you get that Fury bike, for real?’ I ask, ready for any telltale signs of lies. “And don’t give me that stolen bullshit.”
Rocco laughs, but it’s tight, like he’s covering something.
“Told you, I bought it cheap,” Rocco said, dismissively. “Guy didn’t say where it came from. And I got the impression that was the way he wanted it too. You got a problem with it, take it up with him.”
I don’t buy it, but I let it slide. For now.
“Alright,” I say, stepping back. “You wanna prospect? You start tomorrow. Prospect chores—cleaning bikes, running errands, whatever we tell you. You fuck up, you’re out. Clear?”
“Crystal,” Rocco says, his eyes glinting with something I can’t read. “I won’t let you down, Daddy. I mean, Tank. Fuck.”
The word hits like a shot of whiskey, warm and sharp, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reacting. Arch raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Keegan’s watching from the pool table, a grin on his face like he knows something I don’t.
I want to trust Rocco, want to believe he’s just a kid looking for a place to belong.
But if he’s Marco’s kid, I need to keep him where I can see him. And if he’s not, well, maybe I just want him close anyway.
“Get outta here,” I say, jerking my chin toward the door. “Be back at dawn. We’ll see what you’re made of.”
Rocco nods, his smirk softening into something almost real.
“See you tomorrow, big guy.” Rocco heads out, his boots echoing on the floorboards, and I watch him go, my heart pounding.
Arch waits until the door shuts before speaking.
“You’re playing with fire, Tank,” Arch says. “If he’s Marco’s kid, he’s here for blood. You know that.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice heavy. “But if he is, I need him close. Can’t fight what I can’t see.”
Arch shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.
“I’ll dig into Marco,” Arch says, his voice full of concern. “Find out if he’s got a son, where he’s been. If this kid’s trouble, we’ll know soon enough. And you know we need to tell Clay about this too, right? Sooner rather than later.”
I nod, but my eyes are still on the door where Rocco disappeared.
The guilt over Marco is back, sharper now, cutting through the whiskey haze. I didn’t mean to ruin him, leave him living out the rest of his life like a shell of the man he once was.
But I did what I had to for the Wolf Riders. And I’d do it again in a motherfucking heartbeat.
This club’s my life, my family, and I’d do anything if it meant keeping them safe.
But Rocco—if he’s here for revenge, if he’s carrying his father’s hate—I don’t know if I can blame him. And that’s what scares me most. Not that he might try to kill me, but that I might let him get close enough to try.
I down the rest of my whiskey, the burn grounding me.
Rocco’s a mystery, a danger, and maybe something more.
But whatever he is, I’m not letting him out of my sight.
Not until I know the truth…