Chapter 7 Tank
Tank
It’s Saturday night, and the clubhouse is too loud, too crowded, for the kind of talk I need to have with Rocco. The kid’s been a prospect for a week now, scrubbing bikes and running errands like he’s trying to prove something, but those green eyes and that cocky smirk are still hiding secrets…
The Fury bike, the knife on the doorstep, the ambush last night—it’s all pointing to Rocco, and I need answers.
More than that, I need to know why I can’t stop thinking about him, why my blood heats every time he calls me Daddy.
So I invited him to my place, told him it’s to “talk strategy” about the next run.
Bullshit, mostly.
I want him alone, where I can look him in the eye and figure out what his deal is for real…
My place is a small house on the edge of town, more a crash pad than a home. The living room smells of leather and motor oil, with a beat-up couch, a coffee table scarred from years of boots, and a fridge stocked with beer.
I’m leaning against the kitchen counter, a whiskey in my hand, when Rocco pulls up outside, his bike’s rumble cutting through the desert quiet. He steps through the door, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, jeans hugging his hips like they’re painted on.
That smirk’s in place too, but his eyes are wary, like he knows this isn’t just about strategy.
“Nice place, big guy,” Rocco says, tossing his jacket onto the couch. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”
I grunt, pouring him a whiskey and sliding it across the counter.
“Sit. We need to talk.”
Rocco takes the glass, his fingers brushing mine, and the contact sends a jolt through me. He settles on the couch, legs spread, looking too damn comfortable.
“Strategy, huh?’ Rocco snickers. “Or you just wanted me alone?”
I narrow my eyes, taking a sip to cover the way my pulse kicks up. “Don’t flatter yourself, kid. Last night’s shitshow with the Vipers has me thinking. You show up… then we get ambushed. Coincidence?”
Rocco’s smirk falters, just for a second, but he recovers fast, leaning back with a shrug.
“Itold you, I bought that bike cheap,” Rocco says, and he seems to mean it. “Didn’t know it’d cause this much drama.”
“Okay,” I say, stepping closer, my voice low. “You’re not some drifter. You know more than you’re letting on. So let’s try this again. Who are you, Rocco?”
He meets my gaze, unflinching, but there’s a flicker of something—guilt, maybe, or fear.
“I’m just a guy looking for a place to belong,” he says, his voice softer now, almost convincing. “The Wolf Riders seem like a good fit. You seem like a good fit.”
The words hit harder than they should, stirring up that ache I’ve been fighting since I met him. I want to believe him, want to think he’s just a kid with a chip on his shoulder, but my gut’s screaming he’s tied to The Fury, or even the Vipers.
I sit across from him, my eyes locked on his.
“You wanna belong? Then start being straight with me,” I say. “I’ve done things in this life I’m not proud of. Things that haunt me. You know anything about that?”
Rocco stiffens, his fingers tightening around the glass.
“Like what?” the boy asks, his voice careful.
I take a breath, the guilt I’ve buried for years clawing its way up.
“Fifteen years ago, we fought The Fury,” I begin.
“Bloodiest war I’ve ever been in. I hurt people, Rocco.
Bad. One guy—Marco, their sergeant-at-arms—I left him broken.
Crippled. Not dead, but close enough. That’s on me.
” I pause, watching his face for any sign, any crack.
“If someone’s coming for me all these years later, because of that, I need to know. ”
The boy’s eyes flicker, just for a moment, and my heart sinks.
He knows something. But he leans forward, his voice low, intense…
“You think I’m here for revenge? For some guy I never met?” Rocco baulks. “I’m not that deep, Tank. I’m just… me.”
I want to call him out, push harder, but he’s close now, his breath warm, his eyes burning into mine. The air’s thick, the whiskey doing nothing to dull the heat between us.
“You’re trouble,” I mutter, but my voice is rough, wanting.
“Maybe I am,” Rocco replies, his smirk returning. “But you like trouble, don’t you, Daddy?”
That word breaks something in me.
I grab his shirt, pulling him closer, and crash my lips against his.
It’s not gentle—our kiss is all teeth and hunger, years of pent-up need pouring out. His hands grab at my chest, squeeze my arms, and I taste whiskey and defiance on his tongue.
My cock’s hard, my blood roaring, and all I can think is how right this feels, how much I want him, even if he’s the death of me…
“Fuck me, Daddy,” Rocco pants, whipping his t-shirt off to reveal his slender but strong upper body. “Make me scream your name. Fucking do it. Show me who you are and what a Wolf Rider can do.”
Damn, he’s hot.
And he knows how to push my buttons.
He might be the death of me, but right now, I don’t give a damn…
Before I have a single second to doubt myself, the pair of us are naked, out bodies entwined and out tongues down one another’s throats.
But as hot as the naked kissing is, I want something else.
I want the boy’s hard, juicy cock in my mouth. And I have a feeling he wants the same too…
“I’m on top,” I grunt. “You can take my weight. Just like you’ll take all eight inches of my dick.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Rocco replies, his eyes lighting up as I maneuver him so that his head is beneath my dick and his own manhood is directly in front of my mouth.
We both swallow and suck on one another with animalistic relish.
Rocco’s swollen, rock-solid cock might be smaller than mine, but there’s no doubting that it still packs a punch.
The feeling between us is all too real as we work our mouths, spittle dribbling, tongues lashing and lapping in synchronicity.
“Ass,” I command, pulling my lips off Rocco’s dick head and watching his cock slap down against his chest as I raise myself off the boy’s hard body. “Turn over and present your ass to Daddy.”
Rocco does as he’s told and as an extra sign of submission parts his cheeks, spreading them wide as if to signify his total surrender to me…
“I’m yours,” Rocco says, lustfully turning his head to catch a glimpse of me spitting into my palms and lubing up my cock. “Don’t hold back. Show me the Tank that everyone at the club knows not to fuck around with. Give me everything.”
The look of lust in Rocco’s eyes is almost enough to make me shoot my load all over his back right there and then. But that would be too easy. I need to make this boy mine, and I want to enjoy every damn second of it…
“You want it, you got it,” I growl, putting the wet tip of my cock up against Rocco’s tight, pink ass hole and pressing down on him. “But when I start, I won’t stop until we’re both done…”
Rocco groans in a mixture of pleasure and pain as I ease myself inside him.
For a second I think he might be about to spill his seed all over my couch with one thrust, but the boy holds it together and bites down onto a pillow as I ease myself out and then all the way back in.
Soon, I’m working my thrusts harder and faster, the couch creaking under our combined weight. Rocco begins to push and bounce backward on my dick, showing me that he can handle a real Daddy.
As I work up toward my own climax, I grunt in pleasure as the boy’s supple ass cheeks clap and bounce in time to my thrusts, our bodies working as one as the pair of us cum long and hard.
“More, more, more…” Rocco wails, slamming his hand down onto the couch, balling it into a fist, letting it all out as I ride him hard, draining my cum deep inside. “Oh… fuck. Fuck. Daddy. Fuck.”
I watch in delight as Rocco’s body stiffens and twitches, his own orgasm riding close to mine, the pair of us finishing what we started together.
“Damn,” I say, pulling out and sliding myself behind Rocco as I move both our bodies so we can lie together on the couch. “You can take a dick, boy.”
“Did you ever think I couldn’t?” Rocco sasses in reply. “Come on. You’ve wanted to know the answer since the moment you saw me.”
I wrap my arms around Rocco’s neck and give him a playful, post-orgasm squeeze.
I could kill him, here and now—he’d be powerless to stop me.
I know that Rocco isn’t who he says he is, and for that alone he should be in mortal danger.
But the feeling of lying next to him, having done what we’ve just done, it’s like a fire I never, ever, want to put out…
The bed creaks under us, the sheets tangled, the air heavy with sweat and want. Rocco’s asleep now, his dark hair messy against the pillow, his chest rising and falling slow.
The boy looks more innocent like this, softer, like the weight of whatever he’s carrying is gone for a moment.
I’m propped on one elbow, watching him, my mind a mess of desire and doubt.
What we just did… it was fire, raw and consuming, like nothing I’ve ever felt.
But the ghost of Marco’s still there, whispering in the back of my head, and I can’t shake the feeling that Rocco’s more than he seems.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet. I grab it, careful not to wake him, and see a message from Arch. My gut twists as I read it…
ARCH: Confirmed. Rocco is Marco’s son. Word on the street—the Fury are rising from the ashes, and Marco’s been sent to kill, your scalp being a signal that they’re back in business. Watch your back, brother.
The words hit like a fist to the face.
I look at Rocco, his face peaceful, his lips still swollen from our kiss.
The Fury rising again.
Marco’s son.
Sent to kill me.
It all lines up. But then I think of him at the warehouse, holding his own, his hands on my arm as he bandaged my wound, the way he called me Daddy like he meant it.
Fuck.
I don’t know what to believe.
Is he playing me, waiting for the right moment to strike? Or is there something real here, something worth fighting for?
I slide out of bed, my boots heavy on the floor, and step outside to clear my head.
The desert air’s cold, the stars sharp overhead. I light a cigarette, the smoke curling into the night, and try to piece it together.
Marco’s kid… I crippled his father, took everything from him.
If Rocco’s here for revenge, I can’t blame him.
Why hasn’t he done it yet? What’s he waiting for?
But the way he looks at me, the way he feels in my arms—it’s not just a game. Or maybe I’m just a fool, letting my cock lead me into a trap.
I think about the turf war, the blood, the screams.
I did what I had to for the Wolf Riders, but it cost me pieces of myself I’ll never get back.
Now, with Rocco, I’m facing it all again.
If he’s here to kill me, I need to be ready.
But if he’s not—if he’s caught in the same mess I am—I want to protect him, keep him close, protect him.
I crush the cigarette under my boot, my heart pounding.
I don’t know who to trust, but I know one thing…
Dead or alive, I’m not letting Rocco go until I find out.