Tank (Fury Vipers MC: Dublin Chapter #5)

1. Tank

TANK

The night air hits my face like a slap as I step out of the clubhouse, leather settling heavy on my shoulders. Rain is coming in from the coast. Dublin never lets you forget where you are; always damp, always grey, always crawling with ghosts.

I've been in church most of the day. Club business.

Pyro's been on one about territory, Cowboy kept looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and Raptor’s been sitting there with that fucking smile like he knows something the rest of us don't. Three hours of it.

Three hours of watching grown men dance around what they mean while I sit there wondering why we can't just say the fucking thing and be done with it.

I'm not built for politics. Never have been.

My bike rumbles beneath me as I kick her to life, the vibration travelling up through my spine. Familiar. Grounding. The only thing that makes sense most days is the road and the bike beneath me. Everything else is just noise.

The streets are slick, reflecting neon and headlights as I ride toward the Northside.

Friday night means the city's waking up, spilling out of pubs and onto pavements, all laughter and shouting and that particular brand of Irish chaos that makes tourists nervous and locals feel at home.

I cut through it like a blade, not looking, not stopping.

Just moving.

The bar I land at doesn’t belong to the club.

It’s neutral ground, the kind of place where you can disappear into a pint and nobody gives a shite who you are or what patch you wear.

Brick front, blacked-out windows, and a sign that says O’Hara’s in faded gold letters.

I've been here before. A couple of times. Enough to know the Guinness is decent and the owner doesn't ask questions. It belongs to Pyro’s in-laws. Pyro’s ol’ lady, Chloe, her mam owns this bar and many more in and around Ireland and the UK.

Inside is warm—too warm after the bite of the road. It smells like stale beer, the lights are low, and the place is half-full. Enough bodies to feel alive, though not enough to be trapped.

I make for the bar, shoulders hunched, hands in my pockets. A few heads turn—they always do when you walk in wearing the Vipers' patch—but nobody says anything. Smart.

And then I see her.

Tall. Christ, she's tall, standing behind the bar pulling a pint with one hand like she's done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands falling loose around her face, and she has ink crawling up both arms—flowers and something else that I can't make out from here.

She's wearing black, fitted clothes, showing off curves that make my mouth go dry.

But it's her face that stops me.

Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes that look like they've seen too much and aren't interested in seeing more unless you earn that privilege. She isn't beautiful in that soft, magazine way. She's striking. The kind of woman you notice because she doesn't give a fuck if you do or not.

I move to the bar and slide onto a stool directly in front of her. She doesn't look up right away. She finishes pulling the pint, sets it down for the bloke two seats over, then wipes her hands on a towel before finally meeting my eyes.

Blue. Her eyes are fucking blue.

"What'll it be?" she asks with a voice like smoke. It’s low and rough around the edges, with that Dublin lilt that turns every question into a challenge.

"Guinness," I say.

"Right so." She turns away and grabs a glass, before tilting it under the tap. I watch her hands. Strong. Confident. Nails painted black, chipped at the edges. A ring on her thumb, silver, thick.

She doesn't fill it all the way. She leaves it to settle, then glances back at me. "First time here?"

"No."

"Don't remember you."

"Wasn't here to be remembered."

Her mouth twitches. Might be a smile. Might be nothing. "Fair enough."

She tops off the pint and sets it in front of me. Foam perfect, dark as sin underneath. I take a sip. Good. Better than good.

"You always this chatty?" she asks, leaning a hip against the bar, arms crossed. The ink on her left arm is a snake, I realize. It’s coiled around her arm from wrist to shoulder, head disappearing beneath her sleeve.

"Depends."

"On?"

"Who's asking."

This time she does smile. Small. Crooked. Like she's just decided I might be worth the effort. "Enya."

"Tank."

"Tank," she repeats, eyebrow arching. "Is that a nickname or did your ma hate you?"

"Nickname."

"Right. Let me guess, rugby?"

"Bike club."

Her eyes drop to the patch on my chest and linger there for a heartbeat, then come back up. Something shifts in her expression. Not fear, but not exactly respect either. Just... awareness.

"Fury Vipers," she says. Not a question.

"Yeah."

She nods once, then pushes off the bar and moves down to serve someone else. I watch her go. Watch the way she moves, all confidence and grace. Watch the way she pours whiskey without measuring, the way she laughs at something the guy says but doesn't mean it.

I shouldn't be looking.

I look anyway.

Twenty minutes pass, maybe thirty. I nurse my pint and try to focus on nothing, but my eyes keep finding her. She's good at her job; fast, efficient, and never flustered. But there's something underneath. Something tight in her shoulders, in the line of her jaw. Like she's holding something back.

I know that look. I wear it myself most days.

She comes back eventually and refills my glass without asking, then she leans against the bar again, close enough that I can smell her—something clean and sharp, citrus maybe, underneath the beer and smoke.

"You gonna tell me why you're staring?" she asks.

"Wasn't staring."

"You were absolutely staring."

"Observing."

"That what we're calling it?" Her lips curve. "Alright, Observer. What'd you observe?"

I take a drink, set the glass down. "You don't like it here."

Her smile falters. Just for a second. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you stand. The way you look at people when they talk to you. You're good at this, but you don't want to be."

She stares at me long enough that I think I've fucked it, crossed some line I didn't know was there. Then she huffs out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Christ," she mutters. "You one of those lads who thinks he can read people?"

"Just calling it like I see it."

"And what if you're wrong?"

"Then tell me I'm wrong."

She holds my gaze. Doesn't say a word. Doesn't have to.

"Thought so," I say.

"Cocky bastard." But there's heat in it now. Interest. The air between us shifts, charged with something I haven't felt in a long fucking time.

Want.

Raw, uncomplicated want.

"You get off soon?" I ask. The words are out before I can think better of them.

"Why?" She leans closer, elbows on the bar, eyes locked on mine. "You offering to walk me home?"

"Something like that."

"I don't need walking home."

"Didn't say you did."

Her tongue darts out and wets her bottom lip. I track the movement; feel heat pool low in my gut.

"You're trouble," she says softly.

"Yeah."

"I don't do trouble."

"That right?"

"Usually." She straightens, pulling back just enough to make me ache for the loss of her nearness. "But it's been a long week."

"Tell me about it."

She studies me. Really looks. I can feel her taking me apart: the patch, the scars on my knuckles, the ink on my neck, the way I sit like I'm ready to fight or bolt at a moment's notice. Whatever she sees, she must like it.

"My shift ends in twenty," she says finally. "There's a door out back. Wait for me there."

Then she's gone again, moving down the bar like we didn't just negotiate something dangerous and inevitable.

I finish my pint. Order another. Don't taste it.

My heart's pounding, slow, heavy beats that echo in my chest. I can't remember the last time a woman got under my skin like this. Most of the time, I don't bother. Club comes first. Always has. And the women who hang around the clubhouse are fine for a night but nothing more.

This feels different.

She feels different.

I shouldn't care. I shouldn't be sitting here waiting like some desperate fucking teenager. But I am. Because something about her—the attitude, the armor, the way she looks at me like she can see straight through to the ugly parts and isn't afraid—makes me want to know more.

Makes me want to take.

The twenty minutes drag. I watch her work, watch her deflect advances from drunk guys with practiced ease, watch her count tips and wipe down the bar top with mechanical precision.

When the clock hits midnight, she says something to another bartender, a dark-haired girl, then slips through a door marked Staff Only.

I get to my feet and head for the back exit.

The alley's dark. Smells like piss and rotting garbage. Rain's still falling, a light mist that clings to everything. I lean against the brick wall, hands in my pockets, waiting.

The door opens.

She steps out, pulling on a leather jacket. It’s black, worn, and fits tight across her shoulders. Her hair's down now, falling past her collarbones in waves. She sees me and stops, door swinging shut behind her.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then she walks over. Slow. Deliberate. Stops close enough that I can feel her breath.

"You really waited," she says.

"Said I would."

"Most men don't."

"I'm not most men."

"No." Her eyes drop to my mouth, then rise back up to meet my gaze. "I don't think you are."

I push off the wall and close the distance between us until there's nothing but heat and intention. "Tell me to fuck off if you want. I will."

"I don't want you to fuck off," she whispers.

The rain falls harder now, soaking into my shoulders, into hers. Her eyes are bright in the darkness, pupils blown wide, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat.

"Your place," I say. Not a question.

"Yeah." She reaches for my hand. "Come on."

* * *