3. Tank
TANK
I don't go home.
I can't face the empty flat, the silence, the way my own thoughts'll eat me alive in that space. So I ride. Through the rain, through streets that blur into gray nothing, until my hands are numb on the handlebars and my clothes are soaked through.
Emma.
I said Emma.
The name loops in my head like a curse, over and over, until I want to smash something just to make it stop.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Three years. Three fucking years since I've let myself think about her, say her name, let her ghost anywhere near the surface. I buried that pain so deep I thought it couldn't reach me anymore.
Wrong.
So fucking wrong.
By the time I pull up to the clubhouse, dawn's breaking; weak, watery light that does nothing to cut through the gray. The place is quiet. Most of the lads are still asleep or crashed wherever they ended up last night. Just the way I want it.
I kill the engine and sit there for a minute with rain dripping off my jacket onto the gravel.
My jaw aches. I’ve been clenching it so hard I'm surprised my teeth haven't cracked.
I can still see Enya's face. The way she went from wild and wanting to frozen in half a second. The hurt in her eyes before the anger took over.
Get out.
Her voice was so cold. Like I'd reached inside her chest and ripped something out.
Maybe I did.
I drag myself off the bike, every muscle protesting. My body's still keyed up from her—from touching her, tasting her, feeling her move beneath me—and it makes me sick. Makes me want to tear my own skin off.
She deserved better than that.
Better than me bringing my dead past into her bed.
Inside, the clubhouse smells like stale beer and smoke. Someone left pizza boxes on the bar and there are empty bottles everywhere. Home sweet fucking home.
I head straight for my room in the clubhouse. It’s small and sparse, with just a bed and a dresser. There’s nothing personal because I don't do personal. I strip out of my wet clothes and stand there in the dark, water pooling at my feet, fists clenched at my sides.
Emma.
Why did I say her name?
I wasn't even thinking about her. Not consciously. I was there, present, focused entirely on Enya—the way she smelled, the sounds she made, the heat of her skin. I wanted her. I wanted her more than I'd wanted anyone in years.
And then my mouth betrayed me.
Betrayed us both.
I pull on dry clothes—jeans, t-shirt, doesn't matter—and sink onto the edge of the bed, head in my hands.
Emma was a lifetime ago. Different city, different version of me. Before the club. Before I learned that caring about someone just gives the universe another target.
We were together for two years. Lived together for one. She was good, too good for me even then, but she didn't see it that way. She thought she could fix me. Thought love was enough.
It wasn't.
I was working security at the time, shite hours, dodgy people. I got in with the wrong crowd. Started doing jobs I shouldn't have. Emma didn't know the half of it, but she knew enough to be scared.
She told me to stop. To walk away. To choose her over the money, the danger, the pull of something darker.
I didn't listen.
And then one night, I came home and she was gone. Just... gone. She left a note that said she couldn't watch me destroy myself, that she loved me but love wasn't enough to save someone who didn't want saving.
She was right.
I never saw her again. She moved on quickly—too quickly. And not with anyone random, but with my brother, the man I looked up to when I was younger, the person I saw as someone I admired. Instead, he took my woman and acted as though he did nothing wrong.
Now, they’re both dead.
I thought I'd made peace with it. Thought I'd buried her deep enough that she couldn't hurt me anymore.
But tonight, last night, with Enya pressed against me, looking at me with those blue eyes that saw too fucking much, something cracked open.
And Emma's ghost crawled out.
I stand abruptly and pace the small room like a caged animal. My fists clench and unclench at my sides. I want to hit something. Want to break something. Want to rewind time and shove that name back down my throat before it could ruin everything.
Because it did ruin everything.
Enya won't want to see me again. She won't want me near her. And I don't blame her. I wouldn't want me either.
But Christ, the thought of never seeing her again, never hearing that sharp tongue, never feeling her look at me like I might be worth something... it makes my chest tight.
Which is fucked.
I barely know her. One night. A few hours. That's nothing. It shouldn't matter.
Except it does.
It matters more than it should, and I don't know what to do with that.
* * *
I don't sleep. I don't even try. When the sun's fully up and I hear movement in the clubhouse—voices, footsteps, the clang of someone making breakfast—I emerge from my room like I haven't just spent the last few hours spiraling.
Pyro's in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a chipped mug. President of the Fury Vipers, built like a brick shithouse, and covered in burn scars he never talks about. He looks up when I walk in, takes one look at my face, and raises an eyebrow.
"Rough night?"
"Something like that."
He grunts and slides the coffee pot toward me. I pour myself a cup, not bothering with milk or sugar. I just need it black and strong enough to keep me upright.
"Church at noon," Pyro says. "Need you there."
"I'll be there."
"You good?"
"Yeah."
He studies me for a long moment, then shrugs. "Alright. Don't fuck up whatever you're about to fuck up."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"Never are."
He walks out, leaving me alone with my coffee and my thoughts. Neither are particularly comforting.
I lean against the counter, staring at nothing. My phone's in my pocket. I could ask for her number. She works for Callie, so I could easily get it. I could text her. Apologize properly. Explain.
Explain what? That I'm so fucked up I can't keep my past from bleeding into my present? That I'm sorry for making her feel like she was nothing when, in that moment she was was everything?
She was something.
Is something.
Fuck.
I down the coffee even though it burns, then pour another cup. The caffeine's not helping. Nothing's helping. My skin feels too tight, my chest too heavy, and I can't stop replaying the moment, the exact second her body went rigid beneath mine, the way her eyes went wide and hurt and furious.
Get out.
I should've fought harder. Should've made her listen. Should've—
No.
She told me to leave. I left. That's the only thing I did right last night.
Cowboy wanders in around ten o’clock, looking like he's been dragged through Hell. His kid must've been up all night again. He nods at me, pours coffee, doesn't speak. We stand there in silence for a few minutes, both lost in our own shite.
"You alright?" he asks eventually.
"Grand."
"You're a shite liar."
I almost smile. Almost. "Yeah."
"Wanna talk about it?"
"No."
"Fair enough." He takes a sip and winces. "This coffee's brutal."
"Pyro made it."
"Explains everything."
More silence. Comfortable this time. Cowboy doesn't push. Never does. It's one of the things I like about him. He knows when to let things lie.
But then he says, "Whatever it is, don't let it fester. That shite'll eat you alive."
He's talking from experience. I can hear it in his voice. See it in the tired lines around his eyes.
"Noted," I say.
He claps me on the shoulder, then leaves. Off to deal with his own demons, probably. We all have them. The club's full of men running from something, or toward something worse.
I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, and check the time. Still an hour before church. I should eat. Should do something productive. Should stop thinking about blonde hair and blue eyes and the way she said my name before everything went to shite.
Tank.
My name in her mouth sounded right. Sounded real.
And I destroyed it.
Church is the usual. Territory disputes, supply chain issues, someone's cousin causing trouble in Cork.
I sit there, half-listening, contributing when I need to but mostly just present.
My head's not in it. I can't focus on club business when my mind keeps drifting back to a small flat on the Northside and a woman who probably hates me now.
Deservedly.
Pyro sits at the head of the table, Raptor on his right. VP's got his arms crossed, listening to Preacher drone on about some issue with a shipment. Rush is drumming his fingers on the table, impatient as always. Bozo's cleaning his nails with a knife, not paying attention to anything.
"Tank."
I look up. Pyro's staring at me, expression unreadable.
"Yeah?"
"You hear what I said?"
"Yeah." I didn't. Not a fucking word.
His eyes narrow. "Repeat it back to me."
Shite.
"We're moving the shipment," I say, taking a guess. "Thursday instead of Friday."
"Close. Wednesday. Try to keep up."
A few of the lads chuckle. I nod, jaw tight. "Got it."
Raptor's watching me from across the table. He got that assessing look he gets when he's trying to figure out if someone's a liability. He doesn't say anything, but I can feel his judgment. Can feel him cataloguing my distraction for later.
Church wraps up eventually. I'm the first one out, needing air, needing space. I head outside and light a cigarette even though I quit months ago. I found a pack in my jacket pocket, probably left over from some party. The first drag burns my lungs and makes me cough, but I keep smoking anyway.
Punishment, maybe.
Rush follows me out and leans against the wall beside me. He doesn't speak. Just stands there, solid and steady, waiting.
"I fucked up," I say finally.
"Yeah?"
"Called a woman the wrong name. During—" I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
Rush winces. "Christ."
"Yeah."
"Whose name did you say?"
"Ex. From years ago. I haven't thought about her in—" I take another drag. "Doesn't matter. I said it. She kicked me out. End of story."
"You apologize?"