5. Tank
TANK
I can't get her out of my head.
Three days. Three fucking days since I walked out of her flat with my tail between my legs, and she's all I can think about.
The way she looked at me before it all went to shite.
The way her laugh sounded, sharp and real.
The way she felt beneath me, wild and wanting, before I destroyed it with one word.
Emma.
The name sits like poison in my mouth.
I'm at the clubhouse, supposed to be relaxing. It’s Friday night, which means the place is filling up with brothers, hang-arounds, and women looking for a good time. The music's loud, air thick with smoke and laughter. It should feel like home.
Feels like a cage.
I spot Cowboy at the bar, standing there with this look on his face, like he's working through something heavy. I grab a beer from the prospect and slide onto the stool beside him.
"Deep thoughts, brother?" I ask.
He looks up, seeming to come back from wherever he was. "Life-changing decisions. The usual."
I grin, taking a pull from my beer. "Anything you can share?"
He hesitates for a second, then shrugs. "Pyro's offered me Enforcer."
My eyebrows shoot up. That's massive. Enforcer's not just a title, it's responsibility, power, trust. "Damn. That's huge. You gonna take it?"
"Yeah."
I nod, genuinely impressed. Cowboy's earned it ten times over. "Enforcer Cowboy. It has a nice ring to it."
"It's a big responsibility," he says, but I can hear the pride underneath.
"If anyone can handle it, it's you," I say, and I mean it. "After everything you've done for the club, for Caoimhe and Saoirse, you've proven yourself ten times over."
He looks at me, something grateful in his expression. "Thanks, man. How about you?" he asks, turning it around on me. "Still playing the field?"
I grimace. I wish I could say yes. I wish I could say I'm fine, moving on, business as usual. "Kind of in a situation there."
"What kind of situation?"
I glance over my shoulder, making sure no one's listening too close. The clubhouse has ears everywhere. Then I lean in. "Do you know that new waitress at Callie's bar in the Northside? Tall, blonde, covered in tattoos?"
Cowboy thinks for a moment. "Enya?"
Just hearing her name does something to my chest. "That's the one." I take another long swig of my beer, buying time. "We hooked up last weekend."
"And?" he prompts me when I don't continue.
"And I can't stop thinking about her. Which is fucked up, because I'm pretty sure she hates my guts."
Cowboy laughs. He can't help himself. "Why would she hate you?"
Here it comes. The part where I admit what a complete fucking eejit I am. I rub the back of my neck, feeling heat crawling up it. "I might have, uh, called her the wrong name. At a critical moment."
"Jesus Christ," he groans. Actually groans. "Tell me you didn't."
"In my defense, they sound alike! Enya, Emma... easy mistake."
Even as I say it, I know how shite it sounds. There's no defense. No excuse that makes it better.
Cowboy shakes his head, torn between amusement and secondhand embarrassment. "You're a disaster, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, staring into my beer. "But seriously, what do I do? I really like this girl."
And that's the truth of it, isn't it? I really fucking like her. More than I should for one night. More than makes sense.
"Grovel," Cowboy suggests. "Apologize profusely. Maybe send flowers. Then apologize again."
I consider it. Groveling's not really my style, but for her? Maybe. "Grovel, huh? I could do that."
Before Cowboy can offer more advice, Caoimhe appears at his side, slipping her arm through his. "What are you boys plotting over here?" she asks, eyes dancing with mischief.
"Tank's love life," Cowboy tells her. "Or lack thereof."
"Ah," she says, and there's this knowing look on her face that makes my stomach drop. "The blonde from O’Hara's?"
I gape at her. "How did you—"
"Grá told me," Caoimhe explains with a shrug. "Small club, big gossip."
Fuck my life. I groan, dropping my head into my hands. "Is there anyone who doesn't know?"
"Probably not," Cowboy says, way too cheerfully. "Best to just own it at this point."
Caoimhe tugs at his arm. "Can I steal my husband for a minute?"
I wave them off, not looking up. "Go. Leave me to my shame."
They disappear, and I'm left sitting at the bar alone, nursing my beer and my wounded pride. The whole fucking club knows. They know I called a woman the wrong name during sex. They know I fucked up something that could've been…
What?
I don't even know.
But it felt like something. She felt like something.
I down the rest of my beer and signal the prospect for another. The night's young and I'm already feeling like shite. Might as well lean into it.
The music shifts, something with a heavy beat that gets people moving. I watch the crowd, the easy way everyone moves together. My brothers. My family. In the only place I've ever really belonged.
But tonight it feels hollow.
Because all I can think about is a woman with blue eyes and a sharp tongue who wants nothing to do with me.
And I've got no fucking idea how to fix it.
I'm halfway through my second beer when the front door opens and a burst of cool air cuts through the smoke and noise. I glance over, out of habit more than anything, and my heart stops.
Enya.
She's here. In the clubhouse. Wearing dark jeans that hug her legs and a fitted black top that shows off the ink on her arms. Her hair is down, falling in waves past her shoulders. She looks nervous, eyes scanning the room like she's not sure she belongs here.
Then her gaze lands on me.
Everything stops. The noise, the music, the movement, it all fades to nothing. There’s just her, looking at me with those blue eyes that I see every time I close mine.
Her expression shifts. Surprise, then recognition, then something harder. Her jaw tightens.
Fuck.
Rush's voice cuts through my thoughts, loud and pleased: "About fuckin’ time."
He crosses the room toward the dark-haired woman beside Enya.
Ciara. That's her name, the other bartender from O’Hara’s.
Rush pulls her into a hug. The two of them are close.
Since Rush joined us from the New York Chapter, he and Ciara have been friends.
Whenever someone comments on their relationship, he’s very adamant that they’re only friends and nothing else.
So that's how Enya ended up here. She came with Ciara.
My heart's pounding. This is…I don't know what this is. A second chance? A disaster waiting to happen?
Enya breaks eye contact first, turning to say something to Ciara. I can see the tension in her shoulders, in the way she holds herself rigid like she's trying to decide if she should bolt.
Don't leave, I think to myself, hoping she doesn’t.
I should stay put. Give her space. Let her have a good night without me fucking it up.
But my feet are already moving.
I weave through the crowd, heart hammering, palms sweating like I'm about to step into a fight. Maybe I am. Different kind of fight, but a fight all the same.
Rush is talking with Ciara, his arm slung over her shoulders. Enya hangs back slightly, arms crossed, uncomfortable but trying not to show it.
I stop in front of her. Up close, she's even more beautiful than I remember. But there's exhaustion in the lines around her eyes, wariness in the set of her mouth.
"Enya," I say quietly.
She doesn't look at me. "Tank."
Her voice is flat. Cold. Like I'm a stranger she's being forced to acknowledge.
"Can we talk?" I ask.
"I'm here with Ciara."
"I know. Just five minutes. Please."
The please costs me, but I say it anyway.
She finally looks at me, and Christ, those eyes. Cold and guarded, but underneath I can see something else. Hurt, maybe. Anger.
Both, probably.
"There's nothing to talk about," she says.
"Yes, there is."
"No." Her voice is firm. "There really isn't."
Ciara appears at her elbow, looking between us with obvious interest. She's trying to figure out what's happening here. "Everything alright?"
"Grand," Enya says quickly. Too quickly.
Ciara doesn't look convinced, but Rush is calling her over to him, giving me the chance to speak with Enya. She squeezes Enya's arm. "I'll be right back, yeah?"
Then she's gone, and it's just me and Enya standing in the middle of the clubhouse with the noise swirling around us.
"You didn't tell her," I say. Not a question.
"Tell her what?"
"About us."
"There is no us." She finally meets my eyes fully, and the directness of it nearly knocks me back. "There was one night. One mistake. That's it."
Mistake.
The word hits like a fist to the gut.
"It wasn't a mistake," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
"Really? Because calling me someone else's name felt pretty fucking mistaken to me."
Fair. More than fair. I deserve that and worse.
"I know," I say. "And I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Enya. That's what I've been wanting to tell you for three days."
"You said sorry. I heard you. Now can we be done?"
"No."
Her eyebrows go up. "No?"
"Not until you let me explain."
"There's nothing to explain. You were thinking about someone else. End of story."
"It's not that simple."
"Then make it simple," she says, and there's a challenge in her voice now. Heat underneath the ice.
I open my mouth. Close it. How do I explain this without sounding like I'm making excuses? How do I tell her that saying Emma's name had nothing to do with wanting Emma and everything to do with my own fucked-up head?
"I wasn't thinking about her," I say finally. "I was thinking about you. Only you."
She stares at me, and I can see her trying to decide if she believes me. "Then why'd you say her name?"
"I don't know." It's the truth. The honest, painful truth. "It just came out. Like some reflex I didn't know I still had. But it wasn't because I wanted her there. I wanted you. Only you."