9. Tank
TANK
The sun starts to rise over a dull, wet Dublin, and I’m back outside her building on my bike.
I should be at the clubhouse, crashed out after a shower and a few hours of broken sleep. Instead, I’m here. Again. Watching the windows. Making sure no one comes near her. Making sure she’s safe.
My arse is numb, fingers stiff from the cold even inside my gloves. I don’t care.
The light in her flat went off around midnight. It came back on briefly around two. She probably couldn’t sleep. Now, as the sky lightens, I catch movement behind the curtains. She’s awake.
I should leave. I should go back to the clubhouse and stop acting like some fucking creep who can’t take a hint.
But I can’t shake what I saw yesterday. The way her face went white when she read that message. The terror in her eyes. The way her hands shook.
Someone threatened her. And whoever it was, they're close enough to watch her. Close enough to scare her.
Close enough to hurt her.
Not on my fucking watch.
I start the bike finally and pull away from the curb before she looks out the window and sees me. The last thing she needs is to think I'm part of the problem. Part of whatever's making her scared.
The ride back to the clubhouse is cold and miserable. My body aches from sitting still for hours, and my head's pounding from lack of sleep. But my mind won't shut off. It just keeps replaying yesterday; the pub, the way she looked at her phone, the way she left looking like she was being hunted.
By the time I pull into the clubhouse, the sun's fully up and a few brothers are already moving around. I park my bike, head inside, and make straight for the coffee.
Rush is at the bar, looking annoyingly awake for this early. He takes one look at me and raises an eyebrow.
"Christ, Tank. You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"Where've you been? Your bed hasn't been slept in."
"Out."
"Out where?"
I pour coffee, take a long drink. It's barely lukewarm but I don't care. "Personal business."
"Personal business that's got you looking like you've been ridden hard?" He leans against the bar, arms crossed. "This about that blonde? Enya?"
My jaw tightens. "Maybe."
"Cowboy told me she was here two nights ago. That you two—"
"It's complicated."
"Seems like it." He studies me, and I can see him working through it. Rush has always been sharp. He sees things other people miss. "She in trouble?"
The question catches me off guard. I set my mug down. "Why would you ask that?"
"Because you look like you're about to go to war, and you've been acting off since she left the other morning. And now you're showing up after being gone all night looking like you've been on a stakeout." He tilts his head. "Am I wrong?"
I'm quiet for a long moment. Part of me wants to keep this private. Enya's business is her business, and she made it clear she doesn't want me involved.
But if she's in danger, if someone's threatening her, I can't handle this alone. Not if I want to keep her safe.
"I think someone's watching her," I say finally. "Someone who scares the fuck out of her."
Rush's expression sharpens. "Who?"
"Don't know yet. But yesterday, at the pub, she got a message on her phone. She went white as a ghost, hands shaking, couldn't breathe right. Then she left early, and I…" I stop. "I followed her home; made sure she got there safely."
"And?"
"And she was checking over her shoulder the whole way, looking for someone. Scared someone was following her."
"Was anyone?"
"Not that I saw. But I stayed outside her building for a while. Just in case."
Rush processes this then nods slowly. "You think it's an ex? Someone from her past?"
"That'd be my guess. She mentioned she has a kid. Five years old. And she said something about being in a bad situation before. Someone who hurt her."
"Fuck." Rush scrubs a hand over his face. "And now he's found her."
"Maybe. I don't know for sure. But something's got her terrified, and I need to figure out what."
"What do you need?"
The question's simple. Direct. No judgment, no questions about why I care so much about a woman I barely know. Just, what do you need?
This is why I trust my brothers. Why I'd die for them.
"I need to keep an eye on her," I say. "Without making her feel trapped or watched. She doesn't want my help. She made that pretty fucking clear. But I can't just do nothing."
"You want backup?"
"Not yet. But if things escalate, if I figure out who's threatening her, I might need it."
Rush nods. "You've got it. Whatever you need, brother. Just say the word."
Relief floods through me. "Thanks."
"In the meantime, what's your plan?"
"Stay close. Watch her. Make sure whoever's scaring her doesn't get close enough to hurt her."
"And if she tells you to fuck off?"
"Then I fuck off." I meet his eyes. "But I'll still be watching. She doesn't have to know about it."
Rush studies me for a long moment then claps me on the shoulder. "You've got it bad for this girl."
"It's not about that."
"Bullshit. But it's alright. Just, be careful. If she's running from someone dangerous, getting involved could put you in the crosshairs too."
"I know."
"And you don't care."
"No."
He shakes his head, half-amused, half-concerned. "Alright then. Keep me posted. And Tank? Get some fucking sleep before you fall off your bike."
"Yeah. I will."
But I won't. I can't. Not until I know she's safe.
I try to rest for a few hours—lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling—but sleep won't come. I just keep seeing her face; the fear, the exhaustion, the way she looked at me like she wanted help but was too scared to ask for it.
By midday, I give up. I shower, change clothes, and head back out.
The pub opens at noon on Saturdays. I arrive just after and park down the street where I can see the entrance but stay out of sight.
Then I wait.
She arrives ten minutes later. Same routine as last night: head down, shoulders hunched, checking over her shoulder. She opens the door and slips inside.
I give it five minutes then follow.
The pub's quiet. Just a few early drinkers scattered at tables. Enya's behind the bar with Ciara, both of them setting up for the day. She glances up when I walk in.
She sees me, and her whole body goes rigid.
I don't approach. Don't try to talk to her. I just move to the far end of the bar—same spot as yesterday—and sit down.
Ciara comes over, a friendly smile on her face. "Back again?"
"Guinness."
"Right so." She pulls the pint and sets it in front of me. "You're becoming a regular."
"Good pub."
She glances down the bar at Enya then focuses back on me. "Is everything alright between you two?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"It’s just... She's been tense the last couple of days. And you keep showing up."
"I'm just here for a drink."
Ciara doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Alright. Shout if you need anything."
She walks away, and I settle in. Sip my pint slowly. Watch Enya work.
She's avoiding me. Won't look in my direction, won't come to my end of the bar. Just stays busy with other customers, moving with tight, controlled efficiency.
And I let her. I don't try to catch her eye. Don't call her over. I just exist in the space, keeping her in sight but giving distance.
Protecting her without pushing.
An hour passes. The pub fills up slightly with the Saturday lunch crowd. Enya's busy, pulling pints, taking orders, keeping her head down.
Then the door opens.
A man walks in. Thirties, maybe. Grimy jacket, twitchy hands, and eyes that scan the room too quickly. Something about him sets off alarm bells immediately.
He moves to the bar. Not my end, the middle, where Enya's working.
And he stares at her.
Not a normal stare. Not a customer waiting to be served. But a focused, intent stare that makes my whole body go tense.
Enya notices. I can see the way her shoulders hitch, the way her movements become more stilted. She approaches him cautiously.
"What can I get you?"
"Just water." His voice is rough. Too rough. And he's still staring at her like he knows her.
Like he's looking for something.
Enya pours the water with shaking hands and sets it in front of him. "Anything else?"
"No. Just water."
He doesn't drink it. Just sits there, watching her.
Every instinct I have is screaming. This fucker isn't here for water. He's here for her.
I shift in my seat, making my presence known. Making sure he sees the patch on my jacket, the way I'm watching him.
His eyes flick to me. Hold for a second. Then he looks away, downs the water in one go, and stands.
"Thanks," he mutters to Enya.
Then he's gone. Out the door like he was never there.
But the damage is done. Enya's white as a sheet, hands trembling as she grips the bar.
And I know, I fucking know, that man was connected to whatever's scaring her.
The rest of the afternoon drags. Enya never looks at me once. Just keeps working, mechanical and tense.
When her shift ends, she grabs her jacket and leaves without a word to anyone.
I wait two minutes then follow.
Same routine as yesterday. Stay far back, keep her in sight, watch for anyone else tailing her.
And there, across the street, leaning against a wall: a man watching her walk past.
He doesn't follow. Just watches. Then, when he sees me, he ducks into an alley and disappears.
My fists clench. Someone's definitely watching her. Multiple people.
And they know where she works. Where she walks. Probably where she lives.
Enya doesn't notice. She just keeps walking, faster now, checking over her shoulder every few steps.
I follow her all the way to her building. Watch her unlock the main entrance door, slip inside, and the door closes behind her. Then I park across the street and wait.
The sun sets. Lights come on in her flat. I can see movement behind the curtains but nothing is clear.
Hours pass. I don't move. I just sit on my bike, watching the street, watching her building, making sure no one approaches.
Making sure she's safe.
My phone buzzes with a text from Rush.
You good?
Yeah. On watch.
Need anything?
Not yet.
I pocket the phone and lean back against my bike, jaw tight, chest aching with the weight of knowing she's up there scared and alone and I can't do anything about it.
I can't force her to let me help. Can't demand she trust me. Can't barge in and fix this.
All I can do is watch. Protect from a distance. Make sure whoever's threatening her doesn't get close enough to hurt her.
And hope, fucking hope, that eventually she'll trust me enough to tell me what's going on.
So I can end it.
Permanently.
Because whoever's scaring her, whoever sent that message, whoever's watching her…
They're going to regret it.
I promise myself that.
I promise her, even if she doesn't know it.
I'll be the one standing between her and whatever danger is closing in.
Even if she wants nothing to do with me right now.
Even if it costs me everything.
She's worth it.
And I'm not fucking leaving.