Tank (Dark Falcons Book 2) Page 4

  “Considered it. When I talked to my dad about it, he suggested I build onto the garage. Add a big room for us to hold meetings in.”

  “It’s not a half bad idea. Think we can raise the money?”

  “Easier to find funds for an addition than a new property and new building.”

  “Existing places are hard to find around here, but you managed to find one.” He waved a hand at the land that could easily belong to the club. He couldn’t help but feel Dixon was trying to fix Tank’s life.

  He waved a hand to the house. “That’s part of this land?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you have planned for it? You and Fiona…?”

  He shook his head. “We’re not quite there yet, man. Plus, that house needs some work. I’ll probably rent it out for a while.”

  “Good income to go toward paying for the property.”

  “It’s a good investment all around. I’m ready to expand beyond the garage that’s been in my family for decades. So you’re in?” Dixon arched a dark brow at him.

  Tank ran his fingers through his hair. For some reason it came to mind what Catarina said about his habit—she always knew he was deep in thought when he ran his fingers through his hair.

  He shoved the woman to the recesses of his mind for now, but she wouldn’t stay there for long. Looking toward the house, he pictured her drifting out onto the front porch and waving at him while he worked on motorcycles in the shop. Or crossing the lawn just to see him, talk to him…let him touch her.

  Fuck, he had it bad.

  “Tank, I gotta ask. You’ve been my best friend since Little League, and I know you.”

  He waited for it.

  “We all know you took a hit when the plant laid you off, but far as I know, you haven’t worked on your bike at all. That’s not like you. Are you all right for cash? I got some saved and I’m happy to—”

  He cut him off. “I’m fine for now. Thanks, Dix.” He shrugged, mostly because he felt like his shirt no longer fit his shoulders and one shift of his body would shred the cloth right off him. “Maybe I’m not in the mood yet.”

  “Which is the real concern. We all know you’re the biggest and toughest of us. But you’re also the softest. In here.” He poked a finger toward Tank’s chest.

  He couldn’t even go there. Twisting, he waved a hand at the property and promptly changed the subject. “What’s Fiona say about all this?”

  “She thinks it’s a great idea. Stands behind me one hundred percent.” Dixon tipped his head. “When are you gonna find a good woman to stand behind you?”

  He huffed out a laugh. “The fuck I need a woman for? I got enough problems.”

  “What about that girl from the Painted Pig? You could have gotten somewhere with her. Fiona said she’s in there with her friends often enough—should be easy for you to see her again. Stir things up.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t think I’m in the stirring up mood. I’ll stick to the club and the new bike shop.”

  Dixon cocked a grin at him. “I hear what you’re saying, bro, but I know what’s really going on.”

  “Which is?” Tank didn’t want to hear what his friend had to say.

  “You’re holdin’ out for someone.”

  He tried for his blandest expression. “Yeah, someone worth putting my time into. If you meet up with her, tell her where to find me.”

  Catarina grabbed the grocery bag off the seat of her car and turned for the Rothchilds’ shop. When she saw the main garage door closed, her step faltered. Usually the place was wide open, rain or shine. With it closed up, did that mean keep out?

  She knew Tank was in there.

  She raised her chin. She didn’t care if he didn’t want her around. Tank hadn’t answered her calls or texts for a week now. When she swung by his house one night after her shift, he didn’t answer the door.

  Then she ran into Fiona in town and asked if she’d seen her friend, and when Fiona bit her lip and nodded, Catarina knew it was time to intervene.

  She edged up to the door on the side of the building and peered through the glass into the shop. Sure enough, the lights were on and bike parts were scattered across one bay of the garage.

  She opened the door and swept her gaze over the room. Tank sat on a stool in front of a workbench, a part in a vise and a tool in hand. Rock music played in the background.

  “Knock knock,” she sang out in her best semblance of a peppy self she didn’t feel after looking at Tank’s slumped shoulders.

  He glanced up. His face blanked and then he registered who she was.

  Okay, that’s even more worrying.

  Fiona told her he had withdrawn from most of the things he enjoyed, a sure sign of depression. After losing his job and the motorcycle he loved, who could blame him?

  “Catarina.” His voice sounded hoarse—from disuse? He tipped forward off the stool and onto his feet, extending to his full height.

  She eyed him from head to toe, assessing him in a way only a friend and a person schooled in health and welfare could. His hair was mussed with furrows where he’d plowed his fingers through it over and over again. A crease etched between his long brows and underneath that, his eyes seemed to lack some of the teasing sparkle she always saw.

  He didn’t have on his leather cut—he’d slung it over the handlebar of the bike he was in the process of rebuilding and which seemed to be about the only thing in good repair on it. A worn T-shirt with grease stains concerned her most, though. She knew that T-shirt and how well Tank filled it out. But now it seemed a tad bit looser on him, as if he’d lost weight.

  Her lips tightened as she skimmed the rest of his body. Dammit—same with his jeans. He had lost weight, which meant he wasn’t eating regularly.

  His fingers curled into fists at his sides, and she jerked her gaze up to meet his, only to find he examined her the same way she did him.

  “Didn’t expect you,” he grated out. Again, when was the last time the man spoke to anyone?

  She held up the grocery bag. “I brought food.”

  He watched her close the door and pick her way around the bike parts he seemed to have laid out in a strategic way on the floor. When she stood before him, she tipped her head to look up into his eyes.

  Why did she suddenly feel so nervous beneath his gaze? She swiped a curl away and tucked it behind her ear. He tracked her movement but said nothing.

  This was getting really concerning, unnerving and downright scary.

  “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

  He gave a nod. “You’re the third person to ask me that today.”

  “Well, we’re all concerned about you.”

  “Don’t be.” He pivoted to the workbench and unscrewed the vise to release the part he’d been working on. He set it aside and then glanced at her again.

  “I hope you’re hungry. I brought your favorite.”

  Was that a small glimmer she saw in the depths of his chocolate brown eyes? “Oh yeah? What’s my favorite?”

  She set the bag on the workbench. “Look inside.”

  Using one grubby grease-stained finger, he pulled the bag open to reveal a deli package of fried chicken.

  “Looks good.”

  “There’s something else.”

  He reached into the bag and withdrew a bottle of his favorite Crown Royal whiskey. He expelled a grunt of appreciation, and her stomach gave a tiny flip-flop at hearing it.

  “Thanks, Catarina.”

  “I thought we could share it for dinner.”

  His gaze landed on hers. Something about the solemnness of his stare and the tightening of his jaw that emphasized the tendon in the crease had her stomach clenching for other reasons.

  She stepped closer and put her arms around his neck, going on tiptoe to reach him. How long had it been since she hugged her friend, showed him how much he meant to her? She locked her arms and squeezed.

  For a moment, he stood motionless, a solid wall of steel against her
.

  When she started to pull away, he settled a hand low on her spine. The brush of his fingers was fleeting, because he dropped his hand almost immediately.

  He moved back a step and reached for the Crown. The gold bottle gleamed in the overhead fluorescent lights. “I’ll save this for later.”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you grab the chicken and I’ll wash my hands and grab us some beers?”

  She felt boosted by his almost normal voice. After grabbing the chicken box, she walked to the wall where a few old chairs sat. Often the Dark Falcons congregated here to work on bikes and shoot the breeze. She didn’t hang around them often, but she didn’t feel uncomfortable in the least doing so. And she considered Fiona a friend.

  When Tank returned a minute later, he had two beers locked in the fingers of one hand. The masculine stance and his size would make any woman whip her head around to see more.

  Catarina twisted her mind from those thoughts and opened the chicken. She pulled out a greasy batter-fried drumstick and offered it to Tank. He dropped into a seat and passed her a beer in trade for the drumstick.

  “Smells good.” With his stare fixed on her, he brought the food to his lips.

  She smiled. “I’m glad you’re hungry. Looking at you, I wondered if you’ve been eating.”

  He lowered the chicken. “Meaning?”

  “You’ve lost some weight.”

  “Haven’t noticed.” He bit into the drumstick.

  She reached for her own piece, a thigh, and broke a bit off with her fingers to eat. Chewing, she wondered at the slight tension running between her and Tank. It hadn’t been there before, so what had changed?

  It must be her lack of communication.

  “Tank, I need to apologize to you.”

  His gaze settled on hers. “For what?”

  “I haven’t been the best of friends to you lately.”

  He winced.

  What was that almost pained crumple of his expression about? She’d noticed it a few times when they were together.

  “Have you been working a lot?” he asked her in a complete change of subject.

  She rolled with it—for now. But soon she’d get Tank to open up to her.

  Bobbing her head, she swallowed her bite. “Extra shifts, because Maryann has been out for a broken hand.”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, she got it caught between the gurney and the door of the rescue unit.”

  “Damn.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  They fell silent for a bit, eating chicken and sipping on beers. While it wasn’t awkward or unpleasant in any way, it sure didn’t feel the same as it once had.

  She nodded toward the bike parts. “You’re rebuilding.”

  “Yup.” He licked off his greasy finger, and damn if her stomach didn’t flip again, this time a bit lower. What was that about? She hadn’t felt that hint of excitement in a long time.

  “I’m glad you’ll be on two wheels again soon. I know how much you must miss it.”

  “I do.” For the first time, she heard a bit of the old Tank in his tone. “First thing I’m doing is taking a ride into the mountains. Was thinking about camping.”

  She smiled. “That sounds really fun.”

  He eyed her for a long heartbeat as if he wanted to speak, but he remained silent.

  “I worry about you riding, you know,” she said.

  “The accident was a stupid error on my part. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, but other accidents happen. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

  “I know you have.”

  She found herself watching his lips when he spoke for some odd reason. Tank was a handsome man, rugged in all the right ways, and he deserved a good woman to make him happy.

  Something hot and tight inside her rose up, like a small knot of interlaced flames, leaving her uncomfortable and restless.

  She pushed to her feet and walked over to the parts laid out on the floor. Tank joined her, his big body leaving her feeling so small in comparison.

  “How do you know what piece goes where?”

  He shrugged. “Practice, I guess. Been building engines since I was a kid with my dad. I’d best get back to it or I’ll never be finished.”

  “Mind if I watch you work for a while?”

  His eyes washed over her, leaving her feeling as if he’d trailed his fingers across her skin. “Suit yourself.”

  She pulled up an overturned trash can and sank to it while he worked. They talked as he did, but the topics of conversation didn’t skim the surface of the deeper talks they used to have. What had changed?

  He usually asked about Chad, but this time he didn’t mention him, and Catarina didn’t bring him up. Chad had texted her a few more times this week, but she hadn’t spoken to him. Lately, she really had started to realize things would never change between them. Even if they had things in common, they couldn’t make it work. And she hated how jealous and sometimes controlling he tried to be.

  “Why don’t you date, Tank?”

  He jerked his head up, gaze burning. “How do you know I don’t?”

  That left her feeling twitchy. She shifted on the can and directed her curls behind her ears again. His eyes narrowed on her.

  “I guess I don’t know what you do with your personal time. But I don’t see you around town with women.”

  “Did the guys put you up to asking me?”

  Surprise flitted through her. “What? No.”

  “Because they’ve been asking me shit too, pushing me to ask this girl out at the Painted Pig.”

  Her stomach hollowed like someone had spooned it out. “Oh. Maybe you should think about it. Who is she?”

  He gave an agitated wrench of a bolt and dropped the tool to the cement floor with a clatter. “How the fuck should I know her name? I didn’t ask. Look, Catarina, lay off it, okay?”

  She blinked. He’d never used that tone with her, and it left her feeling hurt in a way she couldn’t explain. Not scolded exactly, but definitely questioning the state of their friendship.

  She stood. “Maybe I should go home. It’s late.” She threw a look at the wall clock and saw two hours had passed since they’d shared the chicken.

  “Wait. Dammit.” He stepped toward her where she still sat on the can. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

  “It’s okay.” She tipped her head up to look into his eyes. Suddenly, his face softened, and he was the old Tank, the one she knew and loved.

  He twitched his head toward the door. “Let’s go grab a burrito.”

  She arched a brow. “You’re hungry again?”

  “For a burrito? You betcha.” He leaned in, and for a dizzying heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her.

  Her breaths came faster, and she noticed even the tiniest dark hairs on his usually shaved cheeks and the way the beard hairs on his chin curled.

  He straightened again, a tool in hand.

  How stupid of her. He’d only been reaching to the rolling tool cart next to her for a tool—he hadn’t leaned in for any other reason.

  She hopped off the can. “I’ll say yes to the burrito. I’ll drive and then I’ll bring you back here to get your car.”

  For the first time, he gave her a smile—crooked, easy and all Tank. “I’ll treat this time.”

  Chapter Four

  Tank swung his leg over the seat of his bike. He’d given it a test drive on the road in front of the Rothchilds’ garage, but this was his first real ride.

  As he hit the gas and felt solid pavement beneath him, he tried not to think about how last time he’d laid it down after plowing into that guardrail.

  Exhilaration lit up his veins. He increased his speed, and a laugh tore from his throat. Behind him, he heard the roar of more engines as the rest of the Dark Falcons rolled onto the road behind him.

  Tank looked over at the bike approaching on his right. Dixon raised a fist into the air and shook it. Tank let out a whoop and gunne
d the gas.

  They roared through town, past pedestrians and the park filled with kids playing after-school games. When they reached the Painted Pig, he thought about riding on by and continuing up to the mountains, possibly riding all night.

  But Dixon peeled off the pack to enter the bar parking lot, and he did the same. As soon as he parked and climbed off his bike, the guys surrounded him.

  “How’s it feel to be back?” Patriot clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Fuckin’ great. Better than pulling up in my dad’s beater car. C’mon, let’s go inside.” Tank led the way. He shoved open the door and Dixon shouted, “The Tank is back!”

  Fiona and the waitress looked up from the bar with grins. “That’s awesome, Tank. Bet it feels good,” Fiona said.

  “That it does. Gimme a Crown.” He hadn’t yet touched the bottle Catarina brought. He didn’t know if he wanted to take a sip of what he considered to be a peace offering from a “friend.” Damn her and her friend talk. The woman drove him crazy—how was she completely oblivious to the fact?

  With his drink in hand, he meandered toward their usual table, kept empty for them. The hairs on his nape prickled—a sign of danger.

  He looked around and saw the reason why. Chad sat at a nearby table with a couple of his buddies, and his dead glare riveted on Tank.

  “The fuck you lookin’ at, douchebag?” Tank leveled him with his own glare.

  Chad didn’t say anything, and Tank continued to the table. One by one, the brothers joined him, until the rear of the bar was filled with black leather and patches.

  Dixon raised his shot glass. “To Tank.”

  He knocked down his shot and slammed the glass on the table. “Hell yeah!”

  “You’ve been with us the whole time, Tank, but you’re more yourself now that you’ve got your wheels back.” Patriot sipped his favored vodka more slowly.

  “Been feeling off. I’m better now.” He’d also gotten his unemployment check to hold him off until the bike shop started paying him.

  “Man, we’re glad to hear it.” Patriot grinned.

  “Is that a new tat you’re sporting?” Tank nodded toward his buddy’s biceps to a banner in the orange and black of the club logo.