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 gunned 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.
Patriot yanked his sleeve up all the way to show it off. “Thought I’d wear my pride on my skin and not only my back.”
Dixon chuckled. “Just don’t ever betray us or we’ll have to cut it out of ya.”
“That day will never come. My loyalty is to my brothers and my club. Speaking of club, what’s happening with the build? Is it still on for Sunday?”
“It is. You’re bringing the nail guns?” Dixon asked.
“Said I would,” Patriot answered.
“Rio, you got the saw covered, right?”
Rio saluted Dixon. “Got ya, Prez.”
“The rest of the supplies are already delivered to the garage. Prospects, you can make a beer run.”
The two men at the end of the table nodded in agreement.
“And I lined up some honeys to bring food,” Diesel added. The man had one of those honeys on his lap right now, her arm wrapped around his neck and her breasts spilling out in his face.
Tank glanced away but had to ask himself why. There were women on offer around him at all times, some freer than others with their bodies. But all he could see when he looked at another woman was Catarina. The other night she’d come to the shop wearing a high-necked top and jeans. Hell, none of her body showed to him, but goddamn if it didn’t make him want her that much more.
He’d damn near slipped up and kissed her twice that night. The first time when she sat on the garbage can, looking up at him with those big green eyes fringed with long lashes and every freckle on her face begging him to trail his lips over them, down her throat and around to her dainty ears.
Fuck. Now he was hard.
The second time he nearly gave in to his urges to taste her sweet lips, she just polished off her burrito from her favorite joint and gave him this smile… He couldn’t shake it from his mind.
Patriot elbowed him. “The fuck’s that dickhead glaring at you for?”
Tank’s muscles locked as he looked up to find Chad’s stare fixed on him again. “Damn if I know, but I’m about to make his eyes cross.” He stood. At his side, Patriot rose too.
Tank moved quickly. He closed his fingers in the front of Chad’s shirt, yanked him to his feet and forced him to meet his stare. “I already asked you once—what the fuck are you lookin’ at, asshole?”
He sneered, and Tank couldn’t hold off another second. All the times this motherfucker made Catarina cry, each time he said something to hurt her and send her running into Tank’s arms for comfort, descended with a vengeance.