How could he back down from that?
Holding out a hand, he said, “I’m in. But you treat me fair. I expect fair wages and not special treatment.”
“You’re not special, dickhead. Why would I give you special treatment?”
They clasped hands and shared a laugh at the insult. When they broke the handshake, Tank looked around. “What kind of building you thinking of? Metal building would be cheap and quick to put up.”
He nodded. “My thoughts too.”
“I know a guy who deals in them. Sells them wholesale to dealers.”
“Get in touch with him. See what kind of deal you can make.” Dixon scuffed his knuckles over his jaw.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“If we put it over that direction on the plot, we can link the parking lot to the garage’s.”
“Great idea,” Tank said, picturing it.
“I thought you were going to suggest we put the club here.” Tank shifted his weight onto his other foot, still a little stiff from all his lazy hours on the couch.
“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.