Chaos Bound (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #4)(47)
“Was your bike, okay?”
A poor liar at best, Tank froze for a heartbeat and then quickly recovered. “Uh … Yeah. Must been a cat he saw or something.”
“Sure.” She gave him a warm smile. “I was worried I’d said something wrong when I brought up your friend. I didn’t know he’d passed. I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten about it, but I remember now one of my colleagues reported on his funeral. It was a huge affair. He must have been well liked. What happened?”
Tank’s reticence after Banks’ warning warred with his desire to share his pain with someone—anyone—not inside the club. But it wasn’t like the funeral was a secret. There had been all sorts of reporters there. “Jacks got him. Tortured him for months in their dungeon.”
To her credit, she didn’t gasp or cover her mouth with her hand, or do any of the things people did when they heard a horror story like he’d just told. But then she’d reported the death of Wolf, president of the Devil’s Brethren from the scene of the crime, among other grisly murders in Conundrum, so he shouldn’t be surprised.
“He seemed like a good guy,” she said, and then she gave him a rueful smile. “Now I kinda wish I hadn’t dumped that beer on his head. I could tell you two were close.”
“He’s not really dead.” He lifted the bottle, startled when he saw it was empty. That sure had gone down fast. How many had he had since coming to the bar? “They got it wrong. I saw him the other day in Still Water. I know it was him.”
Her face softened, and she slid a beer over to him. “I ordered another one from the waitress for you in case you came back. Looks like you need it.”
“Appreciated.” Tank nodded and lifted the beer to his lips. The taste was slightly off, flat and bitter, but maybe that was because it had been sitting while he talked with Banks.
“Maybe you just imagined seeing him,” Ella said.
“No!” Tank slammed his beer on the counter, drawing a scowl from Banks at the other end of the counter. “I know T-Rex. I know him like I know myself.” He thudded his fist against his chest. “Nothing has hurt as bad as losing him. I can’t f*cking sleep at night for the f*cking pain, but I always knew it wasn’t right. I knew he couldn’t be dead.”
He shuddered, realizing he had never really spoken about T-Rex’s death to anyone. Not to the brothers or any of the sweet butts. Not even to the club doctor when he’d gone to him for sleeping pills. But now it had spilled out, and to a f*cking stranger who didn’t even know the life, a woman both Banks and T-Rex had warned him about. Hell, she’d probably call the cops on him for the things he’d already told her.
“I lost someone close to me, too,” she said. “Years ago. And it still hurts. You never stop thinking maybe someone got it wrong. That maybe he’s still out there and he can’t come home, or he has amnesia or he’s lost his way. You think because you hear his voice in coffee shops and bars, or you turn a corner and you’re sure he was just there. You think maybe they buried the wrong guy. Maybe it was someone else in the plane that crashed and not the man I’d loved since I was fourteen years old.”
Tank wasn’t good with words, but he understood her pain. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Actually, I do.” She dabbed her eyes with her napkin. Fuck. He hadn’t even noticed any tears.
“Patrón,” she said. “Neat. But only if you’re having another beer. I don’t like to drink alone.”
He ordered the drinks from a scowling Banks, tossing him a few bills when he returned a few minutes later.
“Hard liquor,” Tank said when she took her first sip. “My kinda girl.”
That got him a smile and the mist cleared from her eyes. “Why are you so sure your friend is alive?”
“I saw him.” He fingered his phone, itching to show her the video. But he wasn’t stupid. T-Rex had taught him that. He’d stolen that tape at gunpoint, and he knew better than to serve up that kind of story to a reporter. And, although Banks’ warning had ruffled his feathers, he respected the bartender enough to be careful around Ella, especially when he had a real serious buzz going after an evening of drinking. “It was at a gas station, and I played the scene over and over in my head. It was the little things—the way he moved, the tat on his arm, the pizza he was eating—it’s hard to explain.”
“Sounds right up my alley.” She smiled—a real smile, and not the fake one she used on TV—her eyes crinkling at the corners. Damn she was pretty.
“I thought you were a news reporter.”
“My big dream was always investigative journalism.” She sipped her drink, leaving a pink lipstick print on the glass. Ella had nice lips, full and lush. Tank imagined Ella in her tight suit on her knees, looking up at him with those big, blue eyes, those beautiful lips wrapped around his cock. His blood rushed to his groin, and he tried to pay attention to her words and not the images in his head of him with this classy chick, showing her a bit of rough and making her scream with pleasure.
“Unfortunately, the powers that be needed a new face for the evening news, and they liked mine,” she continued.
“You’re good.” Tank didn’t usually throw out compliments, but Ella was good. Damned good. And he would know since he had watched her on the news every night for a couple of weeks after T-Rex’s big strikeout. Who knew she’d turn out to be so nice and easy to talk to, or that she’d even want to share some of her personal life with a guy like him? Even if they didn’t wind up in bed together, he was just happy to share his grief with someone who understood exactly how he felt, and the fact that she was attractive made it that much more enjoyable.