Claimed by the Iron Serpent

Chapter 6: First Contact

Tank showed up at the garage at seven the next morning with two coffees.

I was already there—I'd been there since six, mostly because I couldn't sleep. My brain kept replaying the way he'd looked at me yesterday. Not like Dan used to look at me, like I was a possession. Tank looked at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't figure out.

It was unnerving. And kind of thrilling.

`Morning,'' he said, holding out one of the cups.

I stared at it. `Is that for me?''

`You take it black, right?''

`How did you---''

`Mike mentioned it.'' He set the cup on the workbench. `Figured you'd be here early.''

He was right. I was always here early. The garage was quiet in the mornings, before the customers arrived and the phones started ringing. Just me and the engines and the radio playing low.

`Thanks,'' I said, wrapping my hands around the cup. It was hot and bitter and exactly what I needed.

Tank leaned against the workbench, watching me. He was wearing the same thing he always wore—black t-shirt, jeans, boots. The tattoos on his arms seemed darker in the morning light, more defined. I could see the edges of a serpent coiling around his left forearm. More ink disappeared under his sleeve—skulls, roses, words in a language I couldn't read.

`How's the Softail?'' he asked.

`Good. I've got the engine on the stand. Going to start the teardown today.''

`Need help?''

I blinked. `You want to help?''

`I built that engine once. Might be useful to know how it goes back together.''

It was a reasonable excuse. But something in his eyes told me it wasn't about the engine.

`Sure,'' I said. `Grab a wrench.''

---

We worked side by side for two hours without talking much. Tank was good with his hands—better than most of the guys who came through the shop. He knew which tool I needed before I asked. Didn't get in the way. Didn't try to take over. Just handed me wrenches and held parts steady and watched me work with those dark, unreadable eyes.

Around nine, Mike came in and did a double-take when he saw Tank.

`Didn't expect you back so soon,'' Mike said.

`Told you I'd help.''

`Right. Help.'' Mike looked between us, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. `Well. I'll be in the office if you need anything.''

He disappeared, and I could've sworn I heard him chuckle.

`Does he always do that?'' Tank asked.

`Do what?''

`Look at people like he knows something they don't.''

`Yes,'' I said flatly. `It's annoying.''

The corner of Tank's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. I was starting to recognize it—the way his expressions were subtle, controlled, like he'd trained himself not to feel too much.

I wondered what that felt like. To be so afraid of your own emotions that you locked them down.

`Can I ask you something?'' I said, breaking the silence.

Tank looked at me. `Sure.''

`Why do you ride?''

He was quiet for a moment, his hands still resting on the engine case. When he spoke, his voice was lower. `Freedom,'' he said finally. `When I'm on the bike, nothing else matters. No past. No future. Just the road and the engine and the wind. All the noise in my head goes quiet.''

I understood that. I felt the same way about working on engines. The world made sense when I had tools in my hands. Every problem had a solution. Every broken thing could be fixed.

`What about you?'' he asked. `Why do you work on bikes instead of cars?''

`Bikes are honest,'' I said. `They don't hide what's wrong. You can hear every problem, feel every vibration. They're simple. Elegant. No computers, no sensors—just metal and fire and motion.'' I paused, surprised by myself. I'd never said that out loud before. `People should be more like that.''

`But they're not.''

`No. They're not.''

We went back to work. But something had shifted. The silence between us felt different now. Less awkward. More... comfortable. Like we'd known each other longer than two days.

Tank handed me a socket wrench. Our fingers brushed. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the calluses on his hands, the warmth of his skin.

I pulled back too quickly. Tried to pretend it hadn't happened.

His expression didn't change. But something flickered in his eyes.

---

Around noon, Tank's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and something flickered across his face. Annoyance, maybe. Or something darker.

`Everything okay?'' I asked.

`Club stuff,'' he said, shoving the phone back in his pocket. `There's a party at the clubhouse Friday night. Family reunion. Bruiser mentioned it to you, right?''

`He did. I said I'd think about it.''

`You should come.''

I looked up from the engine. `Why?''

Tank met my eyes. `Because you're part of this now. The garage, the club, all of it. And because---'' He stopped. His jaw tightened, like he was fighting with himself.

`Because what?''

`Because I want you there.''

My heart did something stupid. Something it had no business doing. A full-on, teenage-girl, butterflies-in-the-stomach moment. I hated it.

`That's not a reason,'' I said, trying to sound casual.

`It's the only reason that matters.''

I didn't know what to say to that. So I went back to the engine, pretending my hands weren't shaking. Pretending the heat in my face was from the work and not from the way he'd looked at me when he said it.

Tank didn't push. He just stood there, solid and patient, like he had all the time in the world. Like he could wait forever if that's what it took.

`I'll think about it,'' I said finally.

`That's all I'm asking.''

---

He left around one, after we'd gotten the engine completely disassembled. Every piece laid out on the workbench, catalogued and ready for cleaning. I stood in the shop, surrounded by pieces of his bike, and tried to remember how to breathe.

After he was gone, Mike emerged from the office. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me stare at the disassembled engine.

`So,'' Mike said. `Tank.''

`Don't.''

`I didn't say anything.''

`You're thinking it. I can hear you thinking it.''

Mike chuckled. `Kid's been coming around a lot for someone who doesn't let people touch his bike.''

`He's a customer.''

`He's a lot of things.'' Mike's expression turned serious. `Look, Max. I'm not gonna tell you what to do. But I've known Tank for a long time. He's a good man. Complicated. Carrying some heavy s**t. But good.''

`I don't need---''

`I know. You don't need anyone. You've made that clear.'' He paused. `But maybe it's okay to want someone. Even if you don't need them.''

I didn't have an answer for that.

Mike disappeared back into the office, and I was alone with the pieces of Tank's engine and the pieces of my own carefully constructed walls.

---

My phone buzzed. A text from Tank.

*Thanks for letting me help today.*

I typed back: *Thanks for the coffee.*

Three dots. Then: *Same time tomorrow?*

I stared at the message. This was becoming a pattern. Tank showing up. Tank helping. Tank making me feel things I wasn't ready to feel.

I should say no. Should keep my distance. Should remember what happened the last time I let someone get close.

But I didn't want to.

*Yeah,* I typed. *Same time.*

I pocketed my phone and went back to work. But I was smiling. Just a little. Just enough to notice.

---

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about Tank.

He was dangerous. Not in the way Dan had been dangerous—Dan was a snake, all lies and manipulation. Tank was dangerous because he was real. Because he showed up. Because he brought me coffee and helped me tear down an engine and looked at me like I was something worth looking at.

And that terrified me.

Because I'd been wrong before. I'd trusted the wrong people. I'd believed the wrong things. And every time I did, I ended up with nothing.

But Tank--- Tank felt different.

I just didn't know if different was good or bad.

My phone buzzed. Tank.

*Get some sleep, Max. Big day tomorrow.*

I typed back: *You're the one who keeps texting me. Maybe you should take your own advice.*

A pause. Then: *Maybe I should.*

I waited for another message. None came.

But I could've sworn I heard laughter in the silence.

I fell asleep with my phone in my hand, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't dream about Dan or Zoey or the life I'd lost.

I dreamed about engines and open roads and a pair of dark eyes that saw me—really saw me—and didn't look away.