Chapter 4: The Club
1133 Words
Tank came back three days later.
Three days of trying not to think about him. Three days of catching myself staring at the door every time the bell chimed. Three days of telling myself it didn't matter—he was just a customer, just another MC member, just a big quiet man who'd looked at me like he could see something I didn't want him to see.
I was working on a Dyna when he walked in. The bike was in pieces across three workbenches—I'd pulled the engine to replace a cam chain tensioner that was shot.
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there, watching me work.
I ignored him. Or tried to.
"You've got it completely apart," he said finally.
I didn't look up. "Cam chain tensioner. It's a common problem on these. Most people ignore it until it's too late."
"Most people don't take their bikes apart for fun."
"I'm not most people."
Silence. Then: "No. You're not."
I finally looked up. He was closer than I expected. Close enough that I could see the details—the scar through his left eyebrow, the way his tattoos disappeared under his sleeves, the way his eyes tracked from the engine to my face.
"Mike said you wanted me to look at your Softail," I said.
"I do."
"Where is it?"
"Outside."
I followed him out. The bike was parked next to mine—a black and chrome Softail with custom pipes. Beautiful machine. But I could hear the problem from ten feet away.
"Knock in the engine," I said. "Lower end. You've been riding it hard."
"Guilty."
I knelt beside the bike, placed my hand on the tank, and closed my eyes. The vibration told me everything. "Rod bearing. Maybe crankshaft. You need to rebuild the lower end."
"How long?"
"Three days. Maybe four if I have to order parts."
"I can wait."
I opened my eyes. He was looking at me with that same unreadable expression.
"Why me?" I asked. "Mike could do this. Any shop in town could do this."
"Mike said you were the best."
"Mike's biased."
"He's also honest." Tank crossed his arms. "I don't let people work on my bike. Ever. But I'll let you."
Something about the way he said it made my chest tight. Trust. He was offering trust, and we'd barely spoken.
"Okay," I said. "I'll do it."
"Good." He pulled out his phone. "I need your number. In case I have questions about the bike."
I gave it to him. Watched him type it in. Watched him send me a text so I'd have his.
"There," he said. "Now you can't avoid me."
"I wasn't avoiding you."
"Yes, you were." The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "It's okay. Most people do."
He walked back into the shop. I stared after him, my phone warm in my hand.
What the hell was that?
---
The Softail became my project. I pulled the engine that afternoon, laid out every piece, catalogued every problem. Tank had been riding it hard—too hard, too fast, too long without maintenance. The rod bearing was shot. The crankshaft needed replacing. The cylinders were scored.
But the bones were good. The frame was solid. With work, this bike would run another hundred thousand miles.
I understood that feeling.
I worked late that night. Past midnight. The shop was quiet except for the sound of my tools and the radio playing low. I liked working alone. Liked the way the problems made sense when there was no one else around.
My phone buzzed. Tank.
*How's the bike?*
I typed back: *Needs work. But it's fixable.*
Three dots. Then: *That's what Bruiser said about you.*
I stared at the message. Didn't know what to say.
Another text: *Get some sleep, Max. The bike will still be broken tomorrow.*
I almost smiled. Almost.
*Goodnight, Tank.*
*Night.*
I pocketed my phone and went back to work. But something had shifted. Something small. Something that felt like the beginning of something I didn't have a name for.
---
Bruiser came by the next evening with pizza. "Heard Tank's bike is here."
"Word travels fast."
"Small club." He handed me a slice. "How's it looking?"
"Needs work. But it's fixable."
"Like everything else in this town." Bruiser leaned against the workbench. "You doing okay? Mike said you moved into the apartment."
"I did."
"That's good. That's—that's really good, Max." He paused. "The club's having a family reunion next month. You should come."
I blinked. "Family reunion?"
"Yeah. It's a thing we do. Once a year. All the members, their families, their old ladies. It's a big party. Food, music, bikes. You'd like it."
"I don't know anyone there."
"You know me. And Tank." He grinned. "Besides, you're family now. You work here. That makes you one of us."
Family. The word hit different than it used to. Less like a weapon. More like a possibility.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Good enough." Bruiser finished his pizza. "Oh, and Max? Tank doesn't let people work on his bike. Ever. You should know that."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've known Tank for ten years. And I've never seen him trust anyone like this." Bruiser's expression turned serious. "Whatever you did, it mattered. Don't waste it."
He left before I could respond.
I stood there, holding a slice of pizza, staring at Tank's disassembled engine.
Family.
Trust.
I didn't know what to do with either of those things anymore.
But maybe, just maybe, I could learn.
The next morning, I woke up to another text from Tank.
*What time do you start?*
I typed back: *Six. Why?*
*I want to help.*
I stared at the message. Tank wanted to help. Tank, who didn't let anyone touch his bike, wanted to help me rebuild his engine.
*You don't have to do that,* I typed.
*I know. But I want to.*
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just sent him the address and went to make coffee.
He showed up at six-fifteen, wearing the same black t-shirt and jeans, looking like he hadn't slept much.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning."
We worked in silence for a while. Him handing me tools, me explaining what I needed. He was a good student—quick hands, sharp eyes, didn't ask stupid questions.
Around eight, Mike came in and stopped short when he saw Tank.
"Tank. Didn't know you were coming by."
"Helping Max with the engine."
Mike looked at me. I shrugged. He grinned.
"Well. I'll leave you two to it." He disappeared into the office.
Tank and I kept working.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, I didn't feel quite so alone.
- Writer
