Tank looked at the back door, then back to Banks. “What the fuck is this all about?”
Banks gave an exasperated sigh. “Ella Masters has been here all week asking questions. When I pulled her aside, she said she’s got a thing for bikers. Well, I got thing against reporters, and something about her sits wrong with me. She reminds me of those female black widow spiders that eat the males after sex.”
Tank’s face twisted in disgust. “I’m a fucking Sinner. I’m not afraid of that tiny blonde bitch.”
“She’s a sinner, too,” Banks said. “The kind that fucks with the Devil and then eats his head. You don’t have T-Rex anymore to watch your back. I’m trying to do you a favor. You’re a good guy, Tank. Probably one of the most loyal, trusting guys I know. And that’s not always a good thing when you’re alone.”
Christ. This was all he needed. Yet another reminder that T-Rex was gone when he’d come to the damn bar to forget. “Are we fucking done here?”
Banks nodded. “Said my piece. Can’t do more than that.”
Tank returned to his seat. Ella smiled when he sat down, like she was happy to see him again. Tank’s stomach knotted. It was damn hard to believe this beautiful woman could do anything more than smile for the camera and read the news off cards someone held in front of her, like he’d heard all reporters did.
“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 fucking sleep at night for the fucking 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 fucking 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.