Page 4

"Maybe I do," he says, turning to face me as our swan-shaped gondola climbs higher into the night sky.

The carnival lights dance across his features, softening the hard edges that made Dylan and his friends crumple like paper. Up here, with the fair spreading beneath us and stars scattered above, Tank looks almost like a different person. Still dangerous, still intense, but somehow more human.

"I doubt that," I reply, adjusting slightly in the narrow seat. Our thighs press together, "Something tells me you don't have trouble getting women's attention."

"Getting attention and finding someone worth paying attention to are different things."

The Ferris wheel continues its slow ascent, each gondola rocking gently as we climb higher. From this elevation, Sweetheart County Fair looks almost magical, a kaleidoscope of lights and movement below us. No sign of Dylan or his friends. No hint of the violence that erupted just minutes ago.

"So," I say, watching his profile against the night sky, "Iron & Blood MC. How does a Marine end up in a motorcycle club?"

His eyebrow raises slightly. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"Life's too short for small talk." I shrug. "Besides, you just knocked out four guys for insulting your club. Seems like it means something to you."

He nods slowly, his gaze drifting out over the fairgrounds before returning to me. "When I got out of the Corps, I was... lost. Four years of having a purpose, a mission, brothers who had my back. Then suddenly, nothing."

Our gondola reaches the top of the wheel and pauses, suspended at the highest point. The breeze up here is cooler, carrying the mingled scents of funnel cake and summer grass.

"I drifted for a while," Tank continues, his deep voice almost gentle in the relative quiet. "Worked odd jobs, moved around. Nothing felt right. Then my bike broke down outside of Cedar Falls."

"And that's where you found the club," I guess.

He nods. "The president, Hellfire, helped me get her running again. Invited me to stay for a while." His mouth quirks up at the corner. "Years later, I'm still there."

"What is it about the club?" I ask, genuinely curious. "What makes it home?"

Tank seems to consider this, like no one's ever asked him to articulate it before.

"Brotherhood," he finally says. "Structure.

Purpose. After the Marines, civilian life felt.

.. hollow. No code, no honor. The club has rules, hierarchy, expectations.

When you've lived with that framework your whole life, trying to exist without it is like trying to build a house with no foundation. "

The Ferris wheel lurches back into motion, beginning its slow descent. I find myself wishing it would stop again, keep us suspended in this bubble where conversations like this seem possible.

"My dad was the same after he left the Army," I confess. "Never could quite adjust to civilian rules, or lack thereof."

"You mentioned he was a drill sergeant. That must have been an interesting childhood."

I laugh, the sound carrying away on the breeze. "That's one word for it. Everything was a training exercise. Bedtime was 'lights out.' Breakfast was 'chow.' My bedroom was my 'barracks' and it better pass inspection every morning."

"Sounds intense for a kid."

"It was." I look down at my hands, the memories washing over me. "But it was also... secure, in a way. I always knew exactly what was expected of me, what the consequences would be. There was comfort in that certainty."

We're silent for a moment as our gondola continues its descent, then begins climbing again a second time.

"Is that why you're not afraid of me?" Tank asks suddenly. "Because you grew up around military men?"

The question catches me off guard with its directness. "I never said I wasn't afraid of you."

"You didn't have to." His eyes, dark and perceptive, hold mine. "Most people get nervous around men like me. You stood your ground from the first moment. Why?"

I consider deflecting, giving a superficial answer, but something about the night and the heights and the man beside me pulls the truth from me instead.

"After my dad died, my mom remarried quickly.

Too quickly." I watch the lights of the fair spin below us, focusing on them rather than the memories.

"My stepfather was... not a good man. Military on the outside, but none of the honor or discipline my father had.

Just the violence and the need for control. "

Tank's body tenses beside me, but he remains silent, waiting.

"He wasn't physically abusive, not exactly.

But he was... cruel. Psychologically. Especially after my mom got sick.

" The words feel strange in my mouth, truths I rarely speak aloud.

"I learned pretty quickly how to read dangerous men—when to stand firm and when to retreat, when to speak and when to stay silent. It's a survival skill."

His hand covers mine where it rests on the safety bar, warm and unexpectedly gentle. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"It was a long time ago." I turn my hand beneath his, a silent acknowledgment. "But to answer your question, I'm not afraid of you because I can tell the difference between men who use their strength to control and men who use it to protect."

The Ferris wheel carries us to the pinnacle again, and this time when it pauses, I feel suspended in more ways than one. Between earth and sky, between stranger and something more, between caution and trust.

"And which am I?" Tank asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through our connected hands.

"You're a protector," I say without hesitation. "The way you are with Lilly, the way you held back with those boys even though you could have done real damage. You have control over your power. That's rare."

"Most people only see the patches and the tattoos. They make assumptions."

"Most people are idiots," I respond, drawing a genuine laugh from him.

"So a drill sergeant's daughter becomes a librarian in Sweetheart County," Tank muses as our gondola moves again. "How did that happen?"

It's my turn to laugh. "You think that's a strange trajectory? I came here for college. Sweetheart U has a good literature program. Planned to stay one semester. That was eight years ago."

"What made you stay?"

I tilt my head, considering. "At first it was Lilly. We clicked immediately, became inseparable. Then I got the job at the library, and I discovered I loved it—helping people find the right book, running the children's reading program, organizing the local history archives."

"And now?" he asks, unexpectedly perceptive. "What keeps you here now?"

The question hits closer to home than I'd like. I stare out at the twinkling lights of the small town spread beneath us.

"Habit, maybe," I admit. "Comfort. The devil you know." I turn back to him. "I've been thinking about leaving, actually. Before all this Dylan drama started. There's a position at a university library up north that I've been eyeing."

"But you stayed for Lilly."

I nod. "I couldn't leave her alone with this. Not when no one else was taking it seriously."

His eyes soften, and I see in them a recognition, of loyalty, of putting others before yourself. It's a quality we share, apparently.

"The Iron & Blood MC is lucky to have you," I say, changing the subject. "What exactly do you do there?"

A corner of his mouth lifts. "You asking about club business?"

"I'm asking about you," I clarify. "There's a difference."

He stares at me for a few seconds, seeming to weigh how much to share. "Officially, I help run security for the club's legitimate businesses—a garage, a few bars. Unofficially..."

"You're an enforcer," I finish for him, putting the pieces together. "The ones they send when there's trouble."

He doesn't confirm or deny, but his silence is answer enough.

"Does it bother you?" I ask. "The violence?"

The wheel turns again, carrying us toward the ground before rising once more. Our third climb. The ride will end soon.

"Not the way it should," he answers honestly. "I'm good at it. Have been since I was a kid defending Lilly from playground bullies. In the Marines, that capability had purpose, direction. The club gives me the same."

"But?"

His eyebrow raises. "What makes you think there's a 'but'?"

"There's always a 'but' when someone's that self-aware about their relationship with violence."

Tank's laugh is soft, almost rueful. "But... sometimes I wonder what it would be like to use those skills differently. To build something instead of just protecting it or destroying threats."

The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. This man, who exudes danger and capability, harbors the same doubts and questions as anyone else. It makes him suddenly, startlingly human.

"What would you build?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Never let myself think about it too deeply."

Our gondola reaches the top again, and the wheel stops once more, keeping us suspended at the highest point. Below us, I can see Lilly in her own swan several gondolas ahead, chatting animatedly with a little girl in the gondola next to hers.

"Maybe you should," I suggest softly. "Think about it, I mean."

His eyes find mine in the carnival lights, searching for something. Whatever he sees makes him shift closer, the line of his body warm against mine in the cool night air.

"Maybe I should," he agrees, voice low. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second, then back to my eyes. "You're not what I expected, Katty."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone... softer. More like Lilly."

I smile at that. "Disappointed?"

"The opposite." His hand still covers mine on the safety bar, and now his thumb traces a small circle on my skin. "You're a surprise. I don't get many of those in my life."

The simple touch sends electricity up my arm, more potent than any carnival ride static. This is dangerous territory, this pull toward him. He's Lilly's brother. He's temporary—here to solve a problem, then gone back to his club and his life. He's exactly the kind of complicated I've been avoiding.

And yet, suspended high above the fairgrounds with the stars as witnesses, I find myself leaning slightly toward him anyway.

"Good surprise or bad surprise?" I ask, my voice huskier than intended.

"Definitely good," he murmurs, closing the distance between us by another inch. "But complicated."

"Complicated," I agree, not pulling away. "You're leaving once Dylan's handled."

"I am."

"And I'm Lilly's best friend."

"You are."

We're close enough now that I can feel his warm breath on my face, see the faint scar that runs through his right eyebrow, count the individual lashes framing his dark eyes.

"So, this is probably a bad idea," I whisper.

"Probably," he agrees, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is so gentle it almost hurts. "I've never been known for my good ideas."

The Ferris wheel jerks back into motion, breaking the moment. We both straighten slightly as our gondola begins its final descent toward the platform.

"For what it's worth," Tank says as the ground comes back into focus below us, "I'm glad Lilly has you. Not many people would stand by a friend through something like this."

"She'd do the same for me," I reply, but the warmth in his eyes makes me feel like I've done something extraordinary instead of just what any decent person would do.

As our swan-shaped gondola glides to a stop at the platform, I realize something has shifted between us during this ride—boundaries crossed, defenses lowered. For better or worse, Tank is no longer just Lilly's intimidating older brother or the dangerous biker who arrived to save the day.

He's becoming something else entirely. Something far more complicated and potentially far more devastating to my own peace.

The operator unlocks the safety bar, and Tank rises first, extending his hand to help me from the gondola. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, his grip strong but controlled like everything else about him.

"Thank you for the ride," he says, and something in his tone suggests he's thanking me for more than just accompanying him on the Ferris wheel.

"Anytime," I reply, and find that I mean it more than I probably should.