1
TANK
The night air hits my face like a slap as I step out of the clubhouse, leather settling heavy on my shoulders.Rain is coming in from the coast.Dublin never lets you forget where you are; always damp, always grey, always crawling with ghosts.
I've been in church most of the day.Club business.Pyro's been on one about territory, Cowboy kept looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and Raptor’s been sitting there with that fucking smile like he knows something the rest of us don't.Three hours of it.Three hours of watching grown men dance around what they mean while I sit there wondering why we can't just say the fucking thing and be done with it.
I'm not built for politics.Never have been.
My bike rumbles beneath me as I kick her to life, the vibration travelling up through my spine.Familiar.Grounding.The only thing that makes sense most days is the road and the bike beneath me.Everything else is just noise.
The streets are slick, reflecting neon and headlights as I ride toward the Northside.Friday night means the city's waking up, spilling out of pubs and onto pavements, all laughter and shouting and that particular brand of Irish chaos that makes tourists nervous and locals feel at home.I cut through it like a blade, not looking, not stopping.
Just moving.
The bar I land at doesn’t belong to the club.It’s neutral ground, the kind of place where you can disappear into a pint and nobody gives a shite who you are or what patch you wear.Brick front, blacked-out windows, and a sign that saysO’Hara’sin faded gold letters.I've been here before.A couple of times.Enough to know the Guinness is decent and the owner doesn't ask questions.It belongs to Pyro’s in-laws.Pyro’s ol’ lady, Chloe, her mam owns this bar and many more in and around Ireland and the UK.
Inside is warm—too warm after the bite of the road.It smells like stale beer, the lights are low, and the place is half-full.Enough bodies to feel alive, though not enough to be trapped.
I make for the bar, shoulders hunched, hands in my pockets.A few heads turn—they always do when you walk in wearing the Vipers' patch—but nobody says anything.Smart.
And then I see her.
Tall.Christ, she's tall, standing behind the bar pulling a pint with one hand like she's done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands falling loose around her face, and she has ink crawling up both arms—flowers and something else that I can't make out from here.She's wearing black, fitted clothes, showing off curves that make my mouth go dry.
But it's her face that stops me.
Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and eyes that look like they've seen too much and aren't interested in seeing more unless you earn that privilege.She isn't beautiful in that soft, magazine way.She's striking.The kind of woman you notice because she doesn't give a fuck if you do or not.
I move to the bar and slide onto a stool directly in front of her.She doesn't look up right away.She finishes pulling the pint, sets it down for the bloke two seats over, then wipes her hands on a towel before finally meeting my eyes.
Blue.Her eyes are fucking blue.
"What'll it be?"she asks with a voice like smoke.It’s low and rough around the edges, with that Dublin lilt that turns every question into a challenge.
"Guinness," I say.
"Right so."She turns away and grabs a glass, before tilting it under the tap.I watch her hands.Strong.Confident.Nails painted black, chipped at the edges.A ring on her thumb, silver, thick.
She doesn't fill it all the way.She leaves it to settle, then glances back at me."First time here?"
"No."
"Don't remember you."
"Wasn't here to be remembered."
Her mouth twitches.Might be a smile.Might be nothing."Fair enough."
She tops off the pint and sets it in front of me.Foam perfect, dark as sin underneath.I take a sip.Good.Better than good.
"You always this chatty?"she asks, leaning a hip against the bar, arms crossed.The ink on her left arm is a snake, I realize.It’s coiled around her arm from wrist to shoulder, head disappearing beneath her sleeve.
"Depends."
"On?"
"Who's asking."
