Everything about him spoke determination, from the square set of his shoulders to the thinned line of his lips. Anton doubted the man did little without purpose. Relax was not part of his vocabulary. Maybe that was why he seemed to be the perfect fit for the head of an MC like the Devils. They needed a relentless leader. One who could handle the vulgar bunch of miscreants. The crude conversation quickly came to a rest. Tank’s men not only respected his rank, they feared him. There was no doubt about it as Anton took in the room full of disreputable thugs. All eyes fell on Tank’s feral presence. Spider, club VP, followed Tank through the door, winding his dirty blond hair into a messy top knot. It certainly didn’t do anything to help his looks. His long beard had seen cleaner days, making Anton wonder when the man’s last shower had been. Grease dirtied his nails and darkened his cuticles. Black smudged his forearms and elbows. His holey, stone-washed jeans looked as if he disrobed, they’d stand in the corner by themselves.
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