The seats are narrower than they look from the ground, forcing us to sit close enough that our thighs press together. I can feel the warmth of her body through my jeans, smell the faint scent of something floral in her hair.
"She's always been a terrible wingman," I agree as the operator secures the safety bar across our laps.
Katty raises an eyebrow. "Is that what's happening here? You need a wingman?"
The wheel jerks into motion before I can answer, lifting us slowly into the night air. Below us, the fair spreads out in colored lights and movement. Above, stars pepper the clear night sky.
And beside me sits a woman who continues to surprise me at every turn—strong enough to stand her ground against threats, smart enough to recognize the tactical advantages of high ground, and beautiful enough that I'm finding it increasingly difficult to remember why I came to Sweetheart County in the first place.
"Maybe I do," I finally answer, turning to face her fully as our swan climbs higher into the night sky.
Chapter 4 - Katty
"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 'lightsout.' 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.
