Page 14 of Tank
“Do you want to come inside for a minute and put your feet up while I put out the fire you started?” I say.
She stares at me like I've just grown a second head. I can practically see the wheels turning behind those fierce eyes of hers, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap.
"You're inviting me inside? After I just torched your shed?" Her voice is laced with disbelief.
I shrug, glancing back at the blazing structure. "Well, it's not like I can un-burn it. And I'm guessing you're not planning to shoot me with that thing again." I nod toward the flare gun still clutched in her hand. “Besides, I got other priorities right now than playing babysitter to a pyromaniac.”
Bianca looks down at it as if she'd forgotten she was holding it, then back up at me. "How do I know you won't just tie me up the minute we get inside?"
"Because I respect a woman who stands her ground," I say honestly. "Even if she destroys my property.”
She hesitates. I see it. She should say no. She should walk away.
Instead, she crosses her arms, tilts her head, and smirks right back at me.
“I guess one drink can’t hurt. It’s been a fucking morning.”
I laugh again. “You’re telling me.”
I watch her saunter toward my cabin, that flare gun still dangling from her fingertips like it's nothing more than a fashion accessory. I'm not entirely convinced she won't torch something else before the morning’s through. But there's something about Bianca that makes me want to take the risk.
Just what the hell am I getting myself into?
Chapter Eight
Bianca
I push open the door and cautiously step inside, bracing myself for chaos. I imagine the mess a man like Tank would live in — maybe a grimy, cluttered pit suitable only for cockroaches and vermin and him. But nothing in my wildest dreams prepares me for the sight that greets me. I draw in a sharp breath, frozen on the threshold by the shock of finding an expansive, open-plan marvel that feels like some kind of rustic sanctuary.
Thick beams traverse the space above like the ribs of a mighty ship, binding everything in a sturdy embrace. Heavy, rough-hewn furniture, solid as Tank himself, is scattered across the room. Weapons — an alarming number, but not a surprising number, based on what little I know about him — decorate the walls, more relics of warfare than home decor. Still, they are polished and gleaming and artfully displayed. The place is clean. Immaculate, even. It’s not the rundown hovel I’d feared, but a well-crafted masterpiece. Against all reason, it is almost… beautiful.
My eyes magnetically drift to the kitchen: dominating the space is an enormous restaurant-grade stove made of brushed stainless steel, standing proudly against polished wood countertops that shine in the light. Everything is meticulously arranged, a study in order and precision. It looks like something straight out of a fantasy cabin magazine, the place people dream of when they long to escape the world.
I stand there, dumbfounded, unable to help myself. For a moment, I feel a strange pang of envy.
Tank notices me gawking, and his voice cuts through the air, dripping with a knowing amusement that catches me off guard. “Just because I hate most people and hate the hollow, horrid husk that we call civilization doesn't mean I can’t have nice things.”
I turn slowly, processing not just the words but the staggering implications of them. This man—this gruff, violent, impossible man—lives here? He made this incredible space? The sheer elegance and order of it clash so violently with everything I know about him that my mind reels with disbelief.
Before I can respond, Tank strides past with the air of someone who has done this countless times before. He flings Ricky’s limp body onto the bed that sits heavily against the log-lined wall, not missing a beat as he efficiently opens a drawer and pulls out a set of shackles.
With a practiced ease that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s had to improvise a holding cell within the confines of his home, Tank ties Ricky down. I’m too stunned to even attempt a sarcastic comment, watching as he loops the chain through the metal frame, making it both confining and secure.
“Hold on while I chain Ricky here to my bed,” he warns in a tone that mixes seriousness with self-mockery, as if preemptively defending against my judgment. He knows what I’m thinking, what anyone with a pulse would think, but he bulldozes through anyway, unapologetic. “Keep your damn comments to yourself,” he continues, standing over Ricky and giving the chain a decisive tug. It clinks with finality against the bedpost, loud as a gunshot in the ordered silence of the room. “The steel frame is the only thing I got right now to hold this piece of shit while I'm busy, thanks to you torching my shed. So while you sit here, I’ve got to go put out the fire you started.”
Just like that, he stalks out, the door shutting behind him with a slam.
What the fuck is going on here? I should leave. I should run.
Instead, I linger, taking in the contradictions of this place, the contradictions of him. I trail my fingers slowly over the polished countertop, feeling the cool surface beneath my skin and letting the sheer unlikeliness of it seep into me, each immaculate line and detail a testament to Tank’s baffling nature. It is all so precise, so painstakingly crafted, so beautiful, reflecting a depth and complexity that I hadn’t thought possible. Nothing fits the picture I’d painted of him, and that incongruity fascinates and unsettles me in equal measure.
I find myself drawn to a small alcove in the kitchen area where cookbooks line a built-in shelf. I pull one out, surprised to find dog-eared pages and handwritten notes in the margins — tweaks to recipes, temperature adjustments, personal touches. The handwriting is unexpectedly neat, each letter carefully formed. Tank doesn’t just bake, but he corrects the recipes in cookbooks? The thought is so absurd, I almost laugh out loud.
When Tank comes back, he wipes his hands on a towel, his movements calm, deliberate.
I can’t help it. I gesture around. “This kitchen. This whole place… it’s not what I expected.”
Tank raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "What were you expecting? Beer cans and pizza boxes?"
