Page 16 of Tank
"Like hell you aren't." Tank steps closer, his presence suddenly filling the space between us. "This isn't a democracy. You don't get a vote."
"I'm staying," I say firmly, even as my heart hammers against my ribs. "You say you're not going to kill him, but I need to make sure."
He runs a hand over his beard, frustration clear in the hard set of his jaw. "Jesus Christ. You're like a goddamn tick that won't let go."
"I've been called worse."
Something in the way he’s looking at me now — like he’s questioning who I am as much as I’ve been questioning him — makes my pulse jump. Who does he think I am? Why is it that the more I fight him, the more that some unreadable light comes into his eyes?
“Why do you care so much?”
The words hit me like a punch. Not because they’re mocking — they’re not. They’re genuine. Unexpectedly genuine. And… warm.
And I don’t have a lie ready.
I swallow, my voice quieter when I finally speak. “Because I see where bad decisions and violent actions lead. I’ve seen those consequences up close and way too personal and way too often.” Tank doesn’t speak, but I can feel him watching me, and his eyes push me to keep going, keep speaking, and my voice picks up speed. “I’ve spent a lot of my life, my time, my energy, and what little money I have trying to protect people from harm.”
The air between us shifts.
For the first time, I feel like he actually sees me. Not just as someone in his way. Not just as a problem.
Something more.
Tank's eyes narrow, his head tilting slightly as he studies me. The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.
"Protect people from harm, huh?" He gestures toward the window, toward the smoldering remains of his shed. "That why you set my property on fire?”
"That was..." I falter, suddenly aware of how ridiculous my actions must seem. "That was different."
"Different how?" He's closer now, close enough that I can smell him—wood smoke and something earthy, masculine. "You were protecting Ricky? The guy who, from what I can tell, has left a trail of broken people behind him?"
I lift my chin. "I didn't know who you were or what you wanted with him."
"And now?"
"Now I still don't know what you want with Ricky, but I know I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt.”
Tank doesn’t respond immediately; his gaze lingers on mine, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he tilts his head slightly. Considering.
“Well,” he mutters. “That makes two of us.”
I should leave it alone. Should back off before I say too much. But I don’t. Because I can’t.
"Then let Ricky go! Put him back in your car, take us both out of here, and let me deal with him.” There’s a moment where he looks like he wavers, like I might win, like maybe I’ve done enough crazy shit — like setting his shed on fire and nearly killing him with a flare gun — to earn his respect and acquiescence. Or maybe he sees that the longer I'm here, the more likely it is that I'll chip away at whatever wall he's trying to put up and get exactly what I came for. He rubs at his beard, deliberates, and for a second I think he might actually listen.
Then he shakes his head.
“I told you,” he grunts. “Time to go.”
I don’t move right away, and Tank simply crosses his enormous arms, glowering at me.
Finally, I exhale. Give him a look. “I’m not done with this conversation.”
Tank chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, sweetheart, I kinda figured. But you are done taking up space in my cabin.” Before I can protest, before I can react, he moves with stunning quickness to scoop me up in his arms and throw me over his shoulder. Just as I open my mouth to say something —put me the fuck down— he slaps me hard on the ass and says, “Be good and keep quiet.”
I gasp, furious and mortified all at once. The shock of his hand on my ass ignites something between rage and... something else I don't want to acknowledge. My body dangles over his shoulder like a rag doll, my face pressed against the broad plane of his back, and I can feel the heat of him through his shirt. My hands instinctively brace against him to keep from falling, and I'm struck by how solid he feels, like a mountain that refuses to yield.
"Put me down!" I demand, my voice muffled against his back. I pound my fists against him, but it's like hitting concrete. "You can't just manhandle me like this!"
