Page 22 of Tank
Alex snorts. “Oh? And what does ‘treating yourself’ look like?”
I turn, looking up at the glowing neon sign of Sticky Buns.
“Sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.”
"Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you soon, Bianca.” Alex’s laugh rings in my ear, giving me a momentary lift before I hang up. I exhale deeply, forcing the tension from my shoulders with more conviction than success. The crisp morning air cuts through the premature warmth of optimism that the call sparked. How many times had I told myself everything would be fine, repeating it like a mantra until the words blurred into meaningless sound? Maybe if I say it enough, it might actually feel true. I take another deep breath, trying to convince myself that things really are under control.
Then it comes, the unmistakable prickling on the back of my neck—an instinct I can't ignore. Someone's watching.
I whip around, ready to confront this intrusion. And then I see him. Tank.
He's standing in the doorway of the bakery, arms folded across his broad chest, a smug smile playing on his lips. He looks every bit as pleased with himself as a cat with a cornered mouse. My defenses bristle at the sight of him.
I narrow my eyes, giving him my best glare. “Why are you staring at me?” I demand, my voice sharper than I intend.
His mouth twitches with uncontained amusement. “You were flapping your arms like you were trying to take off from the parking lot.”
The mental image forces its way into my mind. On a better day, I might have laughed. “I was talking with my hands.” I fold my arms across my chest to make a point.
Tank just raises an eyebrow, his expression infuriatingly entertained. “You looked like you were summoning a storm.”
My irritation bubbles over, but I can't deny the slight quirk of my own lips. Despite myself, I almost smile. Somehow, his gentle ribbing defuses the tension I cling to so tightly.
I roll my eyes dramatically, more for his benefit than mine, but he doesn't miss the betrayal of my mouth curving up. Tank jerks his head toward the door, his voice teasing yet warm.
“C’mon and get in here before you start attracting birds.”
The second I step inside, the warm scent of sugar and butter wraps around me.
Tank moves behind the counter, watching me, like he’s waiting for me to say something.
I don’t give him the satisfaction. The potential collapse of the charity that I’ve worked so hard to build, that means so much to me on a level he’ll never understand, is none of his business.
“So,” I say casually, leaning against the counter. “Did you actually kill Ricky?”
Tank smirks, like he was waiting for this question. “Nope. Made him a steak dinner.”
I blink two or twenty times. “I’m sorry… what?”
Tank pours a steaming cup of coffee, slides it across the counter. “You heard me. Drink up, you look tired as hell.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s screwing with me. “He’s alive?”
“Very.”
“…And chained to your bed?”
Tank shrugs, grinning. “Still. Neither of us is happy about that arrangement, but it’s necessary.”
“Necessary to keep a grown man shackled to your bed?” I shake my head, somehow not surprised. “You’re a lunatic.”
“I don’t expect you to understand why it’s necessary. It just is.” He pours himself a cup and sips his coffee, unconcerned. Then he says, “You think they actually love each other?”
I pause. “Ricky and Vanessa?”
Tank nods. “You know them better than I do.”
I sigh. Regretfully, honestly, I say, “Yeah.”
