Page 21 of Tank
His shoulders relax slightly. “OK?”
“But even if I hadn’t,” I add, leaning back, “I wasn’t gonna kill you, anyway. Because I do things a little differently.”
His brows furrow. “Differently how?”
I gesture at the plate in front of him. “Eat.”
He looks at it, then at me. “Why?”
“Because your withdrawals are gonna hit soon,” I say, matter-of-fact. “And if you wanna survive them, you’re gonna need all the strength you can get.”
His breath catches. I see the reality sink in. Ricky’s hands shake slightly. He looks at the food, at me, then back at the food. “I don’t get it. What the hell are you doing?”
I watch him carefully. “I’m still gonna break you, Ricky.” His shoulders tense, eyes widen. His hands are shaking in a way that I know isn’t from fear; withdrawals aren’t that far away. I let the words settle, let him process. “But just because I break you doesn’t mean I’m gonna leave you broken. You’re no use to me like that. And trust me, I got a use for you.”
His breath hitches. “You do?”
“I do. I’m going to break you. And when we get to the other side,” I say, “when you have a new life, I’m gonna ask you to do something that’ll put all of it at risk.”
Silence.
The only sound in the cabin is the scrape of my knife and fork against my plate and the faint wheeze of Ricky’s broken breathing. Ricky swallows hard. Then, slowly, he reaches for the fork. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Do you want to be your own man, or do you want to be a slave to that sick shit you stick in your arm?”
“Seems like I don’t really have much of a choice.”
“You don’t.”
“I should eat, shouldn’t I?”
“You should.” I nod, taking another bite of my steak.
He picks up his fork and reaches for his plate.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Chapter Eleven
Bianca
It’s early as hell, so early that it makes me resent my entire life. The street is still quiet, the air crisp with the last bite of night, and I’m standing outside Sticky Buns, pacing in the parking lot, phone pressed to my ear.
Alex picks up on the second ring. “Bianca? Jesus, do you ever sleep?”
“No time for sleep,” I mutter, rubbing my temple. “We’ve got a problem, and we’re fixing it. We’re throwing a benefit dinner.”
There’s a pause. Then Alex exhales hard. “Shit. It’s that bad?”
She must have not gone as deep into the books as I have, which doesn’t surprise me — I hardly slept at all last night, maybe an hour or two, where I passed out on the couch amongst a pile of papers and red ink. “Yeah.”
I hear papers shuffling. “Okay. What’s the plan?”
“Go through our donor records, start pulling together a guest list — high-level donors, corporate sponsors, anyone with money who enjoys feeling good about themselves. We need everyone for this if we’re going to pull it off and come up with enough cash to save Safe House. I’m getting some food, then I’m heading in, and I’ll start calling venues and vendors as soon as they open to see if we can find somewhere to host this damn thing.”
Alex hesitates, her voice softer when she asks, “And how are you doing with all of this?”
I take a deep breath, plastering on a smile she can’t see. “Worried. Sick. Scared. But I’ve been in worse situations than this, so I know we can pull this off. And I’m gonna treat myself right first.”
