Page 48 of Tank
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tank
The scent of stale sugar and spilled coffee hits me the second I walk through the back door of Sticky Buns. I pause just inside, eyes scanning the room, taking in the chaos Ricky DeMarco has left in his wake. Half-eaten pastries litter the floor around the cot I left him on, because I damn well didn’t have the time to drive him all to my cabin and leave him alone in my home before my date with Bianca. I’m willing to sacrifice a lot for my mission, but I have my limits. And besides, Ricky needs to work harder at this baking gig, and he can’t do that in my cabin. Still, what he’s left behind is a disgraceful horror show. A tray of misshapen, lumpy pastries sits abandoned on the prep counter, sticky with unevenly smeared marmalade. Flour dusts everything like a damn snowstorm. There’s a puddle of melted butter just covering one of my prep counters. And it’s no regular butter, either. It’s the good shit. The kind with the fat content and salt levels that make it absolutely perfect for pastry. It’s expensive shit.
My first instinct is to be pissed.
Then I look at the tray again.
They’re ugly as sin, but… they’re better than the ones he made before. He’s trying. He’s learning.
And that’s all the confirmation I need to see that my work is working. He gives a shit.
Maybe he’s not so bad after all. Maybe there’s hope for him.
I grunt, start up the coffeemaker, grab two mugs and pour black, scalding coffee into both. One for me. One for him.
Then I kick the leg of the cot. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.”
Ricky jerks awake, blinking blearily at me, eyes still a little sunken from the withdrawals. He looks about as good as his pastry right now. His hand instinctively tugs at the cuff securing him to the cot’s frame, and he groans.
"Still chained up, huh? That’s real fucking humane. Should I call the SPCA on you?"
I hand him the coffee, ignoring the complaint. "Don’t be dramatic."
He takes the mug, eyeing me warily before drinking. He’s exhausted, but grateful.
"You left me tied up in a bakery all night," he grumbles. “All so you could go out on a date.”
I sip my coffee, watching him over the rim. "Gave you enough slack to move around. You could reach the essentials. Even the bathroom."
Ricky snorts. “Still felt like a dog.”
I give him a long, considering look, letting the silence stretch between us just long enough to make him squirm a little. "Considering where you started, that’s a step up for you," I say, watching as his frown deepens into something more stormy.
"Think about it. Dogs are loyal, loving, self-sacrificing. Dogs are fucking great, and any person should be fucking proud to be compared to a dog. Hell, it’d be a fucking step up for most of us." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms like I'm settling in for a long lecture. Inside, I wonder why the fuck I have to explain how great dogs are to anyone — it’s just an intrinsic fact of life. "You? You’ve been a selfish, addict piece of shit. And you’ve done nothing but hurt the woman you say you love."
Ricky's face darkens like a sudden eclipse, and his jaw clenches tight. The anger in his eyes flares. The coffee trembles slightly in his hand.
For a moment, neither of us speaks, the sound of the coffee maker burbling quietly into the silence. Ricky’s stare is hard and defiant, but beneath it, I can see the shifting tides of vulnerability and recognition in his eyes. It’s a lot like watching a man wrestle with a ghost.
Finally, he breaks the quiet. "Maybe I have been a selfish addict piece of shit.”
I don’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch before moving on. What he’s said has to soak in, he has to feel it, bathe in it, drown in it.
"You want to stop being a piece of shit, Ricky? Here’s your shot. Tell me about Moretti’s operation."
He stiffens.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Tell me about the money. The dealers. Where Victor goes, when he’s alone, when he’s weak. Everything.”
His hand clenches around his coffee cup. "That’s a big ask."
"You owe me. And you know it."
Ricky exhales hard, looking away. "I know what telling you means. And I will not give that to you. I can’t risk it. Victor’s too…"
