Page 8 of Tank
“Get in my car,” I say to Vanessa. “Get in my car and lock the doors.”
She blinks, tears in the corner of her eyes. “What?”
“I said to stay in my car,” I say, then I hand her my keys. “And if it gets ugly, you get out of here, OK? You go to Safe House, you find Alex, and you do whatever it is she says.”
Vanessa nods, then I turn back to face Caleb, expecting to stop him with my words.
Except, I never get the chance.
Because one second, I’m standing in front of him, mouth open, finger raised, ready for hell, and the next, he grabs me like I weigh nothing, lifts me up, and sets me aside.
Like I’m a goddamn piece of recalcitrant furniture.
I barely have time to process that before he picks up Ricky and throws him over his shoulder like a giant bag of flour.
I gape at him. “What the hell are you—”
“Shut up,” he says, then he just walks toward his car, all brute force and deadly intent.
I don’t know why my pulse spikes like this — anger, fear, or something else I can’t name, except whatever it is, it got so intense the second he touched me I nearly let out another moan.
My eyes follow Caleb as he marches toward his beat-up car. He carries Ricky’s unconscious body across his broad shoulder, taking long strides as if hauling dead weight is as easy for him as breathing. I stand in the street, feeling that unsettling mix of anger and fear roiling in my chest. I should leave. I should let him go. I should be the hell out of here before I see anything I can’t stomach. But the thought of what he might do to Ricky needles me, claws at me, makes me want to scream.
I can’t just walk away. I don’t have it in me.
I take off after him, my heart pounding in my throat, my legs almost unable to keep pace with my desperation.
“Put him down!” I snap. The words pierce the air, sharp and insistent, but Caleb doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps moving, each step as deliberate and determined as the last. “Where the hell are you taking him?” I shout, louder this time. But it’s like yelling at a brick wall. He just keeps going, straight toward his car, his silence infuriating and cruel. I reach out and grab his arm, feeling the hard muscles beneath his inked skin.
That makes him stop.
He turns his head just enough to cast a glare down at me, his eyes dark and expression unreadable.
“He’ll be fine,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous growl that raises the hair on my arms. “Stay out of it.” His tone is a warning, a threat wrapped neatly in four clipped words, but not enough to scare me off. I plant my feet, holding my ground, trying to ignore the spikes of adrenaline that shoot through me.
I hear my car door open and shut again. The sound is distant, almost unreal, but I know what it means: Vanessa sure as hell isn’t following my instructions. Now she’s back out on the street and moving toward us with frantic steps, and I curse silently, debating whether or not to take my eyes off Caleb for a single second to shout at her to get back in the car. The last thing I need is to have to worry about her doing something reckless and provoking Caleb into doing something that could get Vanessa and me killed.
I want to shout at her, but I can’t risk looking away from Caleb; it’d be like turning my back on a lion about to pounce. If I even blink, I might lose any ground I’ve gained in this struggle for dominance — or worse, I might show Caleb how deathly afraid of him I really am.
“I can’t,” I say, my voice shaking with a mix of defiance and dread. His jaw clenches, the muscles working under his beard like he’s barely holding on to his patience or holding back from lashing out.
“I said I won’t kill him.” His voice is rough, the words pushed out like they’re supposed to reassure me, but they don’t. They’re not good enough.
“That’s not what I asked,” I snap back. “Where are you taking him?” My voice rises again, this time with a ragged edge, desperation and fury colliding in the words.
His eyes flick over me, assessing, trying to take the measure of me. Like he’s wondering if I’m actually stupid enough to keep pushing, to keep pressing against his power and his threats, to keep risking the fallout of his anger.
The truth is? I probably am.
He pivots on one foot, a fluid motion that leaves me standing there while he moves on without a second glance. I run after him, and that seems to kick Vanessa into a higher gear; her footsteps get louder behind me, and I know she’s following, but I can’t turn around, not now. We reach his car, a battered piece of Detroit iron, and he throws Ricky like garbage into the backseat.
“Hey, you can’t do that,” Vanessa’s voice rings out, but it’s swallowed by the sound of the door slam, metal and glass rattling in the frame. Caleb shuts the door with an explosive motion, then spins to face us, eyes hard and arms crossed.
“I told you to stay out of it,” he says, looking at me but stabbing his words at both of us.
I open my mouth to shout, to say something, anything, to keep him from getting away with Ricky, but he reaches back through the open window of his car and pulls out a paper bag, the grease already seeping through. Whatever words I thought I had die in my throat, and I just stand there, paralyzed and uncomprehending, as he walks toward us with that bag in his hand.
What does he have in there?
