Page 9 of Tank
A really greasy gun?
A knife?
I tense, ready to put myself in front of Vanessa and charge at Caleb like my life depends on it.
Before I can react, he tosses the paper bag to Vanessa, who catches it.
Vanessa wipes away some tears and goggles at him in confusion. “What is this?”
“Pastries.”
I blink. “What?”
“Chaussons aux pommes,” he mutters. “Apricot financiers. Raspberry mille-feuille. Take your pick.”
Vanessa just stares at the bag like she’s been handed a live grenade. “What the fuck?
“You looked sad, you’ve had a shit day, your piece of shit boyfriend — or whoever the fuck that guy is — hit you. Sugar helps. Trust me. Eat.”
And I don’t know what to do with this.
This man — this walking battering ram — just trashed Ricky DeMarco and then pulled a bag of gourmet pastries out of his car like some unhinged psychopath. Does he just drive around with a bag of treats to comfort his victims? Is he a serial killer?
“What the fuck?” I say.
But Caleb doesn’t answer. He slips into the driver’s seat while I stand there, blinking, and my grip on reality slips through my fingers like so much sand.
I should walk away.
But before I can think, before I can even stop myself, I yank open the passenger door and get in.
Caleb’s entire body goes still. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go white. His head slowly turns toward me, dark eyes locked on mine.
“What the fuck,” he mutters, because it’s apparently his turn to use those words.
I stare right back at him, pulse hammering in my throat.
“If you’re taking him,” I say, level, steady, reckless as hell, "I’m coming too."
The air in the car is thick, suffocating.
Caleb stares at me for a second too long, like he’s debating whether to throw me out or let me stay.
I see the moment he decides; a low growl rumbles from his chest, his grip tightens on the wheel, and then he starts the car.
"You’re a giant pain in the ass, you know that?”
“Oh, trust me, I know.”
Chapter Five
Tank
She’s still in my car.
The thought burns at the edges of my mind, searing my every nerve. How is she still here? I should have thrown her out immediately, the moment she dared to plant herself in the seat. Should have dragged her out by the scruff of her coat and left her standing on the curb, watching the taillights disappear in a cloud of dust. Hell, I should have put my boot to her and shoved her out while pulling away without so much as a glance back.
But instead, I’m gripping the steering wheel like I’m trying to crush it in my hands, feeling her presence like a goddamn heat source beside me. Volcanic. Molten. Irritating as hell, and I can’t seem to shake her, no matter how much I want to.
