Page 10 of Tank
I glance at her, almost hoping she’s evaporated into the air.
She’s sitting there, arms crossed, chin up, full of righteous fury, like she belongs here. Like she’s just decided that she’s coming along and I’m just supposed to deal with it. She has more nerve than I gave her credit for. More stubbornness, too.
I grind my teeth, feeling the tension coil and snap in my jaw.
“You got about three seconds to get out before I throw you out.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a perfectly sculpted brow and says, “I’d like to see you try.”
I slam my palm against the dashboard, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the small space.
“Woman, do you have a goddamn death wish?” I snarl the words, frustrated, incredulous, unable to understand why she’s pushing me like this. I saved her from being beat to hell by the drug-pushing piece of shit who’s unconscious in my back seat and this is how she shows her fucking gratitude?
She doesn’t even blink. “No. I have a conscience.” Her voice is cool, steady, and as infuriating as ever. “Now, where are we going?”
Jesus Christ. This woman. I jab a finger toward the door, veins taut like they’re about to split. “Out.”
She shrugs, completely unaffected, and reclines back like she could do this all day. “No.”
My nostrils flare. “I’m not the good guy here, sweetheart. You really wanna be locked in a car with me?” It’s a last appeal to reason, to the self-preservation she clearly doesn’t have.
She leans back in the seat, crossing her legs like she’s getting comfortable, like she already knows she’s won this round. “If I thought you were an actual threat, I wouldn’t be here.”
That makes me bark out a laugh. She has some nerve, mouthing off to me like that.
“Oh yeah? And what exactly makes you think I won’t drive you out to the desert and dump your body?”
She just tilts her head, a calculating look in her eyes, as if she’s studying a half-wild dog that she’s trying to figure out. “Because you bake.”
I blink, staring at her like she just sprouted another head. “The hell does that have to do with anything?” I say, feeling the frustration twist like a knife in my gut. I’ve been in the life long enough to know how this should go — fear, compliance, submission — and Bianca fucking Moretti has been in this life long enough to know how it should go, too.
But Bianca’s not playing by any of those rules.
She gestures vaguely toward the backseat, where Ricky is still unconscious. “You beat people like it’s a full-contact sport, but you also make apricot financiers. Apricot financiers. Which means you’re either a full-on Hannibal Lecter psychopath, or you have a controlled, delicate side to you that you’re desperately trying to hide behind your muscles, beard, and tattoos. Now, considering I’ve been in your bakery and didn’t see any human body parts hanging around, and there hasn’t been an uptick in murders in Boise or the Boise area lately, I’m going to bet you will not be dining on my organs with a glass of chianti.”
Jesus Christ. She says the whole damn thing like she’s reading out a grocery list, not throwing accusations at a man who could crush her with a single swing. I rake a hand down my face, trying to get my expression under control, trying to figure out if I should be laughing or yelling or slamming on the brakes and letting her fly through the windshield.
She’s insane. That’s the only explanation.
I punch the gas, the engine roaring like a beast, then I slam on the brakes and spin the wheel, sending the car into a controlled spin while the wheels scream and spit smoke. I’m hoping for a reaction, a gasp, something that shows I’ve finally gotten under that thick skin of hers.
But she barely reacts. A blink. Maybe.
I clench my jaw.
This is not how this was supposed to go.
She’s supposed to be groveling, pleading, not sitting there with that smug look on her face like she’s got me all figured out.
I take the next turn sharp, gripping the wheel like it offended me. Bianca stares out the windshield, completely at ease, like she rides shotgun with psychotic bikers every damn day.
“Where are you taking him?” she finally asks.
I don’t answer.
She glances at me, studying me again. Like she’s trying to peel back the layers and see what’s underneath.
“You don’t belong in a bakery,” she blurts. “That’s not who you are.”
