Page 17 of Tank
"Watch me," Tank replies, his voice rumbling through his body and into mine as he strides toward the door.
We step outside, where the fire outside still smolders. The morning isn’t over yet. And even though he’s got me slung over the shoulder and has smacked my ass so hard I’m seeing stars and feeling heat burn through my body, whatever this is between us is far from over.
Chapter Nine
Bianca
I slap the side of my car, heave a sigh, and wish I had my keys with me. The drive from Tank’s place back to civilization feels surreal, like I’m stepping from one world into another, and what I want to do more than anything right now is sit down in my car, enjoy a moment of silence, and then turn on the radio and listen to something — anything — that might make me feel like my life is normal right now, and not like I’ve just experienced a kidnapping, committed arson, and nearly killed a strangely attractive, and infuriating, giant of a baker with a flare gun.
Vanessa is waiting outside her place, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her face still puffy from crying. She looks small, like she’s trying to fold in on herself. Like she already thinks she’s lost. It’s a look I’ve seen too many times before, on too many women, and on someone like her, it’s dead wrong, too. If only she knew that this isn’t the end, this is the start of something that could take her higher than she ever imagined.
I wave to her. “What, you gonna stand there and look tragic, or are you coming with me?”
Her lip trembles, but she manages a weak smile. She takes out my car keys, tosses them to me, and I open up the car. She then climbs in, setting her bag on the floor.
As I pull away, I keep my tone light. “You know I’ve helped plenty of people get out of worse situations than this, right?”
“Worse than this? Than all that?”
I nod without hesitation. The mess my brother has left in his wake as he fought his way to the top of the underworld was, and is, something that makes my stomach turn every time I think about it. My grip on the steering wheel tightens until the fake leather squeaks in my hands. “Yes. Way worse.”
She scoffs. “Yeah? How many of them actually made it?”
I glance at her. “More than you think.” Silence stretches between us before I add, “And I’ll tell you something else — you’re stronger than most of them. And you’re smart, too. Reaching out for help now, before things get any worse, that’s smart, and that takes bravery.”
“Oh, I’m smart, huh?” Vanessa lets out a hollow laugh, staring out the window. “Smart enough to get in bed with a guy who got violent over nothing?”
I don’t sugarcoat it. “Smart enough to get out.”
She presses her lips together, nodding once.
I exhale. I have to believe that’s enough.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the road stretching out ahead of us like a promise. It's better this way, I figure. Let her process. Let her breathe. The first hour after you leave is always the worst—when doubt creeps in, when the fear that you've made a terrible mistake threatens to drag you back into the familiar hell you just escaped.
I catch her wiping away a tear with the back of her hand, trying to be subtle about it.
"You know," I say finally, keeping my eyes fixed on the road, "the first night is always rough. But the second night? That's when you start to feel it."
"Feel what?" Her voice is small, guarded.
"The relief." I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. "It hits you all at once, usually when you're doing something totally mundane. Brushing your teeth, maybe, or making coffee. You realize you can actually breathe without having to be afraid and that first breath is some of the sweetest air that you’ll ever take in.”
Vanessa stares at me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching my face. "You sound like you know from experience."
I keep my eyes on the road. "Maybe I do."
When we pull up to Safe House, Alex DeGroot is already waiting outside. She looks… bad. Stressed, exhausted, shoulders tight with tension. The moment I step out, she marches toward me, her expression grim.
“We have a problem,” she says.
I already know what’s coming before she even says it. I’ve known Alex long enough to see how she handles herself in stress — in dealing with relapses, with women wanting to march headlong back into bad decisions, with violent exes fighting to reclaim what they think is theirs — and know there’s only one thing that can make her look this worried.
“One of the grants?” I say. “Which one?”
She nods, rubbing her temples. “Cut to almost nothing. The Tilden Women’s Initiative — apparently, they’re facing a donor shortfall and a budget crisis of their own.”
My stomach lurches. That grant was supposed to keep the shelter running for at least six months.
