Page 19 of Tank
I take a breath. My voice is calm, but sharp as a blade when I answer.
“That’s a generous offer,” I say smoothly. Too smoothly. “But we’re doing fine, Victor.”
He lets out a low, amused hum. “Are you now?”
“Yes.” Silence stretches. I know he doesn’t believe me. But I don’t let him hear my fear. After a beat, I say, “I appreciate the concern. But we won’t be needing your help.”
"You will. You and I both know you won’t hold out on me much longer.”
“Watch me,” I say.
Then I hang up.
The second I put the phone down, I clamp my hand over my mouth and fight back the wave of nausea; I can still hear his voice in my head; still feel the slimy, insidious nature of his presence; still imagine each and every vile, vicious consequence that’ll come with taking his help.
I did the right thing. I know I did.
But it won’t be the last I hear from him.
And, unless things change soon, there’s only so much longer I can fend him off.
Chapter Ten
Tank
The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the heater. I’m sitting at the table, arms crossed, watching and waiting. Ricky DeMarco stirs to life, groaning, as if emerging from a long, restless sleep. His eyelids flutter open, struggling against the blur of waking. I watch the gradual process unfold, every second of confusion and disorientation. He shifts, moves his arms, and the metal clink of handcuffs snaps into his awareness. He freezes, like someone who’s just remembered a bad dream. Panic floods him. His whole body jerks violently. I can see the exact moment the shock hits him, like a punch, that he’s handcuffed, that it’s to my bed, that he’s in my cabin. His eyes go wild, and his expression swings from confusion to fear. His breathing grows frantic, chest lifting with each heaving breath that he hauls in, bigger and bigger, his lungs sprinting, his nerves short-circuiting. He flushes deep red, eyes saucer-wide, muscles coiling like he’s preparing for a fight. He yanks desperately at the cuffs, pulling with all his strength, testing them, like he’s hoping they might magically snap open. They don’t budge, of course, and he goes still for a second, disbelief and panic twisting his face.
Then his gaze snaps to me.
His eyes are wide, wary, flashing with a dozen questions he can’t quite shape. “The fuck?” His voice is raw and cracks like dry wood, as if he hasn’t used it for weeks. “Where am I? What’s — why am I chained to a bed?” Each question stumbles over the next in his rush to make sense of his predicament, the words escaping in short, stunned bursts. His breathing is loud in my cabin, frantic, each inhalation a ragged edge of panic. I lean back further in my chair, contemplating him. I steeple my fingers, letting my gaze settle on him, fixing him in place with the gravity of my stare. I let the silence stretch between us like a long, thin wire. Let him feel the intensity of being pinned under my attention, watching the drug-pushing wretch flounder, letting Ricky sense the strength of the ‘oh fuck’ feelings roiling his chest as the enormity of his situation sinks in.
Finally, I open my mouth, breaking the silence like cracking ice.
“Things are about to get really uncomfortable for you, Ricky.” I pause, watching him flinch at his name like it’s a bullet. “I’ve taken you,” I say, making each word heavy and measured, watching the meaning sink in. I revel in the fear blooming behind his eyes. “And I will not be done with you until I’m satisfied that I’ve gotten everything I want from you.” I can see him register the words, the weight of them, the certainty. His face goes pale, all the desperate, misguided bravado and color draining like his blood has turned to water. His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps down air, strained and on the edge.
“…What do you mean?” he croaks.
I let the corner of my mouth twitch. “You’ll see.”
I stand up, stretch, and stroll into the kitchen.
Behind me, I hear the mattress creak as Ricky shifts, yanking at the cuffs again.
“Hey,” he calls, voice rising. “Hey, man, what the fuck does that mean?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull open a drawer and grab a knife.
Then I gather a few things — a carrot, a cucumber, an eggplant.
I set them all on the counter and I give Ricky another long, pointed look.
He gulps, silent, though his mouth is working for a long time before he finds his voice. “What the fuck are those for?”
I glance at him impassively. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
His breathing goes ragged.
I grab a bottle of olive oil, set it next to the vegetables. Then I take out a bottle of balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper.
