Page 23 of Tank
He studies me. “It’s not good for her, though.”
“No.”
He leans in slightly. “Why not?”
I shake my head. I know where this is going and I don’t have the mental capacity to dive into this minor crisis when something so much larger is happening and everything I’ve worked so hard to build is facing budgetary annihilation.
“I’m just here for pastries, not an interrogation.”
Tank snorts, but lets it go. Instead, he gives me a long, assessing look, nods, and then pulls a selection of pastries from the case, placing them in a small box. Then he pours another cup of coffee and sets it beside them.
“It’s on the house.”
I frown. “I can pay.”
At least, I can pay right now. A few weeks from now? Well, who knows? I sure as hell don’t.
Tank lifts a hand, stopping me. “I heard you out there. You said the word ‘money’ about a thousand times more than a normal person should. So I’m insisting.”
I hesitate, watching him. I should say no. I should argue. I know better than to owe money to dangerous men. I know what dark road that leads down…
But I’m tired. And he’s looking at me like I’m not just some woman who walked into his bakery, but something else. Something he’s trying to figure out. Someone he might genuinely want to help.
Which is a confusing thing to see from a man that I know has experience hurting people, kidnapping them, and has enough inked hints on his body that tell me his life story contains more than a few dark chapters.
I sip my coffee, letting the warmth sink into my bones while I ponder the question. Tank leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. Then I realize that free food and free coffee — and not having to fight about it on a day when I already feel like I’m fighting for survival — is just what I need right now.
“Fine. Thank you.”
“So — all that money you were screaming about. Why?” he says.
My eyes narrow. Why is he so interested? “It’s for a fundraiser.”
“Throwing a big fancy dinner?”
I sigh. “It’s not a party. It’s a fundraiser. I run a shelter — Safe House — and there’s been a… setback… so I’m doing what I have to do to keep my shelter open.”
Tank's expression shifts, the humor fading from his eyes as he leans forward. "What kind of setback are we talking about?"
I hesitate, sipping my coffee to buy time. I shouldn't tell him. This man is a possibly a criminal and definitely dangerous in ways that his skill with fat and sugar can’t excuse; sharing my problems with him is like inviting a wolf into the henhouse. And yet...
Something about him makes me want to talk to him.
"Financial," I finally say, keeping it vague. "Big enough that if I don't fix it soon, we'll have to close our doors. Hence the benefit dinner.”
His blue eyes narrow slightly, assessing me. "Money problems have a way of becoming other kinds of problems real quick."
"Tell me about it," I mutter, thinking about the stack of unpaid bills on my desk, the dwindling bank account, and the faces of every woman and child who depends on Safe House. "But I'll figure it out. I have to. No matter what it costs.”
“Why do you care so much?” he says, his voice direct and uncomplicated.
The question hangs in the air, a lump in my throat. I freeze for a half-second, surprised not just by its bluntness but by the intense curiosity I hear. It's genuine, not the callous dismissal or veiled mockery I’ve braced myself against so many times before. The expectation that I should just walk away? It isn’t in his eyes. He really wants to know why this project is so powerful for me, why I’m so desperate to save Safe House.
The look in his eyes unsettles me, and before I can rein myself in, I let a piece of truth slip. “Because I know what happens when no one saves you.” Tank watches me, silent and probing, his focus unflinching and intense enough to make me squirm. I clear my throat, plastering on a smile so tight it feels like it might break. “Anyway. Not your problem.”
Tank’s eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe it is.”
I blink. “What? How?”
