Page 35 of Tank
His voice breaks into wailing, bloodthirsty tears.
Shit.
I wrap an arm around his neck, twisting him off me, rolling him into the dirt.
He gasps, flails, but I get my forearm against his throat, pinning him down.
He keeps thrashing, keeps fighting — until he doesn’t. Until the fight just drains out of him. Until all that’s left is shaking and sobbing.
I stare down at him, breathing hard.
And then, against every instinct, against every violent impulse I have — I pull him into a hug. He breaks like a newborn babe in my arms. Body shaking, breath ragged, tears hot against my skin.
“She’s all I have,” he chokes out. “I can’t leave her alone. I can’t.”
I close my eyes. Fuck. This is what love does — it makes people weak, makes them crazy, makes them risk everything for bullshit reasons.
I squeeze him tighter, voice rasping in my throat. “She’s not alone, Ricky.”
He tenses.
I keep my grip firm. “Bianca’s got her. She won’t let her fall.
Ricky shudders. “I can’t lose her.”
I exhale. Pull back. Meet his glassy, broken stare. “Then you have to get clean.”
He nods, shaking, desperate.
But I’m not sure he hears me. I grip him by the chin and force him to look me in the eyes, and I stare into them until the terror in them dwindles to a dull burn. “I’m not fucking around here. Get clean, or else you’re not just going to lose her, you’re going to fucking lose yourself, too.”
“I know… I know…” He shudders when I let up on his throat.
“I’m going to get you clean, Ricky.” I grip his shoulder. “I’m going to give you your life back.”
A pause. Long, slow, confused, considered. His brows furrow. “Why?”
I lean in. “Because when I do, I’m going to ask for a favor.”
His breath stutters. “What kind of favor?”
I don’t answer. Not yet. Instead, I stand, reaching down, extending my hand.
“Are you with me?”
Ricky stares at my outstretched palm. His breath shakes. His body trembles.
And then he takes my hand.
Chapter Eighteen
Bianca
The drive to Sticky Buns is a fog, the kind that rolls in thick and colorless and erases all definition. I barely absorb the streetlights, the stop signs, the early morning city around me, blurred by a weariness that feels permanent now. A fog that blots out thoughts, memories, even the sounds of the radio humming softly in the background.
The past few days have been a blur of work, stress, and exhaustion. And those are the good parts. The parts I cling to, cling to when I’m not busy fighting battles on every front. Managing lives that are always balancing on the edge of collapse, supporting addicts who constantly teeter on the brink of relapse, and all the while, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me until I wonder if every shadow harbors someone sent by my brother to remind me he is still there, still watching.
The fundraiser is one week away.
