Page 37 of Tank
Tank shrugs with infuriating nonchalance, like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just drop a grenade into the middle of the room. “I’m helping him straighten his life out. He’s working as my apprentice, now.”
I blink rapidly, trying to clear my disbelief. It doesn’t work. “You’re what?”
For a second, I think he’s joking. But his gaze is clear, steady, and I know he’s serious.
“Ricky was a piece of shit,” Tank says bluntly, matter-of-factly, like he’s just stating the weather. “Still kind of is. But underneath all that garbage, there’s something decent. He loves Vanessa. That’s enough of a reason to try.”
His words are unfathomable to me, and I shake my head, struggling to make sense of them, struggling to understand him. This doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t fit the man I know Tank to be. He’s a big, tatted, bearded brute who literally tried to intimidate me into allowing him to work the Safe House fundraiser. He’s not someone who is supposed to be passionate about rehabilitation or second chances. Yet, here he is — unexpected, sincere. Unless he’s lying. Unless this is some elaborate act, some angle I haven’t figured out yet. A reach, a ploy, a way to worm into my trust for reasons I can’t guess.
My voice is sharper, more skeptical this time. “You expect me to believe you suddenly have a soft spot for junkies?”
Tank doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. He just leans back a bit, arms still crossed, watching me with infuriating calmness. “Believe whatever you want.” There’s a challenge in his words, a confidence that dares me to doubt him. He knows how I’ll respond, knows me well enough to predict my next move before I do. That pisses me off more than I care to admit. But if you really doubt, well… Come see for yourself.”
I hesitate. He has to be lying. He can’t really care that way — the last time I saw Tank interact with Ricky, he had beaten him unconscious and thrown him into his car like a giant sack of flour.
Then, curiosity wins.
“Fine,” I say. “Show me.”
Tank leads me into the back of the bakery.
And there he is. Ricky DeMarco. Alive. Still handcuffed — but on a long lead, like a dog that might still run.
But he’s not the same man I last saw.
He looks cleaner. Healthier. There’s color in his skin. His eyes aren’t glazed over. He looks... almost human.
His hands are trembling a little as they work the dough, but there's a different shake now — not the desperate twitch of withdrawal, but the natural unsteadiness of someone learning something new, someone pushing past their comfort zone.
"I've been clean since Tank picked me up," Ricky says, not meeting my eyes, focusing intently on the dough beneath his fingers. "Longest stretch since... well, I can't remember when."
I can't hide my shock. That stretch of days isn't forever, but for someone like Ricky, it might as well be. I've seen too many addicts at Safe House to underestimate what those handful of days represent.
"And you're... baking now?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice.
Ricky gives a self-deprecating laugh, gesturing at the sad lumps on display. "Trying to. I’m not exactly a natural.”
Tank steps in, his colossal frame towering over Ricky's hunched shoulders. "He's got the dedication part down. Technique... well, that's a work in progress."
I look between them, trying to process this bizarre scenario. Tank—this mountain of a man who exudes intimidation from every pore—is teaching a former junkie how to bake pastries. It's so absurd I almost want to laugh, but there's something about the earnestness in both their expressions that stops me.
"Why?" I ask finally, turning to Tank. "Why him?"
Tank's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a momentary vulnerability that's gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
"Everyone deserves a second chance," he says. "Even the ones who seem beyond saving."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I think of the women at Safe House, everything they’re fighting through, everything I’m fighting for, and I nod. And before I know it, I find myself looking at Tank with different eyes than just a few minutes ago. There’s an earnestness in him, a strange sincerity that shakes my assumptions and forces me to look again, to really look at him.
And this time, I notice something I missed before. Bruises. Faded, but unmistakable.
Right there, along his jaw and cheekbone.
I frown. “What happened to your face?”
Tank smirks. “Part of Ricky’s healing process.”
Ricky actually laughs, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, uh... that was me. Tank was hosing me down in the front yard. He turned his back, and I wasn’t in my right mind, so I tried to jump him. It didn’t go well.”
