Page 4 of Tank
Then, as I’m feet away, she answers the call.
“Yes, this is Bianca Moretti.”
Chapter Two
Bianca
I press the phone tight against my ear, my stomach twisting into knots. The world falls away into a shivery pit of nothing, and I feel the first cold ripple of panic spread through me.
"I don’t know what to do, Bianca," the voice on the other end is raw, shaky. Desperate. It’s Vanessa, one of the women I’ve been helping through Safe House, and I can barely recognize the confident spark I know in her. She works part-time at Club Sin, but she’s been struggling to get out—trying to rebuild. To start fresh. And now, it sounds like she’s on the verge of falling apart.
"He threw me out," she sobs. "Took my money. I have nowhere to go. I—"
I close my eyes, the weight of it crushing me. Vanessa’s boyfriend has done this before—hurt her, taken everything from her, sent her stumbling back into the arms of the one thing that can numb the pain. Drugs. When he’s sober, he’s not a totally bad guy. They’re both nuts about each other, but the two of them feed each other’s addictions and their worst habits until they spiral like a class five tornado. I can already hear it in her voice—that dangerous, fragile edge that says she’s close to breaking.
She pulls a shaky breath, gasps, and says, "I need your help."
My throat is tight as I exhale. "I’m coming. Just stay put. I’ll be right there."
I hang up, my chest aching, everything inside me screaming to move, to find her, to fix this, but there’s something else that stops me in my tracks.
Then I see him.
The baker.
He’s standing there, just outside Sticky Buns, gripping something in his hand. His gaze is locked on me, his expression unreadable, the intensity in his eyes making my heart kick. I realize he’d come out here for a reason, something urgent enough to make him rush after me.
For a split second, I’m thrown off—why was he charging out toward me like that? Right now? I wipe at my eyes quickly, trying to erase the traces of emotion before I face him. I don’t even know why I care.
His head tilts slightly, and I follow his gaze—to his hand.
The rosary. My rosary.
My heart stumbles. I reach out instinctively, my mind racing. “You were coming to give me this?”
He doesn’t speak, just nods once, slow.
I take the beads from him carefully, curling my fingers around them. They’re warm from his touch.
He hesitates, then—softer than I would have expected—he asks, "You okay?"
I almost laugh, but it catches in my throat. Because no, I’m not okay; I can’t even remember what ‘okay’ feels like.
"I have this rule: never trauma dump on strangers,” I say. “So, what’s your name?”
He chuckles. “Caleb. Or you can call me ‘Tank.’”
“Caleb, I’m Bianca,” I say, taking care not to use my last name. Most days, my last name feels like a curse. I shake my head, everything rushing back. “I’ve got something difficult to deal with. Someone in trouble. And I’m scared. Scared and just so, so tired.”
I watch something shift in his eyes. His shoulders straighten slightly, and he steps closer, lowering his voice. "Can I help?"
The question catches me off guard. People don't offer help in my world—they demand payment, loyalty, blood. I study his face, searching for the angle, the hidden motive. But all I see is genuine concern, maybe even a touch of determination.
"It's complicated," I say, glancing down at my phone. Vanessa needs me now. "And dangerous."
"I'm not afraid of dangerous." There's no bravado in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. For the first time, I notice the faint scar running along his jawline, the way he holds himself—balanced, ready. This is not just a baker.
"You don't even know me," I say.
