Page 60 of Reaper
The silence that follows is worse than the yelling. Then Tank unleashes a fresh wave of creative vulgarity that includes something about Reaper's brain being "piston-fucked by a rabid wolverine" and questioning whether he has "shit for brains or just a death wish."
"Both, probably," Reaper admits, and I'm surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. "Look, I'll pay whatever cost you want. I'll take whatever punishment. But there's someone important mixed up in this now, and I can't let anything happen to her."
My heart does something stupid in my chest. The way he says it — like I matter more than his own safety — hits me harder than I expect. I try to push down the warmth spreading through me, but it's like trying to hold back the tide. The intensity of what I'm feeling for this broken, dangerous man terrifies me.
Tank's voice drops to a growl, and I catch fragments about "pussy-whipped" and "thinking with your dick," but underneath the crude insults, I hear something shifting. There’s respect and understanding buried deep beneath the avalanche of rage.
"She's not just some piece of ass," Reaper says, his voice gaining strength. "She's... she's good, Tank. And if something happens to her because of my shit, because of what I owe Volkov..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. The weight of his guilt, his intense desire to protect me, hangs in the air like smoke.
Another long pause. Then Tank's voice, still rough but less hostile: "Fuck me sideways, Reaper. You really stepped in it this time."
"I know."
"Volkov's not some street dealer you can intimidate. He's connected, organized, and meaner than a snake with hemorrhoids."
"I know that too."
"And you're asking me to help you go to war with the Russians. I’ll have to sell this to Rabid. Fuck you, you gutter-rat piece of shit, that means I’ll have to have a long fucking conversation with the prez. Might even have to figure out how to sell it at church with some PowerPoint or whatever the fuck people who give presentations have to do. You’re asking me to talk to people, Ricky. You’re fucking lucky I love you like a brother."
“It’s Reaper now, Tank.”
“You’ve got a road name now? You ain’t just Ricky? It on your cut, yet?”
Reaper pauses, swallows. “Left my cut in Ironwood Falls.”
“I know. Found it at your place. I wanted to see if you’d be man enough to own up to your shit.” There’s a pause, a heavy pause, but Reaper doesn’t flinch.
He clears his throat instead. “I came down here to kill myself, Tank. Didn’t want to dishonor the patch by dying in it that way.But I’ve got my head together, thanks to the help of someone important.”
“What’s the name of this ‘someone important?’”
“Adriana… Adriana Ruiz.”
“Ruiz? Wasn’t that Vanessa’s…” Tank says.
I look away from Reaper in that moment — it feels wrong to watch the pain on his face, wrong to be looking at the man I’m falling for… the same man my sister fell for not that long ago.
“Yeah. She found me… she was going to kill me. Then, well, things turned out differently.”
“Fuck — is your cock magic or something? Don’t answer that. Listen, I’ll talk to the club and, either way, I’ll come down there myself… I want to see for myself the shitstorm you’ve stirred up. It’s been a while since I’ve felt genuine awe. You’ve got talent, Reaper.”
“Thanks, brother. You’ll bring guns?”
“Fuck, of course I’ll bring guns. Have you forgotten who I am?”
“Tank… I owe you. And… thanks for answering the phone. I’m lucky to have you as a brother.”
“Yeah, yeah, love you, too, you asshole.”
He hangs up. “You heard all that?”
“Your brother Tank really knows how to project his voice,” I say.
“Well, whether he comes down with my brothers or by himself, that gives us manpower and weapons. Tank’s a fucking army on his own.”
“And he bakes…? Does he wear an apron, too?” I say.
