Tank, page 6
“Do not touch me,” she spits.
“You’re fuckin’ welcome.” I brush past, knocking her to the ground as I go. “Now clean this shit up and get dressed. We’re goin’ to town.”
One thing’s for sure—she may not like it, but I’ll break that girl of more than just her drug habit by the time I’m done with her. Because there’s nothing that I love more than a girl who needs savin’ and someone telling me I can’t.
When Tank returns from his second shower of the day, I’m not dressed and the bowl is still on the floor where he smashed it. He takes one look at me and his eyes cloud over with irritation. I smile, feeling a sick sort of satisfaction from provoking him.
“Bitch, you are pushing all my fuckin’ buttons today.”
I scowl. I hate him. It’s not enough for me to suffer through the minutes, hours and days of withdrawal, but on top of that he wants to break me of all my vices, the way you would an angry colt. He knows that I don’t like it that way, that tenderness hurts someone like me far worse than pain. He knows and he did it anyway.
I’m miserable here. Despite the way my body rejected the hit that I stole from Killer, I want another so bad that my entire body aches for it. I’m restless and bitchy, my back aches, and there’s a cramping sensation in my womb that I haven’t felt for a long time. It’s only now that I think about the birth control that I haven’t been taking since I left the clubhouse that I realise why I feel so teary and helpless. For the first time in a long time I’m going to be paid a visit by Aunt Flow. As if Tank’s little rehab clinic didn’t suck enough. As if the hurt and the memories that come flooding back the second I close my eyes, and the restlessness and vomiting, and his smug attitude weren’t enough, I have to deal with this shit too?
Being a woman sucks.
I miss Kick. He’d never make me dry out like this. I hate what he did to me; I hate that he left me for that other bitch, as if the last three years of sharing his bed had meant nothing to him. I hate him for casting me aside and for letting Tank drag me up to the mountains in Bumfuck, Nowhere. Tank hadn’t even wanted me at the clubhouse to begin with, and now suddenly I’m his pet project.
“Maybe you should lock me in my bedroom while you go out and fetch us some food?” I say, scowling at the man in question.
“Don’t fuckin’ tempt me, sweetheart,” he says, as he stalks over to me and leans down over the couch, whispering in my ear. “There’s nothing that I would like more than tying you up and spanking that hot little arse of yours, but you’d probably only enjoy that.”
He’s right. I would.
“So, be a good girl. Get up. Get your arse in the shower and get dressed. We’re going to town, and if you can sit still for five goddamned seconds, I might take you for breakfast.”
“I already ate. So thanks, but I’d rather just stay here.”
“Bitch, don’t make me start counting, because I will drag your arse outside and put you on the back of my bike dressed only in your T-shirt and panties.”
I glare at Tank, he glares back, and then I sigh and lower my gaze because I know it’s one battle of wills I won’t win. I never win when it comes to Tank getting what he wants.
“Stupid overgrown toddler,” I mutter, as I walk past him on the way to the bathroom. He reaches out and grabs my hand, and I glower back at him.
“Leave the door open,” he says.
“Why? So you can watch?”
He threads his fingers with mine, and I find myself glancing down at our joined hands as he runs his thumb back and forth across the protruding bones beneath my skin.
“So I can make sure you’re not gonna hurt yourself,” he says.
“I’m a junkie, Tank. All I do is hurt myself.” I yank my hand free and walk away.
When I’m done rinsing my hair, I wash my face and shut off the water. Tank sits on the edge of the tub opposite me. I startle and snatch at the towel he holds out. It’s not that I’m worried about him seeing me naked—he’s had me every way a man can have a woman. There’s no modesty between us. It’s the fact that someone so massively large can move so silently that I had no idea he was even in the room.
“Listen, I know you don’t wanna be here, but I’m not giving you a choice. You’re not gonna let this shit beat you. You’re fuckin’ stronger than that.”
“No, I’m not. I’m weak, Tank. It’s how I got here in the first place, because I was weak. Because I wasn’t strong enough to—”
“Bullshit. How long have we known each other?”
“Three years,” I say, without having to think about it. I know exactly how long it’s been, because that’s how long I’ve been hiding from my father.
“And in that time I’ve seen you put up with more fuckin’ shit from my club brothers, with more shit from Kick, than any woman I know could handle.”
I shake my head and wrap the towel around my body. Stepping from the open shower recess, I stand in front of the basin, combing through the tangles in my wet hair. “I’m a whore, Tank. I sell my body for a fix and I fall in love with arseholes who use me up because that’s all I’ve ever known. That’s not strength; that’s surviving, and doing a piss poor job of it. I’m not strong.”
“Then I’ll be strong for you.” He reaches out and pulls me towards him, turning and drawing me against his warm body. I allow his big arms to engulf me because for once it’s nice to be held. It makes me feel as though I’m real. Whole. And not a dry, cracked husk upon the shore, hollowed out with no hope of getting back to the ocean once the birds have picked my meat clean. I press my hands against his chest and stare at my bony fingers.
“Why?” I ask, not meeting his gaze.
“Because sometimes we just need some other fucker to take the hit for us,” he says. “Sometimes we need a little bit of help.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear, smoothing the damp strands together between his thumb and fingers. He’s close enough to kiss, and his gaze stokes a fire within my chest. A fire I need to smother before the flames can engulf us both.
I step back out of his embrace, and look him square in the eye. Tank’s desire to help me reaches further than just Prez’s orders. I know it. He knows it. And yet he still can’t admit it to me. He can’t say those words. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him back away from anything, and the fact that he won’t break, won’t bend even a little, makes me want to push him further.
“Why are you the one to help me?” I ask.
“Who else is gonna do it?” he says, and there is the horrible truth.
Who would do it?
Tank slips by me. I try to ignore the frission of heat that shoots through me as his arm brushes the side of mine. I tamp down the pang in my chest as I roll that question around in my mind. The truth is that no one would risk their neck to save my own. Not Jett, not any of the other club whores or the Savage Saints, and certainly not Kick. No one would help me. No one but Tank who, now that I think on it, has always been there for me in one way or another when I needed him. Even if it was just to spot me a hundred bucks for new clothes, or to bring me a sandwich when I was so high I wouldn’t have remembered to eat for days if left to my own devices, or to provide a warm body to curl up next to when the loneliness got too much. Tank’s always been the man watching my back, and short of fucking his brains out every once in a while, I acted like he didn’t exist.
He stands in the doorway, looking as if he regrets telling me he’s the only one who gives a shit, but he’s far too proud to apologise.
“Tank,” I whisper. “I owe you. A lot.”
He just shakes his head, and it seems as if he’s going to walk away, but then his eyes sweep over me from head to toe. Desire and some other emotion I can’t place are at war with one another in his gaze. “You really wanna repay me?”
I nod. Because I do. I owe him my life. I may hate him for taking the drugs away, for bringing me up here, and for treating me like a wilful little girl, but given my actions, that’s all I really deserve—to be chastised, reprimanded and spanked. Oh, if only he’d done that last part. I owe him more than thanks and a bad attitude, but it’s a debt I’ll never repay, because it isn’t safe.
“Then get your shit together, clean up, and stay the hell away from the club.”
My face falls. I feel it, and my heart hurts because that club is so much more than just safety to me. It’s my home. It’s the only place in the world where someone cares about me, about what happens to me within its walls. It’s the only place I can be what my father made me and still be in control of it. I can’t give that up, and the disappointment in his gaze says he knows it.
Tank shakes his head and walks away, leaving me to finish getting ready. Leaving me with a hell of a lot to think about.
We don’t ride on the back of the bike, but in a beat-up old Ute instead. Tank’s wearing a flannel shirt and he looks like a fucking lumberjack with his ratty jeans, his beard, and that huge hard, solid body. It’s the only time I’ve seen him out in public without his cut, but he’s still just as imposing as when he’s wearing it and holding a gun to some poor bastard’s head. He sings along to an old Johnny Cash song, and his voice is rich and deep. I smile at him, watching him with undeniable interest.
“Who are you?”
He chuckles, and his mouth turns up in a smile. The dimple in the side of his cheek comes out to play. “What? Just because I’m a biker I can’t hold a tune?”
“No, not because you’re a biker, but because you’re an assassin. You’re one motherfucking scary dude, and here you are singing along to some country shit and driving your truck into town looking like a farmer. All you need now is a straw hat and some tobacco to chew.”
“Hey, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with Johnny Cash.”
“Do the boys know about this?”
“Tell ’em you heard me singin’ and I will hurt you.”
“Promise?” I tease, but he frowns, and I know he’s thinking about earlier.
Tank leans over and turns down the radio. “I’ve never asked you to tell me about your dad. I’ve never really wanted to know—didn’t think I could handle that. But I’m askin’ now.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I lean forward and open the glove box, slamming it closed with my foot when I see the gun inside. I rest my feet up on the dash and pull my jumper down so the sleeves envelope my hands.
“Is he still alive?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All I need is a name, darlin’.” Tank glances at me, his eyes burning with bloodlust.
“I’m not giving you his name,” I say, and all the muscles in my body tense at once, because the thought of Tank, of any one I care about being anywhere near him, terrifies me. “That part of my life is done.”
“Right. Says the woman who can’t get off without having some arsehole put her in a fuckin’ chokehold.”
“Can we not talk about this now? Jesus, I’d rather be tied to Crazy’s bed while he dry-fucks my arse and threatens to burn all my hair off with his Zippo lighter.”
Tank’s eyes leave the road and they burn into me. “Crazy did that to you?”
“Tank,” I say and pause because I don’t really know how to ask this next question. “Are you in love with me?”
He glances back at the road. “Don’t flatter yourself, darlin’. I’m just trying to get you clean. As a friend.”
“As a friend I fuck?”
“Have we been doin’ any fuckin’? ’Cause last time I checked my balls were still fuckin’ blue as that pretty sky up above us, and I still jacked off twice today.”
“Poor baby. You need me to suck your cock?” I tease, undoing my belt and sliding across the bench seat towards him. I rest my hand on his thigh and he surprises me by removing it.
“I’m not giving you drugs, Ivy,” he says, with a stern look.
“Oh fuck you,” I say, and move away from him. I hadn’t even been thinking about drugs. I hadn’t been thinking anything at all besides the fact that despite how country he looks right now, he also looks good. And it’s been so long. For both of us. I buckle my seatbelt again and angle my body so it’s facing away from him, then I glare out the window at the endless sea of sunburnt grass and fat cows behind barbed wire fences. “You know you really are an arsehole, Tank.”
“So you keep telling me,” he says and reaches for the dial on the radio again, turning it on and drowning out all of the silence between us. There’s some horrid wailing banshee singing about gunpowder and lead, and when I lean over to change the station, Tank intervenes by smacking my hand away and turning it up until the bass reverberates through the dinky cabin around us. He yells like some fuckin’ country yahoo, “Settle in, Warrior Princess. We’ve still got a long-arse ride to civilization.”
I hate you I mouth, and he grins like a madman.
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, darlin’.”
We don’t speak after that. When we do finally make it to town, Tank pulls me into a Kmart and we head to the women’s clothing section. He comes to a stop in front of a rack filled with graphic T-shirts and waves at them as if the things are on his shit list. “Get some things.”
“I’m a club whore who mooches off of the Prez when I catch him in a giving mood, Tank.” I point out. “I don’t have any money.”
“I have money. Buy whatever shit you need. You can’t be walking around the cabin in your underwear, and you’re gonna need more than a couple of ratty old jumpers and a pair of jeans. Cold’ll be settlin’ in to stay soon. We might even see some snow, and I reckon you’ll be wantin’ some clothes.” He frowns and glances at my hair. “Shampoo too, toiletries and whatever else you want. Get all the girly shit you need now. I don’t wanna do this again.”
A lump forms in my throat because he doesn’t have to do this. He could just as easily swing by his room at the clubhouse and pick up all my shit the next time he’s there, and it makes me both grateful and uneasy that he’s so willing to take care of me with nothing in return. Worse still that I’m so quick to let him, that I like it, spending time with him, having him around. It’s a dangerous way to be though, because nothing good can come of it, and so I brush off everything I’m feeling and say with a bored tone, “Just how long do you think I’ll be staying with you?”
“Long enough,” he says, and then turns to me with one of those playful smiles that he’s so fond of today. God, I want to strangle him sometimes. “You start to earn your keep and I might never let you leave.”
He’s joking, right? Right? I mean, he’s not serious about keeping me. Tank’s just the unlucky bastard who got lumped with me. I’m not even sure why Jett wanted me to get clean. I’d always thought he believed I was good for sucking cock and nothing else.
“I’m going to get us a trolley. Start gettin’ your shit together,” Tank says, and wanders off.
Start getting my shit together? Yeah, because it’s that easy.
I watch his retreating figure for a moment, appreciating how good his arse looks in those jeans, when it dawns on me that I’m alone. I mean, not alone, because there’s an entire store full of shoppers here, but for the first time since he found me in the middle of the road, Tank isn’t with me. There’s an elderly woman standing a few feet away. She has one of those big fake Louis Vuitton bags—or maybe it’s not fake. It’s not like I’d know the difference. I glance around, pinch the bridge of my nose and cry out. She looks over at me, alarmed, but continues her perusal of the clothing in front of us, which is all far too young for her. I glance around for Tank, he’s nowhere in sight.
“Oh,” I say, and stagger a little.
“Are you alright dear?” the woman says. She doesn’t look overly sympathetic—more annoyed than anything.
“I just … I have this terrible migraine and I need something to take the edge off, but Rizatriptan is the only thing that works.” God bless Kick for introducing me to that one. It’s no coke, but it will take the edge off in a bind.
“There’s a chemist a few doors down,” she informs me.
Yeah, except my arsehole babysitter won’t give me any.
“I know, it’s just that I don’t have a script and I can’t get in to my doctor until tomorrow, and I know it’s going to get so much worse between now and then and … you wouldn’t happen to have any Nurofen, or pseudoephedrine, would you?”
“I have Panadeine Forte. I need them for my back pain. No water though, you’ll have to buy a bottle from the front counter.”
Fuck. To anyone else Panadeine Forte isn’t anything to sneeze at, but my body is used to much stronger opiates. Chances are I’ll burn through it in a half hour, if it does anything at all.
“That would be great. Thank you so much, you’re really a lifesaver.”
She pulls out the box from her handbag and I wait on tenterhooks as she slowly pops one tablet out from the blister pack into my hand. I snatch it closed as though at any second she might take it back.
“You know, my husband used to get migraines,” she says, tucking the card of pills back in the box. I try not to stare longingly at them as they disappear into her bag. “They really knocked him for six.”
I nod in agreement. I’ve never suffered from migraines. Headaches maybe, and that feeling on a comedown like you just touched a live wire and your whole body has gone into shock. I’ve felt that for the last two weeks. “Yeah, they’re really killer.”
“Well, you best get that tablet into you before it gets much worse,” she says.
“I will,” I promise, with a pained smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She goes back to perusing the clothing and I turn away and swallow the pill dry, wondering how many times I can get a complete stranger to hand over their medication today. It’s not blow, but it might take the aches and pains away. Fuck Tank for not even allowing me to take a Panadol. He really can be as cruel and sadistic as his reputation states.
