“He’s one of the sweetest people I know,” Gertie chimed in. “He really is.”
“He’s a complete teddy bear, but I’m sure you already know that.”
Rose was nodding along, still a bit overwhelmed. She set her plate on the coffee table.
Jolene had more to say, however. “He sees himself as inadequate, not good enough for you. Now I like you, Gertie likes you, and we can both tell he’s got a lot more going on than a passing physical interest. Otherwise he wouldn’t be this … upset.”
Now Rose could speak. “He’s upset?”
Jolene nodded with a sad smile. “I think we made him realize he’d been stupid. Overbearing.”
“In all fairness, that’s how they are,” Gertie said with a shoulder shrug. “It’s in their DNA. They’ll always tell you what’s best for you.”
“The key is letting them.” Jolene nodded when Rose frowned. “Let them think the sun rises and sets with their dick. Be so appreciative they get completely cocky, then you start laying down the law.”
Gertie was not, apparently, privy to this tactic. “That sounds sneaky.”
A hand was waved in dismissal as Jolene swallowed a mouthful of garlic toast. “Buck doesn’t count. Buck is basically a Ken doll. He’s perfect. Mickey calls him the gentleman biker.”
The redhead started giggling. “He is,” she admitted, studying her plate again.
“But for you,” Jolene went on, jutting a finger in Rose’s direction. “You’re going to suffer my pain, assuming you’re interested. Tank is protective and overbearing, but he’s also wonderful. You stick it out, get him under your thumb, and you’ll have him eating out of your hand like a pussy cat.”
“More like a lion,” Gertie corrected. “He’s just so big.”
Rose hadn’t said a word in all this time, she’d just fallen still with a mouthful of delicious lasagne. Now she finished chewing and swallowed it. “I don’t know where this is all coming from, but I’m confused.”
Jolene sighed and set her plate down. “We live under extreme circumstances Rose, as I’m sure you know. So here’s the thing.” Jolene leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “He likes you. I mean, they can get laid all they want. I heard the talk. He spent the night here. That means it’s more than that.”
Rose was beginning to understand. Jolene was shrewd, bringing on this guise of sisterhood and solidarity, admitting that Tank could be unreasonable. But looking at Jolene and Gertie now Rose knew the real reason for this visit.
They wanted to see if the new girl was good enough for their big brother.
Rose was lost, she had no idea how to handle this. She’d thought she’d been starting something fun, casual, with Tank. Maybe it could have grown, but she would have been happy to wait and see, let it happen if it was in the cards.
Maybe this was from Tank’s guilt over what had happened to her. She’d seen it in his face, right before he went to anger when she mentioned moving away.
“I …” she cleared her throat. She had to be honest. These women, especially Jolene, would sniff out a half-truth or bullshit like a bloodhound. “I like him. I really do. He’s … he’s sweet. And handsome. And … wonderful, actually. But it’s new, and it feels like this,” she gestured to her face—or specifically, the bandage—“is forcing some kind of emotional dedication that he wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
Jolene’s jaw slid to one side and her eyes narrowed. “That’s a good answer.”
Rose laughed despite her discomfort.
“I’m willing to bet he hasn’t thought of that yet. He’s chivalrous, but he was before the incident.”
Rose had to admit, that was true. Holding doors, standing when a woman entered the room. She’d seen him do all that.
“I like him,” she repeated softly. “I … I want him around. But it worries me.”
Jolene nodded. “Of course. He’s likeable. I just … I want him to be happy. So don’t leave without giving him a chance. I’m just asking you nicely. I know we’d like having you around. And he already does, too.”
Rose didn’t know what to say next, so they all resumed eating the delicious lasagne with only small talk to help pass the time. That was good; her brain was wrapped around thoughts of Tank, and she didn’t know what to make of them.
Chapter Fifteen
The kid pulled off his beanie, almost like a sign of respect, and nodded without a word to Tank. He plopped his backpack on the picnic table without much stealth.
They were used to this, and Tank took a moment to wonder if it was time to switch up the routine and be a lot more careful. But either way they were here now, so it was happening.
The Markham Civic Park was deserted, because it was still early and the weekend. They were at a barbecue pit under a tree, behind the public restroom. It was the quieter corner of the green space, and twice a week this was where the Red Rebels distributed their BC-grown marijuana to their dealers. They took turns doing it and varied the time of day, but it was always the same place, same day of the week.
This kid’s name was Steven. No nickname for him; he’d never wanted one. He was twenty-two but could pass for sixteen, so he was perfect. They tried not to sell to younger than eighteen, but shit could happen, and older siblings could always share with the younger ones. They could only practice discretion.
Steven had been selling for them for three years. Never been pinched, never skimmed, and moved twice the product the other five dealers could. And he was also the only one who turned up on fucking time.
“How’d the last supply go?”
Steven shrugged. “Good.”
Another thing to appreciate: the kid was quiet.
Tank turned in a half-circle, but as always they were the only two anywhere near the public restroom. “You got ten pounds again, you can move that before Thursday?”
“Always, man.” He took a lunchbox out of his backpack and set it on the table.
Tank opened it, saw the cash, and nodded before closing it. “Bag’s in the shitter.”
Steven got up and headed for the bathroom while Tank shoved the lunchbox back in the bag. When Steven emerged a minute later, he continued on his way, a new knapsack over his shoulder. Tank returned the cash to the restroom, and after he walked away Fritter appeared behind the small building and ducked inside to collect the bag, leaving a newly packed supply bag inside.
Ridiculously complicated. All the bags matched, kind of like a lame “watch the cup, find the ball” trick. Anyone watching for more than three minutes would have it figured out immediately, but so far no one had bothered. Tank himself had never seen a single cop car so much as cruise by.
The second dealer had been with them for a year. She had promise. Kind of a smart ass to most people, but she was long-time local so she was used to seeing the Red Rebels around and kept her quips in check.
She set her backpack down beside his feet, sitting on the bench next to it.
“How you doing, sweetheart?” he asked, exhaling cigar smoke.
Piper shrugged, sighing. “Fine. Why do you always ask that?”
Tank smiled. “Well, this would be where you tell me whether or not you’ve got any problems with customers or sales. It’s just a bit less formal.”
She examined the chipped black nail enamel on one of her thumbs. “Everything’s fine. I sold the shit, no one’s pissed me off since I pulled my knife that one time.”
Yeah, she did that. Her first supply to sell, third customer saw the short poofy skirt, striped leggings, knee-high boots, corset top, jet black hair and baby doll face and thought he could take her cash and weed just because he was bigger. He learned why she had those boots.
“Oh yeah,” Piper said suddenly as he pulled the lunchbox from her bag. “I heard something, thought it might interest you.”
“Yeah? What was it you heard?” Tank asked indifferently, checking the cash.
“I said I thought it might interest you,” she replied cockily, arching one black eyeb
row pierced with a black hoop.
Tank sighed, reaching into the lunchbox and pulled a couple fifties out, tossing them her way. “What did you hear, Piper?” He hated sounding like a parent, but there he was anyway.
“I had a customer come by with a friend. While they were waiting for their bus”—Piper’s selling point was a bus bench, incidentally—“I heard the one guy ask what happened to Ramul. The guy said he hadn’t heard from him since, and I quote, He fucked up that stripper with acid.”
Tank froze, eyes leveling at her. “You heard him say this?”
“Yeah. It was four nights ago. But that girl that got burned was at your club, right?”
He nodded, blinking fast. “Yeah, she was. Is.”
Piper frowned, the lock of hair she’d been twisting around her finger dropping to her shoulder. “You okay, Tank?”
Shit, this one, too? He was about done with women’s intuition. “You think he’ll come back?”
She shrugged. “Likely. The weed’s good, so I don’t see why not.”
“Let me know when you’re selling. I’ll have someone watching, and you signal them when either guy is there. You’d recognize them, right?”
“Yeah, there aren’t a lot of people of that persuasion around.”
“What persuasion?”
“I don’t know. Arabian-looking. Dark skinned, dark eyes. You want me to get all racist?”
Tank sighed, locking the lunchbox. “Listen, give Spaz your schedule. You got his number?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll make sure someone’s watching out.” He nodded to the restroom, and she followed the same procedure Steven had just executed. When she was off with her five pounds of product, Tank left the lunchbox in the restroom and went back to his bench, pulling out his phone. He dialed Jayce, getting his voicemail.
“Yeah, it’s Tank. Listen, Piper overheard a customer talking about the guy that threw acid on Rose. I want her to give Spaz her schedule. If we can arrange it, I’d like to have someone watching in case he comes back. She signals, we nab him. Let me know if that works.”
He flipped his phone shut and parked his ass back on the bench with a deep sigh, waiting for their third and final appointment.
They had never gotten the guy’s name that attacked Rose. Ramul. But was that first or last? And where the hell were these Arabian guys coming from?
The Mazari gang had been after Gertie’s dad at one time. They’d beaten her up to get her to talk, damn near killed her. He’d only heard rumors about the Mazaris. They were cold-blooded, pretty low-life in the grand scheme of things. It was known they trafficked underage girls into the US. They would be the type to possibly buy heavy-duty weapons, too. If they were after Louis Dénise, would they be pissed enough to be chipping away at the Red Rebels’ business this way? After all, them turning Gertie’s dad over was a million dollar payday that the Mazaris had obviously really wanted.
The third dealer was the one Tank was really waiting for. He was about thirty-five, kind of a loser if you took the outside world’s standards into account. But Tank kinda liked him, even though he did tend to be behind schedule all the time. And today was no different.
His name was Devon, and he was the oldest son and black sheep of the Turnbull family. They ran Markham’s only automotive dealership—a Ford shop. The Turnbull family were likely the only well-to-do family in town, and they had four kids. A boy, two girls, and Devon. Devon’s younger brother was being groomed to run the dealership, his sisters had married and moved away, and he was still at his parent’s house. He wasn’t stupid, just unmotivated. Tank was pretty sure Devon sold strictly to compensate what he smoked on his own. He was always in a good mood, though, small wonder, and his mother had tried once, about twenty years ago, to start a beginner’s dance school on main street that just couldn’t take. There weren’t enough families in town with little girls who wanted to take tap dancing lessons.
But as far as Tank knew, they still owned the space and he’d asked Devon to ask his mother about renting it. This was all assuming Devon would remember to ask his mother about it.
Devon rolled down the asphalt park path on a BMX, greeting Tank with a cheerful and super-mellow “Mountain Man! Good to see you!”
Tank grinned and nodded as Devon parked his bike against the picnic table. “Good afternoon, Devon. How’d your sales go this week?”
“Awesome! I barely had enough left to buy myself.”
Tank shook his head and opened the lunchbox. As much as the guy imbibed, he never cut them short. Paid them back whatever he inhaled.
“You get a chance to talk to your mom about the dance studio?”
Devon tapped his temple with a knowing smile. “Of course I did! She said you pay the utilities and all that shit, you can use it. She thinks it needs a few repairs—pipes and that kind of thing. You fix it and she’ll call it square for a least a few months.”
Tank raised his eyebrow. “Wow. That’s a pretty good deal. She’s sure she doesn’t want rent?”
Devon batted a hand out. “Rich folks, man. If they were hurting she’d have sold the building.”
Tank nodded. “Cool, tell her I’ll take it and do the work.”
“Awesome!” Devon laughed, digging in his pockets. He pulled out a keychain with a giant metallic green pot leaf, which also appeared to have a beer-bottle opener built into it, and unhooked a smaller ring. “Gold key opens the deadbolt, little silver one opens the gate that’s along the alley. Not sure why she put the gate in, but there’s parking around the back.”
Tank nodded, taking the key, his surprise growing. “You even remembered to bring the keys. I’m impressed, Devon.”
Devon kept chuckling, heading for the restroom with the backpack. “Anything for you, Mountain Man!”
He’s started calling Tank Mountain Man the first day they met. Tank thought it was the beard and long hair; Jayce was sure it was because of his size.
Tank stared at the keys in his hand, his thoughts tumbling like socks in the spin cycle. His major fear was he was acting way out of line, making too many assumptions about what he had going on with Rose. That she was nowhere near as invested as he was. That was terrifying. He did not like being left wide open and vulnerable, waiting for someone to declare him worthy of her time. So he was going to give her a gift. Somewhere she could be alone, on her own with her thoughts and what she loved. He knew she was a dancer—not the stripping kind, the kind that parents enrolled their kids in from a young age. Contemporary, he thought that was what Coco said her background was.
The Turnbull’s Dance Academy had a large dance studio, he knew that much. The wall of mirrors had been left up, as well as the railing that usually seemed to bisect the wall horizontally. He’d have to take a look and see what else needed to be done. For sure it would be filthy, and he’d need to make it safe for her, too.
He had some savings. His only expense was really his bike. He lived at the dorms, and his only other property was a hunting cabin damn near on the border with Arizona. The closet point to drive to for supplies was Yuma. He loved it there. The Gila ran close and the land was wild and undeveloped. It was a shack, one room, only river water piped into a sink attached to a small kitchenette, not fit for drinking. Heat by wood stove. Surrounded by trees.
They’d go hunting and fishing out that way sometimes, just him and a few brothers. There was a double bed and two couches, so falling asleep took plenty of whiskey, but they managed just fine. It had been almost a year since they’d done it, though.
So Tank’s finances were just fine. He could easily handle a few repairs on the dance studio, give Rose a place other than that cramped apartment that was hers, part of Markham. He had no idea what her reaction would be because this was basically bait to keep her here.
Chapter Sixteen
Rose pushed her shopping cart past the selection of produce at the Markham Safeway, quickly finding what she needed and resolving to get out of there as fucking fast as she could
. She still covered her grafts with bandages, even if the stitches were gone now and the scabs all but healed over. The white gauze drew more stares than she was used to in this town.
She selected a few apples, a carton of strawberries, and a head of lettuce straight away. Then she was hurriedly browsing, a strange feeling settling on her shoulders that she was late for something. Or just that she had to get out of there.
The intense need to hurry got worse in the dairy aisle, which was almost gridlocked with blue-hair cart pushers. She wove between them and their conversations to get eggs, yogurt and milk in record time. When she checked her list at the end of that section she was shocked to notice her hand was shaking.
“What the hell?” she whispered to herself, stopping short with her cart.
Something rammed into the back of her heels and her ass. Good thing she was healed—that would have really hurt. She knew it was just a cart, and it only happened because she’d stopped so abruptly, but the shock of it made her scream anyway.
She shrieked. In the fucking dairy section?
The poor old lady behind her looked horrified, holding a wrinkled hand out to her like one would a wounded animal. “Honey, I’m so sorry. Did I hit you that hard?”
Rose was panting. She couldn’t get her thoughts straight. It didn’t hurt. She was fine. She just needed to get out of there.
The rest of her grocery list was forgotten. She headed for the checkout without another look to the poor lady who was clearly upset over having possibly injured someone in an incredibly low-speed collision.
She paid for what she’d managed to get in her cart without partaking in any of the friendly customer service speak the girl at the check-out tried to involve her in. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling; she saw it as she handed over her bank card to pay. What the hell was wrong with her?
She carried her few bags to her Toyota, stowing them away in the trunk. As she was closing it, a hand closed around her elbow and she spun, hand shooting out in a reflex of self-defense she hadn’t expected.
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