Tank (Blue-Collar Billionaires #1)

by M. Malone

  “Well, yes. But student loans are deferred. You don’t have to repay them until you’re finished with school. You should be able to start next year with a full semester of classes. And don’t forget that you applied for a few grants that will be awarded soon. The committees will notify you directly if you are selected.” He’s smiling broadly so I can’t do anything except smile back and shake his hand before I leave.

  The campus of Southern Virginia Community College is a nice place for a walk on a crisp spring day. My sweater doesn’t provide much protection from the biting wind but the sun is warm on my face and the breeze is fresh. My parents were so proud that Ivy and I both went to college. My mom finished her degree but my father was a metalworker at the shipyard.

  He’d been obsessed with the idea of his daughters getting a college education and I don’t think he took a deep breath until the day I moved into the dorms here. Due to Ivy’s wild behavior in high school, I think both my parents considered it a minor miracle that neither of their daughters ended up addicted to anything or pregnant before graduation.

  Would he have done things differently if he’d known what was coming for him, I wonder? The thought of that day hits me in the chest and I halt right in the middle of the pavilion. Instantly I’m back there, in my room, my mom pushing me into the closet and telling me to call for help.

  I suck in several deep breaths, feeling lost in the middle of the students who pass me talking excitedly about classes, friends and what they did over the weekend. They pass me by and have no idea that I’m stuck in my personal hell. With the sounds of gunshots ringing in my ears and my mother’s screams outside the door.

  My bag falls off my shoulder and I let it drop to the ground. I learned how to control the panic attacks in therapy. I focus on the rhythm of my breath, the beat of my heart and the ground below me. I breathe in and hold it for a count of three, then let it out. The artificial breathing pattern slows the rate of my heart and the sense of panic recedes a little. Finally I look around, suddenly aware that I’m standing in the middle of the courtyard gasping for breath.

  I pick up my backpack and force myself to start walking. I’m just starting to get my life back on track so I can’t allow myself to go back there. Maybe I’m being foolish to think that I’m ready to come back but it’s a fallacy that I need to get me through each day. Next year, I’ll be in class all day and doing homework all night. I’ll need to be focused.

  That day has already stolen everything from me. If let it, it’ll steal any hope I have for the future. I can’t allow that to happen. I don’t want to look back on my life and think of all the things I didn’t do and never had. That’s why I’m so determined to go back and finish my degree. One and a half semesters and I’ll be done with my undergraduate degree. Then I can apply to veterinary school. Now all I need to do is figure out where to get the money for all this schooling.

  I tilt my face up into the wind and make a promise. Almost there, Dad. I’ll get back here and finish what I started.

  No matter what I have to do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TANK

  She’s not here.

  I’m in my lawyer's office for the third time this month, squashed into a hard wooden chair that's too small for my six foot five inch frame. It still feels weird to say that, my lawyer, like I'm some kind of big shot now or something. But it's true. I have a lawyer and an accountant.

  I also have a huge stack of money sitting in a trust with my name on it.

  Shifting as much as I can in the narrow seat, I lean back and avert my gaze from the brunette currently sitting behind the secretary’s desk. She’s beautiful but she’s not her. She looks like she’ll faint if our eyes meet one more time, although to be fair I have been glaring at her for the past ten minutes. There’s not much else in the room to look at.

  There's an older woman with a cane and a small white dog in her purse that yaps every time someone enters or leaves the room. A middle-aged man in the corner mumbles under his breath while working on a crossword puzzle. A guy in a suit sits a few feet away typing into a laptop.

  Waiting rooms are not my favorite places. No matter how hard they try to be comfortable, they never get it quite right. Inevitably they are either too cold or too warm. The piped in music is too loud or it's eerily silent. Everyone is staring at everyone else and pretending not to. Since I'm usually the biggest one in the room, you guessed it. Most of the attention is directed at me.

  There’s only one reason I’ve been voluntarily coming here for the past few weeks to sit in uncomfortable chairs all while paying for the privilege.

  To see her. The one person that makes all the noise in my head subside.

  And now she’s not even here.

  The outer office door bursts open and a gust of cold air sweeps through the room, stirring the little dog into a yapping frenzy.

  “I’m sorry. Sorry.” A young woman rushes past, a flurry of blond hair and apologies, and places her bag on the floor behind the secretary’s desk. I sit up straight, watching. The brunette smiles at her with genuine affection. They whisper back and forth before the other woman gets up and walks down the hallway leading to the offices.

  The blonde glances over at me before tucking a few of the stray hairs around her face behind her ears. It takes her a few minutes to get settled. She moves a few things around on the desk and then pulls a bottle of water from her oversized bag. She’s doing an admirable job of appearing busy and engrossed in whatever’s on her computer screen but a few minutes later, she looks at me again.

  Usually this kind of thing annoys the hell out of me, but for some reason, with her, I don't mind. Maybe it’s the madcap cloud of blond hair or the big, wounded gray eyes. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about this girl. Something that keeps me coming back week after week. I think it’s because she never smiles.

  “Don’t worry I’m still here.”

  She lets out a surprisingly crude snort. “Like I could miss you. And I wasn’t looking for you.”

  “Okay, okay.” I lean back and make a show of spreading my arms over the backs of the chairs next to me. I’m a big dude and I have a wingspan like a giant. Her eyes follow the movement but when she sees me watching, she turns up her nose a little and goes back to her typing.

  I chuckle a little. She doesn’t like me much and for some reason, it amuses me. I stare at her openly because I know when she notices she’ll do that little huffing sound again. She's a pretty little thing. Elegant. The kind of girl who clutches her pearls when I get too close. The nameplate on her desk reads Emma Lynn Shaw. Even her name is prissy as hell.

  Despite that, there’s something about her that I find compelling.

  The phone on her desk rings and she answers, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. She nods and then places the phone carefully back on the hook.

  "Tanner Marshall?" She calls out, looking around at the other people in the waiting room.

  The little dog gives an irritated yip. No one else even looks up. Finally her gaze lands on me. I stand and walk over to her, stopping right in front of her desk. It amuses me that she pretends not to know my name. I've been here every Monday for the last five weeks. Surely she knows who I am by now. She also knows that I hate to be called by my legal name. I've told her to call me Tank every time. I’ve also asked her to dinner every time.

  Then again, she looks like the kind of girl who wouldn't remember a guy like me.

  "Is he ready for me?"

  "Yes. Just go straight through."

  Instead of walking down the hallway, I lean against the wall next to her desk. “So, I have to eat dinner again tonight. Just like last week. And the week before that. It’s a pesky recurring event, this dinner thing. I’m assuming you’re familiar with it?”

  “I am aware of it, yes. Sometimes I go wild and have dessert, too. But you know what I like the best?” She leans closer like she’s imparting a secret. “Eating it alone.”

  I wi
nk at her. “One of these days you’re going to realize how much you’re missing out on.”

  “One of these days. Not today.”

  “Ouch. You’re brutal for such a tiny thing.” But I’ve achieved my objective. She’s almost smiling.

  “Mr. Stevens is waiting for you.” She gestures toward the hallway again. Her eyes are gleaming as she turns back to her computer. She types a few words and then looks up at me from the corner of her eye.

  "Thank you, Emma." I use her name deliberately just to see her blush again. Patrick’s office is the first door on the hallway.

  When I push it open, he looks up. "Come on in, Tank. Have a seat."

  I wave away his offer. "Look, I don't want to waste your time. You can just tell me. Did he agree?"

  Patrick looks slightly uncomfortable and I can tell what's happened. "He didn't, did he? Then there's no point in wasting any more time."

  "I didn't meet with your father. He sent his right hand man. Mr. Jonathan Boyd."

  This news doesn't surprise me. "He couldn't even be bothered to deal with it himself? I'm sure he outsources everything. He probably has someone to wipe his ass when he needs it, too."

  Patrick sighs. "I understand that your father isn't … well." He rifles through the stack of papers on his desk. "All these meetings haven't been entirely unproductive, however. I've gathered quite a bit of information that we didn't have before."

  He looks up at me. I cross my arms but I don't leave. He's got me interested and he knows it. "What do you mean?"

  "Your father's estate is larger than I was originally led to believe."

  "He gave me and Finn both half a million dollars each. He's rich. I got it."

  Patrick clears his throat. "From what I gather, the amounts he's given you so far are merely a trifle. Since I know your mother needs surgery, I was able to negotiate a higher initial payment as a measure of good faith. It should be wired into your trust fund by the end of the business day. But speaking from experience, money doesn’t go very far when you don’t have insurance. This money could be the difference in getting competent care for your mom. It's in your best interest to meet his terms. All he’s asked for are weekly meetings, an hour each time. Every week you show up, he’ll put money in your trust fund. You have very little to lose and everything to gain."

  "So, what you're saying is, I have no choice. If I want money to help my mom, then I have no choice." Helpless rage boils inside me. I feel like I’m being slowly railroaded into this, like all my options are being taken away from me by life and circumstance.

  "No, you always have a choice. You can walk away. But just be aware of what you're walking away from. This is a lot of money and from what I understand, your father is very ill. He doesn’t have a lot of time left.”

  "Look, I'm not completely heartless all right, but I haven't seen the bastard in almost twenty years. He left us high and dry and he's been off gallivanting around Europe ever since. This money would have been nice when we were growing up and Mom was working her ass off trying to keep us fed."

  "I understand that, Mr. Marshall. However, your father wasn't playing around that whole time. He was making his fortune in coal and steel and investing in green energy solutions. His lawyer indicated that if you should agree to meet with him, then the money you'll inherit will be …substantial."

  "I don't want anything from him. He wasn't there for us in life and I don't want shit from him now that he's on his deathbed and feeling guilty."

  “Well, the money he's wiring into your account is another five hundred thousand. That money comes with no strings attached. If you agree to his terms, you’ll receive even more. Congratulations, Mr. Marshall. You just became a millionaire."

  "What the hell?" I put out a hand and use the wall to steady myself. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to feel. Grateful? Instead I just feel vaguely dirty.

  Patrick hands me a folder. The first page has been flipped up to reveal a new letter from my father's law firm.

  “Mr. Boyd has asked if I can help notifying the others. Your brother Finnigan was the only one who responded. You wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?”

  Others? I have no idea what he's talking about and it obviously shows on my face because Patrick points to the list at the bottom of the page. "Your father has plans to split his empire equally amongst his sons.”

  "I only have one brother. Finn."

  Patrick looks stunned for a moment. Then he yanks out the chair in front of his desk.

  "Perhaps you'd best take that seat now, Mr. Marshall."

  My head is reeling by the time I leave the lawyer's office. Emma says something to me on the way out and I don't even stop. I can’t. Everything I know is spinning around and around in my head. I have brothers. Plural. Three other men out there in the world that I share blood with and have never even met.

  The thoughts torment me for the rest of the night.

  By the next day, I've worked up a pretty good rage. It's the Irish genes, my mom always says. I'm not sure about that because my brother Finn is the exact opposite. Well, he used to be the exact opposite. Before he came back from war with a busted leg and found his fiancée with another man.

  I park my bike in one of the spaces labeled with Finn's number. The old Ford pickup he’s had for years sits next to me. I tuck my helmet under my arm and ride the elevator to the top floor. He's in Penthouse B, which faces the West side of the building. He didn't have the same ethical dilemma with accepting the old man's largesse. Finn has always seen the world in black and white. In his words, “If the bastard wants to give me money, I'll let him.” That's my brother, the diplomat.

  I use my key and enter his spacious apartment. The rancid smell of old takeout and funky gym shoes hits me as soon as I push the door open.

  "Finn? Are you here?"

  I call out to him out of courtesy not because I think he's actually gone. He hasn't left the place to my knowledge in several weeks. Not since he moved in. I pass through the kitchen. It’s a fucking mess with bottles, empty paper plates and pizza boxes everywhere. I pick up an empty container that smells like fried rice, disturbing the family of flies nesting there.

  “Finn?”

  "What do you want, Tank?" His voice comes from the general direction of the living room.

  He's sitting on the couch, his leg propped up on the coffee table. I've learned to control my expressions around Finn but there's no doubt that I'm shocked every time I see him. His leg is shriveled, easily half the size it should be. It looks so fragile next to the rest of his body. We have the same deep brown eyes but his hair is lighter than mine, almost blond. It looks darker now, and hangs in dirty clumps all over his head, like it hasn't been washed in a while. When he looks at me, his cheekbones appear even more sunken than last week. He's lost more weight.

  "I went to the lawyer’s office yesterday. I signed the papers."

  He closes his eyes and looks happier than he has in weeks. "Good. You deserve that money. Maybe you can finally take a break. Do whatever it is normal people do. Go sit your big ass on a beach somewhere."

  I laugh because I know he expects me to. It's a bitter, strangled sound. "I wouldn't even know what to do on a beach. I'd probably shoot the first seagull that landed near me."

  He laughs again and then his face twists into a mask of pain. “Pills are wearing off.”

  I stand. “I’ll get them.”

  His apartment is top of the line, granite counters, recessed lighting and cherry wood cabinets. The first thing he did with his money was buy this apartment building. It’ll generate a nice profit for him every quarter and he won’t have to worry about money while he's recuperating.

  I would feel a lot better about his mental state if he were actually doing something to recuperate. Instead he's been sitting in the midst of all this finery slowly letting his life and his body go down the drain.

  His medications are lined up on the counter. The first bottle contains the painkillers his doct
or prescribed. It's almost empty so I know he's been taking these. I glance back to where Finn is on the couch. I suspect that he’s taking more of them than he’s supposed to. The others are things I can't pronounce. I shake out the required number of each and carry them along with a glass of water back to the couch. I set it all down on the glass top next to his foot.

  "Don't you get tired of this? Babysitting me?"

  When I don't answer, he heaves a sigh and leans forward to grab the handful of pills. It pains me to see the strain and effort it costs him to move. He throws the entire handful in his mouth and then downs the glass of water in one big mouthful.

  "Babysitting comes with the territory. It's Big Brother 101." The statement makes me think of what the lawyer told me. "Did you know about the others?"

  Finn collapses back against the cushions of the couch. "Other what?"

  "Our other brothers. According to Stevens, there are five of us total." The names I saw in that file have been swimming around in my head ever since. Gabriel. Zachary. Lucas.

  "I didn't know. Maybe he told me and I just wasn't paying attention. I was pretty out of it." Finn looks vaguely embarrassed.

  I think back to the half-empty bottle of pain pills. He must have been in one of his fogs that day.

  "If we're going to do this, we'll have to meet them. I'm not sure how I feel about that. But it's a lot of money. It could really help Mom."

  "If it can help her, then I say we do it. Plus, aren't you curious? We have brothers. I wonder what they're like."

  I have to concentrate not to grind my teeth. "Probably just like him. I wonder if they're the reason he was never around. Too busy playing house with his new and improved family, I bet."

  "Maybe." Finn shrugs and I can tell the pills are kicking in. His eyes glaze over and the strain on his face smoothes out until he looks blissful.