Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adriana
“So, the choice is to call one guy who might want to kill us, for help against another guy who definitely wants to kill us?” I pause; he nods. “Sometimes I wonder why the hell I tied myself up with you…”
My words trail off, and despite my best efforts, my cheeks color; he sees it — his pupils widen, just a touch, as does his smile — and he knows why, too.
Fuck me, catching feelings for a man like Reaper.
But these fucking pastries… I take up another, a Danish that oozes strawberry and cream cheese perfection, pop it into my mouth, and suddenly find this whole unpalatable situation a lot tastier.
And those eyes and the heart that I see behind them.
Fuck, I make terrible decisions.
Then I take another bite — these fucking pastries.
“Call him,” I say. “Even if he comes after you, I’ll have your back.”
I don’t know why I added that last part, but it feels right.
And wrong. I tell myself it’s just to ensure I have more breakfasts like this in my life.
No one’s made me breakfast before, not since I was little, and there’s something both comforting and disconcerting about having someone take care of me.
I want it; I want Reaper, and it scares me how right that feels.
Reaper pulls out his phone, and I watch his jaw tighten as he scrolls through his contacts. When he finds Tank's number, he hesitates for just a second before hitting call.
"Tank." His voice carries the careful tone of a man walking into a minefield. "It's Reaper. I know I fucked up, and I — "
Even from across the kitchen, I can hear the explosion of rage that cuts him off.
Tank's voice blasts through the speaker, a torrent of profanity that would make a sailor blush.
Words like "motherfucking," "piece of shit," and "dead to me" filter through the tirade, along with some creative combinations I've never heard before.
Reaper just takes it, his knuckles white as he grips the phone. When Tank finally pauses for breath, Reaper jumps in.
"I deserve all of that," he says quietly. "I know I do. But I need help with Ruslan Volkov and the Russian mob in Sacramento."
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.
Reaper nods. “Sure as fuck does. And don’t even think about teasing him about it.
He will retaliate with overwhelming force, to literally quote him and how he prefers to deal with his enemies.
And it’ll be hard, too, because I’ve seen him wear an apron with all the Muppets on it — it was a gift from Bianca.
It had the ‘Swedish Chef’ muppet front and center. ”
“Got it. Don’t tease the giant killer about his silly aprons.”
“I’m not kidding. He won’t hesitate, even though he knows you and I are…“
We are what?
A thrill that I love and hate runs through me as my mind races to fill in the blanks.
Just what are we? I want to speak up, to ask Reaper what he thinks we are, and I feel so fucking ridiculous for wanting that.
Ridiculous and weak. What am I, a girl in high school passing notes back and forth with the boy she’s got a crush on — check ‘yes’ if you like me?
Fuck, did I just say I have a crush on him?
I clear my throat. “Since you’ve helped us out with the manpower and weapons problem, I think I’ve figured out how to get us access.”
Reaper takes a giant bite of croissant, then leans forward, crumbs decorating the edges of his curious smile. “Oh? How?”
“It’s going to be difficult, and it’s going to take some time, but I think you’ll like the first step. We’re going to have to go out for dim sum.”
“Dim sum? We just ate. Are you saying you’re still hungry?”
I shake my head, grinning. “I’m not hungry at all. But I know how we can work up an appetite.”