Chapter Five
Tank
She’s still in my car.
The thought burns at the edges of my mind, searing my every nerve. How is she still here? I should have thrown her out immediately, the moment she dared to plant herself in the seat. Should have dragged her out by the scruff of her coat and left her standing on the curb, watching the taillights disappear in a cloud of dust. Hell, I should have put my boot to her and shoved her out while pulling away without so much as a glance back.
But instead, I’m gripping the steering wheel like I’m trying to crush it in my hands, feeling her presence like a goddamn heat source beside me. Volcanic. Molten. Irritating as hell, and I can’t seem to shake her, no matter how much I want to.
I glance at her, almost hoping she’s evaporated into the air.
She’s sitting there, arms crossed, chin up, full of righteous fury, like she belongs here. Like she’s just decided that she’s coming along and I’m just supposed to deal with it. She has more nerve than I gave her credit for. More stubbornness, too.
I grind my teeth, feeling the tension coil and snap in my jaw.
“You got about three seconds to get out before I throw you out.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. Just raises a perfectly sculpted brow and says, “I’d like to see you try.”
I slam my palm against the dashboard, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the small space.
“Woman, do you have a goddamn death wish?” I snarl the words, frustrated, incredulous, unable to understand why she’s pushing me like this. I saved her from being beat to hell by the drug-pushing piece of shit who’s unconscious in my back seat and this is how she shows her fucking gratitude?
She doesn’t even blink. “No. I have a conscience.” Her voice is cool, steady, and as infuriating as ever. “Now, where are we going?”
Jesus Christ. This woman. I jab a finger toward the door, veins taut like they’re about to split. “Out.”
She shrugs, completely unaffected, and reclines back like she could do this all day. “No.”
My nostrils flare. “I’m not the good guy here, sweetheart. You really wanna be locked in a car with me?” It’s a last appeal to reason, to the self-preservation she clearly doesn’t have.
She leans back in the seat, crossing her legs like she’s getting comfortable, like she already knows she’s won this round. “If I thought you were an actual threat, I wouldn’t be here.”
That makes me bark out a laugh. She has some nerve, mouthing off to me like that.
“Oh yeah? And what exactly makes you think I won’t drive you out to the desert and dump your body?”
She just tilts her head, a calculating look in her eyes, as if she’s studying a half-wild dog that she’s trying to figure out. “Because you bake.”
I blink, staring at her like she just sprouted another head. “The hell does that have to do with anything?” I say, feeling the frustration twist like a knife in my gut. I’ve been in the life long enough to know how this should go — fear, compliance, submission — and Bianca fucking Moretti has been in this life long enough to know how it should go, too.
But Bianca’s not playing by any of those rules.
She gestures vaguely toward the backseat, where Ricky is still unconscious. “You beat people like it’s a full-contact sport, but you also make apricot financiers. Apricot financiers. Which means you’re either a full-on Hannibal Lecter psychopath, or you have a controlled, delicate side to you that you’re desperately trying to hide behind your muscles, beard, and tattoos. Now, considering I’ve been in your bakery and didn’t see any human body parts hanging around, and there hasn’t been an uptick in murders in Boise or the Boise area lately, I’m going to bet you will not be dining on my organs with a glass of chianti.”
Jesus Christ. She says the whole damn thing like she’s reading out a grocery list, not throwing accusations at a man who could crush her with a single swing. I rake a hand down my face, trying to get my expression under control, trying to figure out if I should be laughing or yelling or slamming on the brakes and letting her fly through the windshield.
She’s insane. That’s the only explanation.
I punch the gas, the engine roaring like a beast, then I slam on the brakes and spin the wheel, sending the car into a controlled spin while the wheels scream and spit smoke. I’m hoping for a reaction, a gasp, something that shows I’ve finally gotten under that thick skin of hers.
But she barely reacts. A blink. Maybe.
I clench my jaw.
This is not how this was supposed to go.
She’s supposed to be groveling, pleading, not sitting there with that smug look on her face like she’s got me all figured out.
I take the next turn sharp, gripping the wheel like it offended me. Bianca stares out the windshield, completely at ease, like she rides shotgun with psychotic bikers every damn day.
“Where are you taking him?” she finally asks.
I don’t answer.
She glances at me, studying me again. Like she’s trying to peel back the layers and see what’s underneath.
“You don’t belong in a bakery,” she blurts. “That’s not who you are.”
I grip the wheel tighter. The fuck does she know? Owning that bakery is my goddamn dream, and I’ll be fucked if I let her talk shit about it or me.
Except I’m sure as fuck not going to talk to her. From the way she’s looking at me and the tone in her voice, me talking to her is exactly what she wants, and I won’t give her the satisfaction, or the advantage.
She keeps going. “I don’t know who you are. But I know you’re not just some nice, flour-dusted baker who has a right hook that could break a man’s skull.”
I glance at her. “You talk too much.”
She shrugs. “I like to figure people out.”
I scoff. “Good luck with that.”
I make a hard turn onto a deserted road; the tires biting into the gravel, kicking up rocks like ricocheting bullets. We're getting closer to my destination, to the place where I plan to dump Ricky's sorry ass — an old cabin that I found not long after I came to this godforsaken place. It's the kind of spot no one looks for and no one cares about, buried in a patch of scrubby trees and overgrown pastureland filled with bushes where the scrub is so tall and scraggly that it looks like a collection of skeletal fingers each reaching to grip and pull you to your final rest. I like the place. It might have been broken down all to hell when I found it, but the bones were good, and that's all that mattered. Put in some elbow grease, a few cans of paint, a few cans of bug spray, and now it’s my home a home. It's quiet out there, too, which is its own damn advantage. That sick joke called Boise is far enough away that I can actually breathe, and the shed behind it is just right for stashing woman-beating bastards like Ricky until they get their shit together.
Bianca shifts beside me, stirring the air with a defiant energy. “What are you going to do to him?” Her voice is sharper now, more insistent, like she's trying to cut right through me and pull out an answer. I wonder if she's asking to protect him or to appease that Moretti conscience of hers.
I exhale, a slow, measured breath meant to keep my temper leashed. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I shoot her a hard look, but she’s unfazed, her hazel eyes locked on mine like she’s got the upper hand and knows it.
“That’s all you’re getting,” I say. So what if she’s stubborn? I’m stubborn, too. Maybe more than her. But I have a bad feeling that what we’re about to find out is that there’s more than one way to be stubborn, and she’s got more than one trick up her sleeve.
She leans toward me, her scent catching me off guard, vanilla and heat and something that doesn’t belong anywhere near me. A warm, heart-stirring invasion, more dangerous than anything else she could throw my way.
Her voice drops to a lower, more serious pitch. “If you kill him, I’ll make your life miserable.” I don’t know if that’s a promise or a threat or if there’s even a difference, but it doesn’t matter. Her words sound like a vow, and I believe her — she’s already making me miserable.
I roll my eyes, a sharp wave of frustration cutting through me.
“If I wanted him dead, he’d be dead already.” I focus on the road, ignoring the way her presence fills the car, ignoring how much of a goddamn distraction she is.
She studies me in silence. There’s a flicker in her eyes, a moment where she seems hesitant, like she’s not as certain about her read on me as she’s been claiming to be. I see it, the split second where she wants to believe me, and then it’s gone before I can even register how much I want to give her that reassurance, and how much I resent that I care.
The cabin looms through the trees, the road narrows as we get closer, while the wheels crunch over dirt and gravel. The sun sits high, painting the scene in bright light and warmth that makes even this rundown place look like a picture-perfect postcard, though it sure as shit isn’t. The old place sits like a waiting animal, crouched, ready, its dark windows watching us arrive.
I park outside and put the car in park, then turn to her slowly.
“This is your last chance.” My voice is low, even. Final.
She lifts her chin, unshaken. “No.”
“You want no part of this. This doesn’t concern you. And that piece of shit back there might’ve killed you earlier. If you have one fucking lick of sense in that pretty head of yours, get the fuck out of here.”
She doesn’t move.
She just holds my gaze, unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere. And if you want me to leave, you better be ready for a fight.”