Chapter Eighteen
Bianca
The drive to Sticky Buns is a fog, the kind that rolls in thick and colorless and erases all definition. I barely absorb the streetlights, the stop signs, the early morning city around me, blurred by a weariness that feels permanent now. A fog that blots out thoughts, memories, even the sounds of the radio humming softly in the background.
The past few days have been a blur of work, stress, and exhaustion. And those are the good parts. The parts I cling to, cling to when I’m not busy fighting battles on every front. Managing lives that are always balancing on the edge of collapse, supporting addicts who constantly teeter on the brink of relapse, and all the while, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me until I wonder if every shadow harbors someone sent by my brother to remind me he is still there, still watching.
The fundraiser is one week away.
Alex and I have been pushing ourselves to the edge, burning through every reserve we have to secure donors, coordinate vendors, and keep Safe House afloat in a sea of mounting pressures. I can feel the exhaustion in my bones, having become so familiar that I no longer recognize it as exhaustion at all, just the way things feel. I haven’t really slept in longer than I can remember, but I’m used to that now.
Real sleep, like real peace, is a luxury reserved for people who feel safe.
And safe is something I haven’t felt in years
So I do what I’ve always done. Adapt. Keep moving. Accept fatigue and sleeplessness as the only constants I can rely on. Keep the fear at bay by staying so busy there’s no time for it.
Yet, this morning feels even heavier, even more worn than the ones before it.
After so many mornings of rolling out of bed with empty, trembling hands, feeling like I have nothing left to give, and knowing I have to keep digging, keep finding something more, because if I don’t, everything I’ve worked so hard to build will collapse around me — this morning I need something more. Something small, but mine. Something indulgent and rich, something that will remind me that life is more than stress, more than survival.
That’s why I find myself here, first in line as usual, before the shop has even opened, before anyone else is awake to need anything from me.
And maybe that isn’t the only reason.
Maybe, just maybe, I want to see him.
Tank is already at the counter, watching me as I walk in. I can tell from the way his shoulders rise slightly when the door opens that he’s been waiting, not just for any customer, but for me. He cracks a grin that spreads slow and easy, like he’s already amused at some private joke he hasn’t let me in on yet.
“You know,” he calls out over the empty shop as I push through the door, “showing up at my bakery first thing in the morning so often might give a man ideas.” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice, one that makes it clear he knows I’ll rise to the bait.
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I have no interest in feeding your ego, Tank. This is just about feeding my sugar addiction.”
“There are other bakers in town. Others that are closer to Safe House, too.”
I raise an eyebrow. "Are you trying to drive away your customers?"
His eyes glint with challenge, and he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter. “Just curious. Especially since you look like you haven’t slept in days.” The light through the wide windows catches the pale blue of his eyes, highlighting them to the point of translucence, making it impossible for me to look away. He’s watching me too closely, seeing too much.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the response so practiced it might as well be tattooed on my tongue.
His smirk widens like I just proved his point. “You sure about that?”
I roll my eyes again, more to break up his gaze than anything else. “Positive.” My feet propel me toward the pastry case, ready to ignore him, ready to pretend I have more control over this interaction than I actually do.
And then I see them.
The usual elegant pastries — the croissants, the kouign-amann, the beignets — are all lined up perfectly in a neat, mouthwatering display. But off to the side, there’s something… else. A pile of ugly, misshapen disasters unlike anything Tank has ever let leave his kitchen.
They look like they were made by a blind, one-armed six-year-old with no adult supervision. Messy. Overloaded with frosting and marmalade. Burned in places, undercooked in others, and one of them looks, in the words of Gordon Ramsay, fucking raw.
I blink, pointing at them. “What the hell are those?”
Tank crosses his arms, looking far too amused. “Ricky made them.”
I stare at him.
I stare at the pastries.
Then I stare at him again, completely baffled.
“Are you fucking with me?”
Tank shakes his head, the playful gleam in his eyes never wavering as his smirk deepens. “Nope.”
I don’t know what’s more shocking: that Ricky is alive, or that he’s apparently working in a bakery. The incongruity of it all spins in my mind, each thought colliding with the next. Ricky, the low-level dealer who used to work for my brother, and Tank, this hulking, unreadable man, somehow tangled together in this fucked-up scenario.
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes, demanding an answer. “Explain. Now.”
Tank shrugs with infuriating nonchalance, like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just drop a grenade into the middle of the room. “I’m helping him straighten his life out. He’s working as my apprentice, now.”
I blink rapidly, trying to clear my disbelief. It doesn’t work. “You’re what?”
For a second, I think he’s joking. But his gaze is clear, steady, and I know he’s serious.
“Ricky was a piece of shit,” Tank says bluntly, matter-of-factly, like he’s just stating the weather. “Still kind of is. But underneath all that garbage, there’s something decent. He loves Vanessa. That’s enough of a reason to try.”
His words are unfathomable to me, and I shake my head, struggling to make sense of them, struggling to understand him. This doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t fit the man I know Tank to be. He’s a big, tatted, bearded brute who literally tried to intimidate me into allowing him to work the Safe House fundraiser. He’s not someone who is supposed to be passionate about rehabilitation or second chances. Yet, here he is — unexpected, sincere. Unless he’s lying. Unless this is some elaborate act, some angle I haven’t figured out yet. A reach, a ploy, a way to worm into my trust for reasons I can’t guess.
My voice is sharper, more skeptical this time. “You expect me to believe you suddenly have a soft spot for junkies?”
Tank doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. He just leans back a bit, arms still crossed, watching me with infuriating calmness. “Believe whatever you want.” There’s a challenge in his words, a confidence that dares me to doubt him. He knows how I’ll respond, knows me well enough to predict my next move before I do. That pisses me off more than I care to admit. But if you really doubt, well… Come see for yourself.”
I hesitate. He has to be lying. He can’t really care that way — the last time I saw Tank interact with Ricky, he had beaten him unconscious and thrown him into his car like a giant sack of flour.
Then, curiosity wins.
“Fine,” I say. “Show me.”
Tank leads me into the back of the bakery.
And there he is. Ricky DeMarco. Alive. Still handcuffed — but on a long lead, like a dog that might still run.
But he’s not the same man I last saw.
He looks cleaner. Healthier. There’s color in his skin. His eyes aren’t glazed over. He looks... almost human.
His hands are trembling a little as they work the dough, but there's a different shake now — not the desperate twitch of withdrawal, but the natural unsteadiness of someone learning something new, someone pushing past their comfort zone.
"I've been clean since Tank picked me up," Ricky says, not meeting my eyes, focusing intently on the dough beneath his fingers. "Longest stretch since... well, I can't remember when."
I can't hide my shock. That stretch of days isn't forever, but for someone like Ricky, it might as well be. I've seen too many addicts at Safe House to underestimate what those handful of days represent.
"And you're... baking now?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice.
Ricky gives a self-deprecating laugh, gesturing at the sad lumps on display. "Trying to. I’m not exactly a natural.”
Tank steps in, his colossal frame towering over Ricky's hunched shoulders. "He's got the dedication part down. Technique... well, that's a work in progress."
I look between them, trying to process this bizarre scenario. Tank—this mountain of a man who exudes intimidation from every pore—is teaching a former junkie how to bake pastries. It's so absurd I almost want to laugh, but there's something about the earnestness in both their expressions that stops me.
"Why?" I ask finally, turning to Tank. "Why him?"
Tank's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a momentary vulnerability that's gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
"Everyone deserves a second chance," he says. "Even the ones who seem beyond saving."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I think of the women at Safe House, everything they’re fighting through, everything I’m fighting for, and I nod. And before I know it, I find myself looking at Tank with different eyes than just a few minutes ago. There’s an earnestness in him, a strange sincerity that shakes my assumptions and forces me to look again, to really look at him.
And this time, I notice something I missed before. Bruises. Faded, but unmistakable.
Right there, along his jaw and cheekbone.
I frown. “What happened to your face?”
Tank smirks. “Part of Ricky’s healing process.”
Ricky actually laughs, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, uh... that was me. Tank was hosing me down in the front yard. He turned his back, and I wasn’t in my right mind, so I tried to jump him. It didn’t go well.”
“You were hosing him down in your front yard?” I say. I shake my head, still trying to process everything.
“He was filthy, and I wasn’t going to give him a sponge bath. I had to make do.”
“Then he ambushed you?”
Tank nods. “Jumped me from behind. Got in a few punches.”
“But it didn’t go well for me,” Ricky adds.
For a long moment, I just stand there in silence, staring at the two of them — kidnapper and kidnappee; now, impossibly, mentor and mentee — and feel my mind spinning, melting, dripping out my ears. It’s a sight I can barely get my head around, this picture of Tank looming protectively over a healthier, cleaner, strangely vibrant Ricky. And I don’t know what’s more astonishing: that they’re standing here together, or that I’m starting to believe it. Starting to believe this impossible scenario is actually real.
Then, before I can stop myself, I ask it — the question that’s been bouncing around in my head ever since he kissed me and left me reeling, trying to remember my own name.
“What time do you close?”
Tank’s smirk returns full force. His blue eyes glow like they’re lit from the inside, and even the bruises on his jaw tank on a cocky, handsome look — which isn’t something I thought could even be possible, but Tank seems determined to crush all my preconceptions today. “You planning something, sweetheart?”
I lift my chin. “Just answer the question.”
He steps closer. Too close. His voice drops to something low, amused, and dangerous.
“Eight o’clock.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
But the heat in his eyes tells me he already knows why I asked.