He’s far too masculine to be called beautiful, but I love that about him. Kick was pretty in a roughed up, hard-done-by kind of way, but Tank? Tank is all man. He’s hardened, yet somehow oddly vulnerable, with a face I could stare at all day. It has character. A story. A life of scars and hurt and struggle is written all over it.
On some level I think that part of him, that abused kid carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, he’s still in there, and he calls out to the fragile, broken girl inside me. His demons rage and roar at my own, and when we’re here in bed like this, joined, our bodies grown soft with pleasure and lethargy, I think they even quiet one another. They soothe the wrath, the want to hurt, and be hurt, and they just … are. Like wild beasts snarling in the darkness, baring their jagged teeth and claws, eventually they find a middle ground, reach an impasse, and they curl up together and just be still.
And it’s enough.
We are enough.
When I know he’s sleeping soundly, I slide out of bed and walk naked out to the lounge room. I love this house, with its open windows, its seclusion, and its scent of pine and eucalypt. I love that even though it’s not, it feels like home. Or what I imagine home should feel like. It’s what I wanted my whole life, but never thought I’d get to experience, and I know that has little to do with the building around me and everything to do with the man who inhabits it. A man who’s quickly breaking down all my walls and slowly, second by second, laying claim to my heart.
I head over to the couch and pull out the sofa cushions, searching for the three tiny pills that I’d thrown at Tank earlier. I grope around in the darkness for a long time, and find two wedged in the crack between the base of the armrest and the under-cushion support. I fish them out, and after feeling around for what seems like an eternity, I find the other pill on the rug beneath the coffee table.
Walking over to the garbage disposal, I stare at the pills in my hand. It would be so easy to take them without Tank even knowing, and I close my eyes because the post-orgasmic high is wearing off and the oxy would go down a treat. Before I can think too much about it, I splay my fingers wide and let the little pills fall through into the garbage disposal. I don’t turn it on, because it would just wake Tank. Instead, I turn on the tap and wash them away, ensuring there’s no way that I can retrieve them. I run my hands under the warm water and contemplate a soak in the huge claw-foot tub. That would probably wake him too, and I’d really rather just go back to bed and lie with him, even if I can’t sleep. I like having him near. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel loved, which is something I’ve never felt before. And I’m starting to think that maybe, despite what I told Adeline today, it’s something I could learn to do again. To love. To trust, and to place myself in someone else’s hands and be content there.
Turning, I grab the tea towel and dry my hands, then I hang it back on the hook beside the stove. I’m about to head back to bed when something catches my eye from the doorway. My blood runs cold. My heart beats faster. My head swims.
Not here. Not now.
Terror has me frozen to the spot. Dread glues my feet to the slate tiles. Panic seizes me head to toe, because it isn’t just that it’s the middle of the night and I’m standing buck-naked in the kitchen while a shadowy figure leers at me from the glass doors, or that Butch is now up off the arm chair and barking at the intruder, it’s that I know the man who stands on the other side of that pane of glass, and I know exactly what he’s capable of.
The porch is dark, save for what little light the moon casts on it, but I see him as clearly as I would if it were daylight. You never forget the face of the devil. A scream tears from my throat, and in the blink of an eye he’s gone, and Butch is no longer barking at the door, he’s barking at me.
Rough hands seize my shoulders. I scream again, lashing out at the man holding me. My nails rake his solid, tattooed chest, and then my frantic mind sobers long enough to recognise the hard set of his bearded jaw, and his worried blue eyes that are fever-bright.
“Ivy, what’s wrong?” he asks, shaking me. My gaze is locked on the middle of his chest, as though I could see right through him to the door beyond. As though I would still see him standing there.
My breath seesaws in and out of my lungs, ragged and tainted with fear. The dog is still barking, and Tank takes his eyes off of me for a moment to yell, “Butch, shut the fuck up.”
He takes my face in his hands and coos gently, “Babe, talk to me, please.”
“He’s here.” The trembling starts in my legs and spreads to my whole body. My gut twists and I feel as if I might be sick.
Not here. Not now.
“Who’s here?” Tank asks.
“My father, he was here.” My teeth chatter. Cold creeps into my bones as fear worms its way through every fibre of my being. “He was at the door.”
“You’re sure?” I nod. He smooths a hand over my cheek and says, “Wait here.”
“No. You can’t go out there. Tank, he’ll kill you. Please don’t go out there. Please?” I claw at him, desperate to keep him from leaving me alone.
“Babe, there’s nothing out there. The alarm hasn’t been tripped,” Tank glances at the little plastic security consul on the wall beside the door. The red light isn’t flashing methodically the way it normally does. He pales, and his eyes are wide as he glances down at me. “Fuck. I forgot to turn it on before we went to bed.”
“I saw him. He was out there. He was standing right there.” I gesture wildly to the door. “He’s going to kill us, Tank, he’s—”
“Shh,” he says, pulling me firmly into him and tucking my head against his chest. He rests his chin on the top of my head, and I feel his Adam’s apple bob as he speaks. “Listen, I read about people seeing things … hallucinating when they go through withdrawal.”
“I didn’t imagine it, Tank.” I shrug out of his embrace, and glare at him accusingly. “He was here. I saw him. The dog was barking.”
“Yeah, because you’re flippin’ out, Babe. You scared the shit outta both of us.” He exhales, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I need you to go back to the bedroom and wait for me. I’m goin’ outside to check on things.”
“No!” I shout. “Please don’t leave me. Please, Tank, please?”
“I’ve gotta, darlin’.”
“Tank—”
He takes my face between his hands. “Ivy, you gotta calm the fuck down. There’s no one out there. We’re a million miles from anywhere, and sleepin’ or not, I woulda heard a car comin’ up the drive, but I’m just gonna go out and double check for myself. I’m taking my gun with me. I need you to head back to bed. When I’m done out there, I’m gonna need your sweet arse to warm me the fuck up. Got it?”
I nod, even though I have a very bad feeling about this. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and takes his gun from the table, where he left it when we came home earlier. He grabs a pair of jeans from the back of the chair that he’d hung out to dry this morning, and slides them on and heads out the door.
I wait a moment, watching him out on the deck before I pad softly down the hall. My legs tremor as I climb into bed. I shake all over. I bury my head in my hands and attempt to calm my breathing and the sick twist of fear in my belly.
I hear the sliding door leading out to the deck open and close, and heavy footsteps pound down the hall towards me.
Oh God, I wanna be sick. Please don’t let Tank be dead. Please.
“Jesus, fuck, it’s colder than a nun’s cunt out there,” he says, and I uncover my eyes and practically leap at him. His skin is freezing, but I don’t mind because I’m too warm and prickly with panic.