Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Diesel shrugs, flashing a smile as if this is all normal. “Just checking things out. Nothing to worry about.”
I glare at him and cross my arms. “See, when you say that, all I can do is worry.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” Olly says, his tone working to reassure me more than it should. “Just being cautious.”
“Does this have anything to do with Tank?” I ask.
They look at each other and then back to me with blank expressions. “Nope.”
“Do you know anything about Tank getting arrested?”
“Nope,” they say in unison.
Might as well be a yes. “Okay, then. See you around.” My shift is over, and I have just enough time to get home and change into real clothes before I head over to County to see Tank.
I’m nervous. I’ve never been to a jail before, and I don’t know what to expect.
I slip into a pair of dark jeans and a pale pink blouse that I pair with my favorite nude pumps that make my legs look great because I need every ounce of confidence I can get.
I keep my makeup natural, adding a shiny pale pink lip and my black frames because they make me look more professional and less like, what exactly? A scared, not-exactly-a-girlfriend? A worried temporary lover?
I don’t know.
I don’t even know what I’m doing, but I snag my keys and purse and make my way to the County Jail, someplace I never thought I’d go.
“No bags or purses inside, ma’am.” The heavyset man in uniform speaks in a firm voice, and I freeze, looking down at my bag. “Lockers over there.”
I head to the storage lockers, where a prominent sign lists all the rules for visiting inmates. The first step is to sign in with proper identification and provide the inmate’s first and last name. My heart sinks as the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.
Tank. I don’t even know his name. Not his first name, not his last name—nothing. I only know him as Tank. How could I let this happen? I’m not the type of woman who engages in encounters with nameless, faceless men. Instantly, Tank’s face flashes before my eyes, his charming smile and rugged masculinity making my stomach tighten.
“Shit,” I mutter and jot down Tank in the name box. It has a snowball’s chance in hell of working, but I hold my breath and wait to be called.
“Sophie Harmon.”
I rise from my seat, approach the woman behind the thick glass, and smile hesitantly. “I’m Sophie Harmon.”
Her expression remains disinterested as she taps the sign-in sheet. “You need to provide the inmate’s first and last name. No aliases.”
My voice trembles with hope as I ask, “Is there any way you can look it up for me?”
“Nope. Get the name and come back between four and six o’clock,” she replies, her tone still indifferent. Then she calls the next name on the list.
I sigh, totally disheartened. I retrieve my purse from the locker and walk out of the crowded visitor’s area with tears swimming in my eyes. I feel horrible.
How could I have been so foolish? I’ve spent months envisioning a future with a man, sharing dreams and desires, and yet I neglect to ask the most basic question—his name.
Was it an oversight on my part, or did he deliberately keep it from me? Why didn’t I ask sooner?
Realizing that I’ve been wrong again about a man sends tears streaming down my cheeks. I slow my pace when my vision blurs, but my emotional breakdown escalates into the ugliest cry the world has ever seen. I don’t know how, but I manage to make my way home without driving into a wall.
Is Josie right? Should I stay away from Tank altogether? The question falls with a thud in my belly because no matter how shitty I feel right now, I know being with Tank isn’t a mistake. Whatever else is true about us and about why he was arrested, the time I had with him was right. It was damn near perfect.
I know that.
But when I lock the door behind me, I’m exhausted and emotional. My eyes sting from crying, and my heart aches.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure everything out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tank
Most guys probably think jail is predictable. Same shit, different day. But when you’ve lived the kind of wild, unhinged life I have—bouncing around as a kid with a drunk, abusive dad, getting into trouble on the streets, then escaping to the Navy the first chance I got, pushing myself to the brink as a SEAL—the concept of predictability doesn’t even exist.
So, sitting here rotting away in County Lockup, staring at the same four cinderblock walls, you’d think I’d relish the monotony. But it’s torture. Every endless minute I’m stuck in this damn cell is another minute I can’t be with Sophie. I can’t run my fingers through her hair or feel her smooth skin under my hands.