Tank (Blue-Collar Billionaires #1) (2 page)

Actually I do know. We probably would have lost the house. After all the creditors were tallied and the life insurance was paid, there was nothing left. We were lucky to be able to stay in the house we grew up in at all.
 

I don’t agree with her assumption that he won’t care who’s up front but I don’t have time to argue. The finance office at the local college only accepts appointments at certain times. A year ago, I was in school studying biology. I was planning to go to veterinary school after I finished my undergraduate degree. After our parents were killed, I was too unfocused to continue. Tears still threaten when I think about that day. I blow out a breath and push the ugly memories away.

I had to drop out but I’m finally ready to go back. I’ve been waiting for weeks to find out whether I’ve been approved for financial aid for the next school year. I can’t miss this meeting.

“Great. Thanks. I’ll come straight there when I’m done. I wanted to go check on Mr. Marshall but it can wait.”
 

She makes a face. “Better you than me. I don’t have the patience to sit around talking about nothing. That’s all old people want to do. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Maybe she’s hoping to be wife number five.” Jon smirks when he sees my confused look. “Hell, you’re not much younger than the last one.”
 

I have to physically hold myself back from rolling my eyes. He is so sleazy. It’s a mystery to me how that sweet old man deals with Jon’s slick persona. Then again, he must be used to dealing with arrogant spoiled men.
 

My face heats thinking about Tank Marshall. He is exactly the kind of guy that I’ve always avoided. Tall and muscled with the smug aloofness of the naturally beautiful. He’s got that same “I’m the center of the universe” arrogance going on that Jon does. It’s a shame that one of the first men I feel raw physical chemistry with is exactly the kind of guy I need to stay far away from. I’ve seen violence, real violence, before so there is nothing about a
bad boy
that I find appealing.

Ivy claps her hands. “It’s gross but that would be awesome. Marry the billionaire Em and all our problems are over.”

“It’s not like that between us. He’s a nice old man. We’re friends.” Not that Ivy would understand the idea of being friends with a man. Sometimes I think my sister only sees two things when she looks at a guy: his dick and his wallet. Friendship is a foreign concept.

She scoffs. “Only you would consider an old geezer your BFF.”
 

I tuck my shirt into my skirt and hustle into the kitchen. I need coffee and something to eat. I have two pieces of bread in the toaster and the coffee percolating when Jon appears in the doorway to the kitchen. I suppress a groan. I see him at work and now he’s invading my home.
 

It feels like I can’t escape him sometimes.
 

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed money for school, Emma? I’m sure we can work something out.” His eyes roam over my bare legs. It disgusts me that he does this, sometimes right in front of Ivy.
 

The thing is, he’s not even attracted to me.
 

My sister is
gorgeous
. She’s got dark wavy hair and big dramatic brown eyes. I have wispy blond hair and plain gray eyes.
 
She’s all smoldering screen siren while I look like the plain country mouse next to her. He’s not hitting on me because he’s overcome with lust. He’s doing it because he’s a pig. I’ve tried to tell Ivy but she doesn’t want to hear it. She thinks that he’s just flirtatious and doesn’t mean anything by it. Love is blind and all that, I guess.

“I’ve got some loans lined up. I’ll be fine.”

He leans against the counter and I have to stop so I don’t bump into him. He’s wearing pajama bottoms but no shirt. If I want my coffee, he’s going to make me press up against him to get it.
 

Not happening.
 

“Forget it. I’ll get coffee on the way.” I grab my bag and run out of the house. Ivy calls out to me as the door closes but I don’t turn around. There’s only so much you can do when someone doesn’t want to see the truth.

I smooth my black skirt over my knees and try not to fidget. Across the desk, Mr. Christopher Higgans holds my academic future in his hands. He’s been working with me for the past few months to make sure that I can start school again in the fall with a full schedule.
 
I’ve been applying for every grant that I can for the following school year so that I can finish my bachelor’s degree. Loans are always available but I don’t want to graduate with a huge cloud of debt hanging over me. I’m hoping that I’m eligible for some scholarships or something.
 

“Miss Shaw, I’ve been over your application. There are quite a few loans that we can set up for you. Also you qualify for the Pell Grant.”

I lean forward to review the documents he’s pushed across the desk toward me. The numbers are far lower than what I was hoping for.
 

“So, this is all I can get?”

“This is a great package. The Pell Grant doesn’t have to be repaid.”

“But the rest of it does? That’s a lot of debt.”

I’ll only be able to take a full semester of classes if I stop working at the law office. My parents left money for me to use for college but I’ve worked so hard not to touch it. But if I go to school full-time, even with the loans, I’ll need to use some of that money to live on. I had considered taking some weekend classes but if I can only do one or two classes a semester, it’ll take me forever to finish. I really hate the idea of touching my emergency fund. Once it’s gone, I’ll have nothing to fall back on.

“Well, yes. But student loans are deferred. You don’t have to repay them until you’re finished with school. You should be able to start next year with a full semester of classes. And don’t forget that you applied for a few grants that will be awarded soon. The committees will notify you directly if you are selected.” He’s smiling broadly so I can’t do anything except smile back and shake his hand before I leave.
 

The campus of Southern Virginia Community College is a nice place for a walk on a crisp spring day. My sweater doesn’t provide much protection from the biting wind but the sun is warm on my face and the breeze is fresh. My parents were so proud that Ivy and I both went to college. My mom finished her degree but my father was a metalworker at the shipyard.
 

He’d been obsessed with the idea of his daughters getting a college education and I don’t think he took a deep breath until the day I moved into the dorms here. Due to Ivy’s wild behavior in high school, I think both my parents considered it a minor miracle that neither of their daughters ended up addicted to anything or pregnant before graduation.
 

Would he have done things differently if he’d known what was coming for him, I wonder? The thought of
that day
hits me in the chest and I halt right in the middle of the pavilion. Instantly I’m back there, in my room, my mom pushing me into the closet and telling me to call for help.
 

I suck in several deep breaths, feeling lost in the middle of the students who pass me talking excitedly about classes, friends and what they did over the weekend. They pass me by and have no idea that I’m stuck in my personal hell. With the sounds of gunshots ringing in my ears and my mother’s screams outside the door.
 

My bag falls off my shoulder and I let it drop to the ground. I learned how to control the panic attacks in therapy. I focus on the rhythm of my breath, the beat of my heart and the ground below me. I breathe in and hold it for a count of three, then let it out. The artificial breathing pattern slows the rate of my heart and the sense of panic recedes a little. Finally I look around, suddenly aware that I’m standing in the middle of the courtyard gasping for breath.
 

 
I pick up my backpack and force myself to start walking. I’m just starting to get my life back on track so I can’t allow myself to go back there. Maybe I’m being foolish to think that I’m ready to come back but it’s a fallacy that I need to get me through each day. Next year, I’ll be in class all day and doing homework all night. I’ll need to be focused.
 

That day
has already stolen everything from me. If let it, it’ll steal any hope I have for the future. I can’t allow that to happen. I don’t want to look back on my life and think of all the things I didn’t do and never had. That’s why I’m so determined to go back and finish my degree. One and a half semesters and I’ll be done with my undergraduate degree. Then I can apply to veterinary school. Now all I need to do is figure out where to get the money for all this schooling.
 

I tilt my face up into the wind and make a promise.
Almost there, Dad.
I’ll get back here and finish what I started.
 

No matter what I have to do.
 

T
ANK

She’s not here.
 

I’m in my lawyer's office for the third time this month, squashed into a hard wooden chair that's too small for my six foot five inch frame. It still feels weird to say that,
my lawyer
, like I'm some kind of big shot now or something. But it's true. I have a lawyer and an accountant.

I also have a huge stack of money sitting in a trust with my name on it.
 

Shifting as much as I can in the narrow seat, I lean back and avert my gaze from the brunette currently sitting behind the secretary’s desk. She’s beautiful but she’s not
her
. She looks like she’ll faint if our eyes meet one more time, although to be fair I have been glaring at her for the past ten minutes. There’s not much else in the room to look at.

There's an older woman with a cane and a small white dog in her purse that yaps every time someone enters or leaves the room. A middle-aged man in the corner mumbles under his breath while working on a crossword puzzle. A guy in a suit sits a few feet away typing into a laptop.

Waiting rooms are not my favorite places. No matter how hard they try to be comfortable, they never get it quite right. Inevitably they are either too cold or too warm. The piped in music is too loud or it's eerily silent. Everyone is staring at everyone else and pretending not to. Since I'm usually the biggest one in the room, you guessed it. Most of the attention is directed at me.
 

There’s only one reason I’ve been voluntarily coming here for the past few weeks to sit in uncomfortable chairs all while paying for the privilege.
 

To see
her.
The one person that makes all the noise in my head subside.

And now she’s not even here.
 

The outer office door bursts open and a gust of cold air sweeps through the room, stirring the little dog into a yapping frenzy.
 

“I’m sorry. Sorry.” A young woman rushes past, a flurry of blond hair and apologies, and places her bag on the floor behind the secretary’s desk. I sit up straight, watching. The brunette smiles at her with genuine affection. They whisper back and forth before the other woman gets up and walks down the hallway leading to the offices.
 

The blonde glances over at me before tucking a few of the stray hairs around her face behind her ears. It takes her a few minutes to get settled. She moves a few things around on the desk and then pulls a bottle of water from her oversized bag. She’s doing an admirable job of appearing busy and engrossed in whatever’s on her computer screen but a few minutes later, she looks at me again.
   

Usually this kind of thing annoys the hell out of me, but for some reason, with her, I don't mind.
 
Maybe it’s the madcap cloud of blond hair or the big, wounded gray eyes. I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about this girl.
 
Something that keeps me coming back week after week. I think it’s because she never smiles.
 

“Don’t worry I’m still here.”

She lets out a surprisingly crude snort. “Like I could miss you. And I wasn’t looking for you.”
 

“Okay, okay.” I lean back and make a show of spreading my arms over the backs of the chairs next to me. I’m a big dude and I have a wingspan like a giant. Her eyes follow the movement but when she sees me watching, she turns up her nose a little and goes back to her typing.
 

I chuckle a little. She doesn’t like me much and for some reason, it amuses me. I stare at her openly because I know when she notices she’ll do that little huffing sound again. She's a pretty little thing. Elegant. The kind of girl who clutches her pearls when I get too close. The nameplate on her desk reads
Emma Lynn Shaw
. Even her name is prissy as hell.
 

Despite that, there’s something about her that I find compelling.

The phone on her desk rings and she answers, her voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. She nods and then places the phone carefully back on the hook.
 

"Tanner Marshall?" She calls out, looking around at the other people in the waiting room.
 

The little dog gives an irritated yip. No one else even looks up. Finally her gaze lands on me. I stand and walk over to her, stopping right in front of her desk. It amuses me that she pretends not to know my name. I've been here every Monday for the last five weeks. Surely she knows who I am by now. She also knows that I hate to be called by my legal name. I've told her to call me Tank every time. I’ve also asked her to dinner every time.
 

Then again, she looks like the kind of girl who wouldn't remember a guy like me.
 

"Is he ready for me?"

"Yes. Just go straight through."