He backs away, that plastic smile returning. "Enjoy the fair. The Ferris wheel's running all night." His eyes linger on Lilly. "Our spot will be waiting."
With that parting shot, he turns and disappears into the crowd.
"Jesus," Lilly breathes once he's gone, her shoulders sagging. "That was—"
"That was him on his best behavior," I finish for her. "Because Tank was here."
Tank's eyes are still tracking Dylan through the crowd. "He's circling back," he observes. "Watching from the ring toss booth."
I'm impressed by his awareness. Most people wouldn't have noticed.
"He'll keep his distance for now," I say. "He doesn't like confrontation where he might not win."
Tank turns to me, his dark eyes intense. "Tell me everything. Not the sanitized version. Everything."
For a moment, I'm caught off guard by the directness of his gaze. Tank is nothing like I expected. From Lilly's stories, I'd pieced together an image of a rough biker with more muscle than sense. The man before me is certainly dangerous, but there's an intelligence in his eyes that surprises me—a calculating awareness that misses nothing.
"Maybe we should get something to eat?" Lilly suggests, looking between us. "I'm starving, and we can fill you in while we eat."
It's her way of trying to normalize the situation, to reclaim some of the fair experience that Dylan just tainted. I know this because it's what we've been doing for months, finding moments of normalcy in between the chaos he creates.
"Food sounds good," I agree. "The BBQ stand by the auction barn is decent."
Tank nods, but his eyes sweep the crowd one more time. "Lead the way. But stay close."
As we walk through the fairgrounds, I can't help but notice how people react to Tank. Some stare openly, others avert their eyes. A few men puff up as if preparing for confrontation, then think better of it. It's like watching wildlife respond to an apex predator.
"Your town isn't used to visitors like me," Tank observes quietly, close enough that only I can hear.
"Sweetheart County likes to think it's all sunshine and apple pie," I reply. "But trust me, there's plenty of darkness here. It just wears polo shirts and has family names on buildings."
His mouth quirks slightly. Not quite a smile, but close enough that I feel oddly accomplished for causing it.
At the BBQ stand, Tank insists on paying despite Lilly's protests. We find a picnic table somewhat removed from the main crowd, giving us privacy to talk. I watch as Tank positions himself with his back to the solid wall of the auction barn, eyes still scanning periodically.
"Always aware of exits and sight lines," I observe as I sit across from him. "Military?"
He looks mildly surprised at my question. "Four years. Marines. How'd you know?"
"My dad was Army," I explain. "Same habits."
Lilly returns with extra napkins and sits beside me.
Tank's gaze lingers on me a moment longer before he turns to his food. "So. Dylan Thomas. Start from the beginning."
As we eat, Lilly recounts the relationship, with me filling in details she glosses over. How Dylan seemed perfect at first. Charming, attentive, generous. How things changed gradually. First with texts checking her whereabouts, then "surprise" visits at work, then accusations about male friends.
"Classic isolation tactics," I add. "He even convinced her to switch yoga studios because her instructor was male."
Tank listens intently, his expression darkening with each new detail. When Lilly mentions finding Dylan sitting in her apartment when she got home from work—despite having never given him a key—his knuckles whiten around his plastic fork.
"The police said there was no sign of forced entry," Lilly explains. "They suggested I might have left the door unlocked."
"Or he made a copy of your key earlier in the relationship," Tank counters.
"That's what I said," I agree, meeting his eyes.
The connection is brief but potent. Two people seeing the same threat clearly.
