We’d been together a couple of months—okay, seven weeks and four days—when Tank turned to me, cupped my face in his hands, leaned in to kiss me before saying, “I love you, William Prout.”
Up until that point I’d prided myself on not being a girl where Tank was concerned. I hadn’t ever spoken aloud the classic line, “Why me when you can have anyone?” even though I’d thought it many times. I’d puffed up with pride when Tank first introduced me to the band as his boyfriend. I’d stayed strong when we’d been at my apartment when the doorbell rang and it was Jerry. Tank had dealt with the situation calmly, but I knew there was power and a steely determination just under the surface of his control. He’d told a bewildered Jerry that he didn’t want Jerry anywhere near his boyfriend. Jerry had open
