Page 114 of Can You Take It?

She slashes again, this time across his chest. He goes down, clutching the wound, but she doesn’t stop. She straddles him, driving the knife into his gut. Over and over. Each thrust is accompanied by a grunt of effort. It’s brutal. Savage. And I’m helpless to do anything about it.

“Fuck, Izel, stop!” I shout, but I can barely keep my eyes open.

Finally, she stops, and stands up, looking down at the lifeless body beneath her. Then she turns to me.

“Richard, are you okay?”

I try to answer, but everything goes dark. The pain in my head sharpens, and I black out.

Chapter 30

IZEL

I sit across from Richard, smoking a cigarette, watching his unconscious form. Getting him here to the motel was a nightmare, especially with his huge muscular frame. But a few bills exchanged in the right hands made it possible. His head wound still looks nasty, even after I tried to clean it up. I hope he wakes up soon.

I knew the FBI was tailing me after Richard left me in my house earlier. It was difficult to collect myself, but I had to. I’m still not sure why Richard gave me a head start when he wanted to arrest me anyway. Maybe he saw something in me, something that made him hesitate. Or maybe he just wanted to fuck with my head.

He stirs in his sleep, and I feel a pang of something I don’t want to acknowledge. Hurt, anger, disgust—I should be feeling all that and more. He used my emotions against me, played me like a fiddle. But right now, all I feel is worry. Genuine, gut-wrenching worry.

I take another drag, tapping the ash into a cheap plastic tray. The room’s quiet, except for the occasional creak of the old building settling. It’s giving me too much time to think. I hate thinking.

Richard’s eyes open with a groan as he tries to push himself upright. “Easy there, big guy,” I say. “You’ve been through the wringer.”

He blinks, forcing his focus on me. “Izel?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Just stay still for a bit.”

He lifts his hand to touch his head but stops short when he feels the shackles. He looks at me, and his confusion starts turning to anger.

“What is this?”

I laugh internally. The least he could do is show some gratitude after I saved his ass. “Thank you, Izel. I’m glad I’m not dead,” I say, evading his question.

Despite himself, Richard chuckles, and it makes my heart flutter, even though I hate to admit it. “Yeah, I’d much rather want him dead than me,” he says, shaking his head. “Thanks.”

I shrug, not acknowledging it.

“Why am I tied up?”

“Some people tend to get grumpy when they wake up,” I reply.

“You really think these would hold me?”

He sighs, tugging at the restraints, and then easily slips one hand free, then the other.

“Worth a shot.”

I knew those shackles wouldn’t hold him; the guy’s FBI, for fuck’s sake, trained to get out of worse scrapes than zip-tie like handcuffs in a dingy motel room.

I click the safety off my gun, a soft, almost silent reminder that I’m not totally defenseless here. The slight noise is enough. His eyes flick to the gun in my hand, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Where’s all my stuff?”

“Safe with me,” I nod towards the table where his wallet, badge, and gun lay just out of his reach. Right then, his phone starts ringing, vibrating against the tabletop, lighting up the room with the sharp glow of an incoming call.

He squints at me. “You know I can have you in for life behind bars.”

Typical cop intimidation crap.

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