Page 12 of Can You Take It?

“No fucking way. I am not staying with you.”

Richard clears his throat, getting all professional on me. “Look, you need witness protection, and we’re working on it. But until then, you’re going to need an officer with you at all times to ensure your safety.”

I’m adamant, pissed off, and my patience is wearing thin. “I don’t need anyone babysitting me. I can take care of myself.”

“You’ve just had a close call with the serial killer, and your roommate is dead. I get that it’s probably not sinking in because of the adrenaline, but you need someone to look after you.”

“What are you, my therapist? Move—”

“Miss Montclair, if you want to stay alive, you’re going to have to trust me on this.”

I can’t believe the audacity of Mr. FBI. He says I need to trust him, and I just laugh, a cold, cynical laugh.

“No, I have a death wish, remember? So let me the fuck out of here,” I snap at him.

I start brushing past his imposing figure, but he’s quicker than I gave him credit for. Mr. FBI grabs my arm, and yanks me back, pulling me so close that I’m almost a shy inch away from bumping into his chest. The anger, the defiance, it’s all there, but it’s nothing compared to the fear that shoots through me.

He leans in, and his voice is like a low growl in my ear. “You’re going to stay with me, whether you like it or not.”

I’m shaking, but I push back. “I’m not your pet.”

“If you don’t obey, I’ll press charges on you for not complying with a murder investigation, and you’ll find yourself locked up in no time.”

I’m struggling, twisting desperately to break free from his hold, but it’s no use. He’s got me pinned down, and there’s no escape. I’m pissed, furious even, but I know he’s got the upper hand. I bite out a begrudging “Fine,” and he finally lets me go.

With a sly, almost victorious smile, Mr. FBI says, “Good. We’ve already got your clothes in my car. I just need to take care of a few things, and then we’ll be out of here.”

I nod, without looking at him. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it’s the only way out. This whole situation is sick and twisted, but maybe, just maybe, I can use Mr. FBI to get out of it alive.

After the tense standoff, I’m left waiting for a while, and then Richard finally comes for me. He asks me to walk, and I don’t argue. He follows behind me as we make our way out of the building.

Once we’re outside, he heads to his car, and I take the passenger seat, gazing out of the window. The day’s been long and draining, and I can’t remember the last time I had a decent meal. The smell of food wafting in from the Chinese takeout place we passed by makes my stomach grumble, but I keep my mouth shut. No need to give Mr. FBI the satisfaction of knowing I’m hungry.

But then he surprises me. He breaks the silence, asking casually, “You want to grab some takeout?”

I don’t answer, and I don’t have to. He takes the hint by pulling over at the nearby Chinese takeout. He heads inside, leaving me in the car. I watch the world outside, feeling like I’m on the fringes of some morbid, corrupted reality.

When he returns, he’s carrying bags filled with the delicious aroma of food. My stomach rumbles louder this time.

He passes me a box of food, and I don’t waste a second. I dive in, shoveling the food into my mouth as if it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s heaven in a takeout box, and I don’t care if I’m making a mess. I’m too hungry to be polite.

Just when I think this meal is the highlight of my day, Richard’s phone rings, and he picks it up using the Bluetooth system in his car. He’s talking about some personal matter, and I end up eavesdropping. It’s not my fault if he’s talking loud enough for me to hear.

At some point, I hear him address someone as “Ashley.” The conversation is intimate, too intimate for my liking. He’s saying something about not being able to have sex tonight because he’s “occupied.”

Ashley? Who the hell is Ashley? And what does he mean by “occupied”?

Richard finishes his conversation and hangs up. He turns his attention back to me with a nonchalant look on his face, as if he’s done nothing out of the ordinary.

“Ashley was going to be a one-night stand.”

Did I just ask that out loud? It’s one of those moments when you realize your thoughts slipped out of your mouth, and I’m cursing myself silently.

“Well, how gentlemanly of you to call your girlfriend a ‘little fuck.’”

Richard starts driving, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “She’s not my girlfriend, and I don’t have one.”

“Why not? Too busy solving crimes?”

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