Page 25 of Can You Take It?

One of the women in the group pats my shoulder. “Kid, we’ve all been there. You’ll make it through this.”

I nod, and as soon as I have a few bites in me, I thank them again and slip away into the night. I don’t know where I’m going, and I have no plan, but I can’t stay. I can’t let him find me.

The memory of that night still haunts me, a reminder of how far I’ve come and how much I’ve endured. But I’ve never given up. I eat my sandwich in the coffee shop and know that I’ve faced worse and survived.

The coffee shop’s closing up, and the waiter, this polite dude with a hipster beard, gives me the heads-up.

“Hey, miss, hate to rush you, but we’re shutting down.”

I nod, understanding the drill, and head out into the chilly night. I slip into the stolen car and rev the engine.

I need a drink, something stronger than this black coffee crap. My hands grip the wheel as I navigate the city streets, searching for that dimly lit salvation called a bar.

I spot a neon sign in the distance, advertising a dive bar. Perfect. I pull up, slam the door shut and walk in.

The bar’s dimly lit, and the air is thick with a mix of cheap cologne, cigarette smoke, and the hum of conversations. A jukebox in the corner blares out some classic rock tunes, competing with the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of voices.

The bartender, a dude with tattoos crawling up his arms, gives me a nod. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”

I slide onto a stool. “Shot of whiskey, the good stuff.”

He pours a generous shot, and I throw it back, the burn trailing down my throat like a fiery escape route. The warmth spreads through me, and for a moment, everything’s a little less fucked up.

I signal for another, and the bartender obliges. The alcohol starts to weave its magic, and I let my eyes wander around the joint, taking in the eclectic mix of patrons.

There’s a couple in the corner booth, locked in a heated argument. I can’t hear their words over the music. At the end of the bar, a dude nurses a beer, staring into the void like he’s searching for answers. And then there’s a group of rowdy friends, probably a bit too drunk for a Tuesday night.

The bartender slides another shot my way, and I down it in one gulp. The storm of thoughts in my mind starts to blur at the edges, replaced by a comforting numbness.

As the night wears on, the bar transforms. It’s no longer just a place to drown sorrows; it’s a sanctuary for lost souls seeking temporary refuge from their fucked-up realities. The jukebox keeps playing, the laughter and clinking of glasses becoming a twisted lullaby.

I’m nursing my whiskey, actually no I’m practically drowning in it, when a guy slides into the seat next to me. He’s got this confident smirk, like he’s got the world figured out or maybe justdoesn’t give a fuck. He flashes me a grin that’s half charming, half trouble.

“Hey there, stranger. You look like you could use some company,” he says, leaning in with a glint in his eyes that suggests he’s up to no good.

I raise an eyebrow, playing along. “Company, huh? Depends on the kind of trouble you’re bringing.”

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound. “The best kind, sweetheart. The kind that makes you forget about everything else.”

I smirk back, sipping my whiskey like it’s the elixir of life. “I’m all for forgetting.”

Next thing I know is that we’re on the dance floor. Our bodies are moving to the rhythm of the music. The beat’s pumping, and the bass is reverberating through the floor. He’s got moves, and I’m not too shabby myself.

The guy leans in, bringing his lips close to my ear. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

I chuckle, it’s crazy how the alcohol and the music makes everything a little hazy. “Izel. And yours?”

“Call me Trouble. Everyone else does.”

I laugh softly. “Seems fitting.”

We keep dancing, and for a moment, everything around me fades away. It’s just the music, the lights, and the intoxicating thrill of being alive.

The night’s winding down and I’m starting to feel the weight of reality pressing in. Trouble’s with me but my mind’s not with him. It’s betraying me, it keeps circling back to Mr. FBI, of all people. Why the hell is he occupying my head more than I care to admit?

Trouble leans in for another round of sweet talk, his lips dangerously close. But instead of shutting him down like I should, I do the opposite. I kiss him, hard, as if to drown out the nagging thoughts with the taste of something else.

His surprise is evident, but he doesn’t complain. It’s not romantic; it’s a distraction, a desperate attempt to erase the mental image of a guy with a case board and a perpetual furrowed brow.

---