Page 41 of Can You Take It?

“No, I haven’t.”

Fishing with my father is not a memory I can recall, and even if it were, it’s not a story I’d be eager to share. The more I think about it, the more I realize how much of my life has been about survival, about escaping the shadows that have haunted me.

I lean back against a tree. “So, why did you end up in law enforcement?”

Richard lets out a small chuckle, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but my story’s not a sob story. I don’t have a troubled past or some grand calling to justice. It’s actually pretty simple. I was just an average student in academics, nothing to write home about. But when it came to athletics, I was pretty damn good.”

I raise an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk forming on my lips. “So, you’re saying you become a cop because you can outrun the bad guys?”

Richard laughs, a hearty, genuine laugh that makes my heart flutter. “You could put it that way, I guess. I knew I wanted to do something good, make a difference in the world. And when I thought about it, it seemed like a solid choice.”

His honesty takes me by surprise, and the simplicity of his answer actually makes me smile. It’s a rare occurrence, and I can’t remember the last time I genuinely felt a hint of happiness.

Richard’s laughter fades, but the warmth in his eyes lingers. His hand reaches out, and before I can react, his fingers brush against my arm. I start to flinch—it’s an automatic response—but he surprises me. Instead of pulling away, he hooks his finger under the fallen strap of my camisole and gently slides it back into place.

I hold my breath, expecting him to step back, to give me space. Instead, his knuckles trail down the skin of my shoulder,gliding over the intricate tattoo inked there. He follows the lines, tracing the scars that mar the design underneath. I brace myself for the usual disgust that comes with unwanted touch. But it never comes.

It’s the opposite. His touch feels colder, like it’s dousing a flame I hadn’t realized was burning me alive.

His fingers ghost over one of the deeper scars. “Abusive relationship?”

I slowly open my eyes to meet his gaze, searching for any trace of pity. Instead, I find a quiet understanding.

“Abuse doesn’t wear fangs; it knows how to soothe before it stings. It gets under your skin, twists itself around your bones until it becomes the only thing that feels familiar.”

“Why a candle?” he asks, his thumb brushing against the fading lines near the base of my tattoo.

For a moment, I consider dodging the question. It’s what I do best—give half-truths, deflect. But I’m too drained to lie right now. And maybe, for once, I don’t want to.

“It was my way of taking control,” I admit. “I thought maybe if I engraved the very thing that hurt me, it would hurt less. Like if I burned the pain into my skin, it wouldn’t feel like it owned me anymore.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” I whisper, the word barely escaping my lips before I turn on my heel and start to walk away.

He’s right behind me, catching up in just two strides. His fingers wrap gently around my wrist. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pry into things I’m not ready to share.

It’s an odd relief, and before I can second-guess myself, I mutter, “Thanks,” and continue walking alongside.

We keep walking, and the neighborhood streets are far from friendly. The people here have a way of reminding you thatyou’re not exactly welcome. A guy nearby can’t resist making a crude comment as we pass.

“Hey, little doll, why don’t you come over and give us a taste of what you’re selling?” He says leering at me.

I swear, my skin crawls at his sleazy words, but before I can even muster a response, Richard goes full-on Hulk mode.

In a flash, he lunges at the offender. His fists start moving with the speed and fury of a tornado. It’s like a gritty action movie scene. The dude’s nose spurts crimson, teeth shatter, and he crumples to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Blood’s everywhere; it’s like a messy Jackson Pollock painting.

The stranger’s face goes from arrogance to panic in point two seconds, and he’s suddenly singing a different tune, stumbling over apologies like he’s auditioning for a part in a sorry musical.

With a final punch, Richard silences the man, leaning in close with a menacing glare. “Cross paths with her again, and you won’t be so lucky.”

Then, without another word, he turns and strides in my direction. He looks at me with genuine concern in his eyes and asks, “Are you okay?”

I shake my head, because honestly, I’m far from okay. No one’s ever stood up for me like that, let alone looked at me with concern, and it’s hitting me right where it feels.

I start walking in the direction of Richard’s home. Tears are doing that whole threatening-to-spill-over thing, but I’m not about to let him see that. He’s fast, but so am I, and I’m kind of pissed at him for making me feel at all.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Richard asks but I’m not in the mood for a chit-chat. I don’t say a damn word, just keep on walking. Screw it, my emotions are all over the place, and I’m not sure what to do with them, especially when Richard’s turned out to be an unexpected knight in shining armor.

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