Page 107 of His To Erase

“I’m gonna go freshen up,” I say, already standing.

He doesn’t stop me, he just smiles. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

I flash him a grin, rolling my eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I weave through the club, and every step makes me all too aware of the ache still pulsing in my shoulder. The heels don’t help, but I welcome the sting. It grounds me. It gives me something to focus on that isn’t the slow, hot crawl of panic threading through my bloodstream.

The hallway to the restrooms is dim, lined with mirrors and backlit with warm gold that makes everything feel surreal. Pushing the bathroom door open, I lock it behind me, and press both palms to the edge of the marble sink.

My reflection looks like a stranger with painted lips, a perfect dress and heels to match.

But her eyes look too wide.

What am I doing?Frank’s a good friend but I’m not sure I want it to go any further than that. I know I’ve kept him at a distance this whole time, but he’s never really been this insistent either. Maybe he’s run out of patience.

My phone buzzes in my clutch, scaring the shit out of me.

Unknown Number: You wear fear well, baby girl. Just remember…some of us notice the things you try to hide.

My stomach flips so fast I nearly drop the damn thing. I read the message once. Then again. My thumb hovers over the screen like I’m about to toss it across the sink.

Baby girl?I swear I’m going to stab the next person to call me that.

I grip the edge of the marble and force myself to breathe. In. Out. In again. But my pulse is already spiking, sweat starts beading at the base of my spine. Someone’s watching me.

I drag my hand down my face. It’s too much. I’m so goddamn tired of not knowing what’s real—of questioning every word, every glance, every “coincidence” that suddenly feels more like a trap. What if Frank’s a decent man, and I’m just ruining it because I’m paranoid.

I take another breath, forcing my hands to stop shaking, and stare down at my phone.

Fuck this.

I type without thinking.

Me: Then watch this, asshole.

I reapply my lipstick with the kind of precision I reserve for war paint, wiping the sweat from my collarbone, and square my shoulders.

I toss my phone back in my clutch and unlock the door, walking back toward the table like I own the whole damn floor. Because if someone wants to play this game with me…they should’ve picked a girl who didn’t survive hell already.

I walk back into the club like I didn’t just spend five full minutes in a bathroom having a mild existential crisis and talking myself out of throwing my phone into the toilet. The music hits me first—deep, pulsing bass vibrates beneath my heels like a second heartbeat.

I scan the room without trying to look like I’m scanning the room.Just a girl in a dress trying not to have a panic attack. Nothing to see here.

There’s no new faces at our booth, no sketchy men hiding behind wine lists or plotting in corners. But the hair on the back of my neck won’t settle. That hum beneath the skin—the one that says I’m being watched—it’s still there.

My gaze sweeps again, slower this time. There’s a man two booths down, half-sunk in shadow. Alone. He’s not looking at me—technically. But the angle of his head, the way his glass is tilted just slightly in my direction… it’s too casual to be casual.

A warning pings in my chest.

My heels click on the floor as I walk back with my chin up, even though my heart is loud in my throat. Frank’s sprawled in the booth like he hasn’t moved an inch, fingers tapping the side of his glass in that rhythmic, cocky way. But when I slide back into the booth, his eyes flick over me.

“You okay?” he asks.

I smile sweetly. “Peachy. Miss me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking.

I lean forward, resting my elbows lightly on the table, and tilt my head.