Page 13 of His To Erase

"Make sure it’s depressing," I mumble. "No Dancing Queen bullshit."

She snorts. "Bold of you to assume I’ll honor your last wishes."

My body’s not just tired—it’s empty. I feel like I’ve been holding on too tight to something for too long, and now I’m just… frayed.

Sloane leans on the desk, narrowing her eyes. "Seriously, girl. Are you okay?"

I force a nod, already reaching to shut down the computer. "Didn’t sleep much."

"Well, you better find time to rest. You’re gonna burn out, Ani. And trust me, you’re way less fun when you're dead on your feet."

I offer her a ghost of a smile, one that probably doesn’t reach my eyes.

"Are you working tonight?" she asks.

"Yeah."

She groans. "Booze and bullshit. You really know how to treat yourself."

"Living the dream."

"You want to go out after. Just a few drinks. You need a break."

I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The offer is harmless, normal even. It’s the kind of thing I should want. But the thought of sitting at a table surrounded by laughter and small talk makes my chest ache in a way I don’t understand. I’m not built for normal.

"Rain check?" I say quietly.

She just nods, too used to it to be offended.

"Your loss. Catch you later, spooky girl." She disappears behind the stacks, humming something upbeat just to spite me.

I shut everything down, grab my bag, and head out.

It’s colder than I expected. That kind of lingering cold that settles in your bones and makes you feel like the night’s already claimed you. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and tug my hoodie closer, slipping my headphones on as I start walking toward the bar.

The streets are quiet despite it being a Saturday night. Just the distant hum of traffic and the soft click of my boots on the pavement. I keep my head down, and let the music drown out the rest. Or at least I try to.

Halfway there, I get that weird feeling that something’s off. That tight, crawling sensation at the base of my neck, like someone’s watching me.

I don’t stop walking, but my body goes rigid. Every hair on my arms lifts, my pulse climbing a little too fast. I glance over my shoulder casually—but there’s nothing there. Just empty sidewalk and flickering street lamps.

Still, I pause the music. Just in case. But I still don’t see anyone.

I pick up the pace telling myself it’s just nerves and exhaustion. That my head’s playing games after the dream, after the power outage, and that knock on the window that I still haven’t explained away.

Still—my fingers curl tighter around the pepper spray in my pocket until I reach the bar.

The second I step inside, the noise hits like a wave. It’s loud and overwhelming, and smells like cheap cologne, spilled beer, and regret.

My kind of crowd.

Sarah’s already behind the bar when I walk in, hair piled on her head in a way that somehow makes her look both adorable and unbothered. She tosses a bar rag at me before I’ve even clocked in.

“You look like hell,” she says, grinning.

“You smell like gin and disappointment.” I grin back.

“Aw, babe. You missed me.”

“Only because you owe me twenty bucks from last week.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth behind it. This is our thing—banter first, breakdowns later.

I slide behind the bar, falling into a rhythm. Wiping counters, pouring drinks, and flashing just enough of a smile to keep the grabby ones from escalating.

My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. It’s probably Sloane again—trying to rope me into drinks, karaoke, or some other extrovert-coded nonsense I’m definitely not emotionally equipped for.

Sarah catches the movement out of the corner of her eye and arches a brow like she’s about to start shit.

“Ooooh. Who are you texting?” she teases, leaning in with her drink tray like this is a gossip emergency.

“Did you meet someone and not tell me? Rude.”

I snort. “It’s Sloane.”

“Of course it is. You know she’s gonna show up if you keep ghosting her, right?”

“Let her. I’ve got barstools and sarcasm. I’ll survive.”

She grins, that wicked sister energy in full force. “You’re so emotionally stunted, it’s kind of impressive.”

“Thanks. It’s my coping skill of choice.”

She laughs and wanders off to take an order like we didn’t just have a full-blown therapy session in under thirty seconds.

The phone buzzes again.

And again.

Then once more—this time with the kind of urgency that feels personal. Whoever it is, clearly knows I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t exist.

I sigh, wiping my hands on a bar towel before sliding my phone from my apron pocket.

Unknown Number: You look sinful tonight in black.

My stomach drops.

I glance down at my outfit like it might’ve changed in the last ten seconds. I’m wearing a black tank top, jeans, and my usual boots.

Nothing special. Nothing new. Nothing that screams sinful.

Unknown Number: Tell me, love. Did you wear it for me?

My gaze lifts slowly, sweeping the room.

It’s packed—shoulder to shoulder—but the shadows beyond the bar are too thick to make out anyone in particular. Just silhouettes and noise. A blur of bodies that all start to look the same.

I delete the message, and slip my phone back in my pocket, ignoring the spike in my blood pressure.

It’s not the first time some drunk loser tried to get clever. But when it pings again—an hour later—I flinch.

Unknown Number: Keep ignoring me. See what happens.

I tell myself it’s a joke.

Just some regular playing games—someone who caught my name and decided to push. It happens. I’ve seen worse.

I’m behind the bar, rinsing glasses, ignoring the sticky feeling of sweat clinging to the back of my neck when Sarah slides in beside me, snagging a half-full beer glass and wrinkling her nose.

“Why do they always leave a quarter inch of warm foam, that’s disgusting.”

“Because men don’t finish things they start.”

I say it without looking up, and she cackles.

“You good?” she asks after a beat, her voice dipping into something gentler.

I pause, long enough to think, then shrug. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can feel it in the way she lingers for a second too long before grabbing another glass. But she lets it go.

That’s the thing about Sarah. She knows when to push and when to wait until I’m ready to fall apart on my own schedule.

My phone buzzes again, but I don’t check it right away. I just stare at the glass in my hand and wonder which idiot I pissed off this time.

And then I feel it.

The air shifts.

Not dramatically—just enough to send a ripple through the room. A change in the rhythm. Every instinct I’ve got sits up and takes notice.

I don’t even have to look. My body knows before my brain catches up.

Tattooed Man.

He doesn’t come to the bar, he doesn’t even look at me, or say a damn word. He just heads straight for a table in the back.

The darkest corner. His corner.

I grit my teeth and keep drying the same glass I’ve already wiped twice. I shouldn’t care. One library hookup doesn’t make us Facebook official.

It was one time.

One very specific, toe-curling, ladder-climbing time. But still.

If he wants to ghost me after that, that’s fine. Perfect, even. Explains why I haven’t seen him since.

No big deal.

“Uh… Ani?”

Sarah’s voice cuts through my mental murder list as she slides up next to me, pretending to organize straws. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating that tall, tattooed Sex God who just walked in.”

I don’t answer. Mostly because I’m still glaring daggers at his stupid, unfairly beautiful face.

Sarah follows my line of sight. “Ohhhh,” she says slowly, lips curling into a grin. “So that’s your problem.”

“He’s not my anything.”

“Mmhmm. You’re drying that glass like it owes you child support.”

I slam it down a little too hard on the towel.

“It does.”

Before she can press, a blonde saunters into the scene like she’s walking in slow motion. She’s got legs for days, and tits that defy gravity and the limits of spandex. She slides into the seat across from him with the kind of confidence that says she already knows what flavor his dick is.

She smiles, and that’s when the burn hits my chest.

That irrational, blood-boiling kind of anger that makes you want to break something. Or someone. My fingers start to curl around the edge of the counter.

Sarah whistles low. “Damn. You okay, or do I need to start prepping bail money?”

“Fine,” I snap.

Totally fine. Perfectly, irrationally fine.

Sarah narrows her eyes like she knows better.

“Want me to drop a drink on her by accident?”

“Tempting.”

She pats my shoulder. “Say the word. I’m bored and clumsy.”

I force a smile, but the ache in my chest is very real. Shoving out from behind the counter, every step toward his table sends a pulsing heat I refuse to name through me. I’m not mad. I’m not even jealous. I’m just… concerned that he might be wasting valuable oxygen.

The blonde across from him leans in, laughing at something he didn’t even say—because of course she does.

I stop at the edge of the table, arms crossed, not bothering to fake politeness.

“What do you want to drink?”

The girl startles, blinking up at me with wide eyes. “Um, I’ll have a—”

“Didn’t ask you.”

I turn to him, but he doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks like he’s enjoying himself.

The smug bastard.

“Well?”

His eyes drag up slowly, unapologetically—like he’s savoring this. “Whatever you’re serving, sweetheart.”

The nickname hits like a slap. I grit my teeth, pen pressing so hard into the pad I’m surprised it doesn’t snap.

“Hope you like bitter.”

His smirk deepens. “Only when it bites back.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Of course he’d say that and look like sex while doing it.

I ignore the heat creeping up my neck.

I’m not going to let him get to me. Not this time.

“Cute,” I say tightly. “Is that what you’re into? Girls who bat their lashes and hang on your every word?”

He shrugs like he’s not actively lighting my spine on fire.

“Depends. They don’t usually growl at me while taking my order, but I’m open-minded.”