Page 2 of His To Erase

Ani

Ishould’ve walked away. I should’ve just let someone else find him bleeding out in that alley, letting fate decide whether he lived or died, but I didn’t.

Obviously, because I’m not a monster.

Now, months later, I’m standing behind the bar, wiping down a glass like it’s going to confess something to me if I rub hard enough, pretending he’s not watching me like I’m the most fascinating thing in the room.

We’re… seeing each other, I guess?

He’s pursuing me, that much is obvious, but I never committed to anything, nor will I, but he keeps showing up. He’s all charm, slow smiles and expensive whiskey poured like a promise.

But I’m still undecided.

Not because he isn’t attractive—he is. In that curated, dangerous way that makes girls mistake danger for depth. But I’ve learned that interest isn’t the same thing as safety and attention isn’t the same thing as caring.

So I let him chase me, and keep pretending I’m not deciding whether I’ll run or let him catch me.

Frank looks like the kind of man who gets what he wants, whenever he wants it.

Hell he acts like the kind of man who always gets what he wants. There’s nothing casual about the way he looks tonight.

He’s wearing another dark, expensive suit—the kind you only wear if you’ve got the money to make dry cleaning someone else’s problem.

The fabric clings in all the right places, accentuating the kind of body that’s used to being looked at.

Not overly muscled but not lean—just powerful.

Controlled. Just like everything else about him.

His hair’s a little too long, slicked back in a way that should read sleazy—as in mobster with a God complex—but on Frank, it doesn’t. Not quite. No, on him it looks... deliberate. Calculated. Not a single strand out of place. Just like the rest of him.

He’s already smiling when I look up. Enough to suggest that he knows I’m watching. Or worse, that he planned for me to be.

It’s the kind of smile that makes people trust him too quickly.

And sure—he’s attractive. I’m not blind. He’s tall, well-dressed, and objectively handsome in that magazine-spread, secret-sociopath kind of way. He’s the kind of man women rewrite their morals for, and are willing to ruin their lives for.

Not me.

I’ve seen what that smile does to people.

He smiles like a gentleman, but there’s something behind it—something slick, dark and dangerous.

I know I’m supposed to be flattered by his attention, but when his eyes rake over me—slow and greedy, like he’s trying to memorize me by inch. All it does is make my stomach twist and my skin crawl. It makes me want to bolt for the door and not look back.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“You’ve been quiet tonight, doll,” his voice is smooth like aged whiskey and just as dangerous. There’s a weight beneath it—something coiled and unreadable. “That pretty little head of yours thinking too much again?”

I smile and set my glass down with all the elegance of someone who’s pretending they haven’t already fantasized about stabbing him with a stir stick.

“Just counting all the red flags I’ve been ignoring,” I say sweetly, like we’re flirting and not circling a battlefield.

His grin spreads, like he knows exactly how much damage he can do with it.

That’s the problem with men like Frank. They don’t just walk into rooms—they own them. Or at least, they like to pretend they do. Maybe he thinks he owns me too.

The thought sours fast, but I don’t let it show. I’ve spent years surviving men who thought their power made them invincible. Who saw girls like me as soft things to mold.

I’ve been here before. Standing too close to the fire, letting my guard slip one calculated inch at a time. Pretending I’m not already cataloguing the exits, every time he leans just a little too far into my space.

I know what happens when men like him think you’re theirs, and I’m not na?ve enough to think I’m still untouchable.

Not anymore.

And if I’m not careful, Frank DeLuca might just be the mistake that finally gets me killed.

He taps his fingers against the bar, slow and rhythmic, like a man who’s entirely too pleased with himself. "You know, Ani, it’s been months since I got out of the hospital."

I arch a brow, unimpressed. "And you’re just now realizing that? Must’ve been a rough recovery."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Nah. Just figured now’s a good time to finally thank you properly."

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the bar, pretending to be interested. "Most people just say thank you and move on, maybe send a fruit basket if they’re feelin’ a little spicy."

"Right, but I’m not most people."

Unfortunately.

He smirks. "So, how about dinner?"

I huff a laugh, wiping down the counter between us, the same one I’ve scrubbed three times already tonight. Mostly out of spite.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked me out this week, Frank. You must be a masochist… or desperate. Neither are a good look.”

He leans in, close enough that I catch the sharp hit of his cologne. It’s expensive—probably imported—but he’s wearing too much of it.

“Just persistent.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost see last year. “It’s not happening.”

“Yet,” he says smoothly. “I’ll just keep coming back. Sooner or later, you’re gonna get sick of saying no.”

I tilt my head like I’m thinking about it. I’m not. But the performance helps me feel like I’m in control of something.

“Or,” I say sweetly, “I’ll just start charging you a fee every time you walk through the door. Win-win. That might actually pay my rent.”

His grin spreads, slow and satisfied. The kind of grin that says I always get what I want, and you just haven’t realized it yet.

“I’ll pay whatever you want me to, love. As long as you let me sit at your bar.”

Of course he would say that. The man turns obsession into flirtation like it’s a love language.

I don’t answer.

Not out loud.

Because this is the dance we do—him, charming and cocky, me, unimpressed and pretending I don’t wonder what it would feel like to let my guard down for half a second.

Spoiler: I’m not going to. But he doesn’t need to know that yet.

I’ve outrun worse.

I don’t even know this man. Not really. I mean, sure—I technically saved his life a few months ago. Mistakes were made. And ever since, he’s apparently decided I’m the prize in some long-con romance novel he’s acting out in his head.

He’s been asking me out nonstop ever since. He clearly doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Or he does, and he’s just refusing to accept that I mean it.

I know two things about Frank. One, he either has money or really wants people to think he does. And two, he enjoys the sound of his own voice almost as much as he enjoys seeing me pretend not to be interested.

Either way—not my problem.

But maybe…just maybe…dinner wouldn’t kill me.

A free meal and a little attention I don’t have to reciprocate? That’s not the worst thing in the world. I’ve suffered through worse in cheaper shoes.

I shake my head to clear the thought, but before I can throw another verbal punch his way, the door swings open behind him, and a gust of night air follows the next customer inside—cool and sharp and laced with something that makes the hair on my neck stand up.

Frank just sips his drink, eyes still on me as I slip back into autopilot. Smile. Move. Glass. Pour.

I keep my hands busy so my thoughts don’t start asking questions I don’t want answers to, but I can feel his gaze follow me with every step I take.

"One day, Ani," he murmurs. "You’ll say yes."

I glance at him, unimpressed. "Or maybe one day you’ll learn to take a hint."

He grins, unfazed, sliding off the stool. "Not likely."

He’s a picture of confidence as he strolls toward the door. I watch him go, shaking my head as I turn back to work. I should find that more irritating than I do. Instead, I find it intriguing.

The night drags, and by the time my shift is nearly over, my patience is hanging on by a thread. The bar is mostly cleared out—just a few stragglers nursing drinks, waiting for last call. I drop off a check for one of them and start wiping down the counter when I feel eyes on me.

I glance up, and sure enough—there is. Table twelve. Alone. Overconfident. The kind of man who doesn’t ask so much as hover like you’re on display.

His gaze drags down my body slow enough to be deliberate, like I’m a meal and he’s deciding where to start.

“You got a name, baby?”

I blink once, keeping my expression neutral and polite, but I’m already fighting the urge to dump his drink in his lap.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s No.”

He chuckles like I just flirted with him. I’ve been here a hundred times before—it’s just another night, and another man who mistakes disinterest for challenge.

“Feisty,” he grins, like he thinks he’s original. “I like that.”

I don’t.

I don’t like that he’s still staring, his eyes haven’t left my chest once. I really don’t like that familiar pressure behind my ribs—that quiet alarm that’s always right.

“Bar’s closing soon,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “Which means you should finish your drink and leave.”

There’s a long enough pause for me to glance at the door, clocking who’s left. Counting how many more minutes I’ll have to pretend for. I don’t keep pepper spray taped under the register for nothing.

“Not before I get your number."

I meet his eyes, letting my expression drop into something cold and bored. "You think I give my number out to drunk men? Let alone ones who can’t take a hint?"

He blinks, trying to process, but I don’t wait for a reply. I grab his glass, dump the contents into the sink, and slap his check down in front of him.

"Last call," I say, my voice sickly sweet. "Pay up."

The man glares at me but pulls out his wallet. I don’t move until he drops a few bills on the counter, stumbling slightly before making his way out.

I don’t breathe until the door swings shut behind him.