Page 21 of His To Erase

Ani

The music is too loud. It’s pounding with the kind of bass that rattles your teeth and makes your brain feel like it’s leaking out your ears.

I blink through the strobes, already regretting every life decision that led me here—starting with saying yes to a date without knowing where the hell he was taking me. Frank said dinner. Just dinner.

Which, fine. He delivered. It was a fancy place, with white linen tablecloths, and wine I couldn’t pronounce. The glasses were so delicate I was afraid to breathe near them, and there were more forks than one human should ever need.

But this? This is sensory warfare dressed up as nightlife.

“I thought we were getting drinks,” I shout over the bass, wincing as a strobe hits me dead in the retinas.

Frank leans in like this is the most natural thing in the world—his lips brushing the shell of my ear, and his voice oozes that slick charm. “We are. This just felt more… fun.”

I glance around, taking in the crowd. Designer everything—outfits, cologne, watches. And yet no one bumps into Frank. The crowd moves around him like he’s some kind of royalty. Or worse—like they owe him.

He orders for us without asking what I want and I hate that I’m not surprised. When he slides a drink across the high-top table like we’re at a private tasting instead of a goddamn rave, he flashes that smile. “You good?”

I raise the glass, trying not to grimace as the music kicks up another level.

“I’d be better if I could hear myself think.”

He just smirks and sips his drink, like this is exactly where he belongs.

I work at a nice bar, but this makes mine look like a dive on a bad night.

“I told you I’d take you out,” he says, eyes flicking up from his glass. “I like to keep my promises.”

I lift a brow. “That’s what this is?”

His grin spreads. “Something like that.”

A laugh pushes up—but I swallow it back. This whole night feels off. He’s being too nice. He’s trying a little too hard to impress me, more than usual. And I hate that a small, traitorous part of me notices.

This version of him looks like something you could fall for—right before it ruins you.

I sip my drink, while my eyes drift over the crowd—and for a second, I swear I see a man watching me, but he’s gone the moment I blink.

I tell myself it’s nothing.

That it’s just the lights and the loud music messing with me, not something else slithering beneath my skin.

“I’ve missed this,” Frank says suddenly, dragging my attention back to him. “Us.”

“There is no us,” I say, rolling my eyes with a smile I don’t mean. “So what exactly is this supposed to be?”

His grin sharpens with that signature smirk.

“A beginning.”

“A beginning,” I echo, flat. “Is this the part where I trip into your arms and we slow dance in the middle of the club?”

He laughs, leaning in. His mouth is far too close to mine.

“We could. But I think we both know I’m not the dancing type.”

No. He’s the watch-you-from-the-corner-until-you-crack type. And right now, he’s looking at me like I’m not just his date, and it’s starting to make me uncomfortable.

I pull back, shaking my head. “This place is too loud. I feel like I’m yelling.”

Frank doesn’t argue. Just downs the rest of his drink in one practiced motion and stands, holding out a hand.

“Come on.”

I hesitate.

His gaze flicks to mine.

“Just a quieter booth. Promise.”

It’s stupid that I even consider it. Stupider that I take his hand and follow him down the hallway.

The VIP section is quieter—but somehow worse. The music is a low, pulsing throb in the walls, and everything else is velvet curtains, dim lighting, and money that doesn’t need to prove itself.

He leads me to a booth in the farthest corner, and I slide into the leather seat across from him, my fingers skim the edge of the table like I need something to ground me.

It’s not lost on me that I’m here in combat boots, sheer black tights with one rip across the thigh that definitely wasn’t there this morning, and a slip dress that walks the line between effort and accident.

My eyeliner’s smudged, I don’t have any lip gloss on, and I look exactly like someone who didn’t know she was being taken somewhere with velvet ropes and VIP tags.

Everyone else in this room looks like a curated ad campaign.

Frank, of course, fits right in.

I glance down at my chipped nail polish and fight the urge to sink lower in the booth.

“Didn’t know I was supposed to dress for the Met Gala,” I mutter.

Frank grins, stretching one arm along the back of the booth. “You’re perfect.”

I snort. “You don’t even know what I’m wearing under this sweater.”

“I thought this was dinner and drinks,” I say, sitting straighter. “Not amateur hour at the strip club.”

He tilts his head with that same infuriating calm in his expression.

“It can be both.”

I open my mouth, just to shut it again. Why the hell did I agree to this? Because I felt bad. Because he was bleeding in a fucking alley and I kept him from dying. Because brushing him off for months started to feel like more effort than just going to dinner.

I’m not the girl who waits around for a man to show up. Not even if he left me gasping in a library aisle.

“I didn’t realize velvet booths were your thing,” I say, waving a hand at the lush, shadowed corner we’re tucked into.

He shrugs. “I like privacy.” Then he smiles with that lazy grin of his. “Don’t you?”

That earns a raised brow. “Privacy? From what, your fan club?”

Frank’s eyes glint in the low light. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

I laugh. But it’s sharp and hollow. “That wasn’t jealousy. That was secondhand embarrassment.”

He chuckles, and for a second, I almost forget the weirdness. Almost forget the knot curling tighter in my stomach.

God, I hate how easy it is to laugh around him. How easily he slides back into the role like he never left. This night’s just getting started and I already feel like it’s going to end badly.

He leans back, one arm draped over the booth, legs spread wide, radiating confidence in that smug, territorial way men do when they’re trying to stake a claim without saying it out loud.

And it’s working.

I feel like everyone who looks at him knows I’m the one he’s here with—and that somehow makes me the possession instead of the problem.

The bartender appears without being called, she doesn’t even glance at me. Just drops a drink at Frank’s elbow like she was waiting for this moment to shine. “Let me know if you need anything else, sir.” She says it like she’s having sex and I can practically see drool coming out of her mouth.

Her eyes never flick to mine. Not once. Right. Because clearly I’m not the important one at this table.

Frank gives her a nod, like this happens all the time and that’s when I start noticing the other things. The two men in suits who keep glancing over. The way one leans in and says something to the bouncer—who nods without question and disappears through a side door.

Frank doesn’t seem to notice, which is the most unsettling part.

I watch how people glance toward him before doing anything. How the DJ gave him a head nod when we walked in. How someone brought him a drink before we even sat down.

I lean back slowly, crossing my legs as I study him from the corner of my eye. “So... tell me again how you found this place?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “A friend of mine owns it.”

I arch a brow, lifting my drink to my lips just to have something to do. “Must be a fun friend.”

He grins into his glass but doesn’t answer right away—just takes a sip of his whiskey and lets the silence stretch.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally says, all smooth denial and sharp amusement.

Yeah, okay.

The DJ switches to something bass-heavy and obnoxious, vibrating through the floor and right into my spine.

Frank leans in, his mouth brushes my ear like he’s about to whisper something private—only a woman in stilettos cuts in, her dress barely covering her body.

Her eyes are locked on Frank like she’s hoping he’ll remember her name.

“Frank,” she purrs, breathy and lip-glossed. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

He doesn’t even look at her when he answers.

“Just got back.”

She giggles.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she adds, dragging her fingers along the edge of the table before strutting away, swaying her hips, clearly hoping he’s watching her.

I watch her go, then turn to him, deadpan. “You always bring your groupies on dates here or something?”

He smirks, staying infuriatingly calm. “Didn’t realize this was a date. You called it that, not me.”

“I said yes because you were annoying. I didn’t realize I’d be sharing you with the cast of Love Island.”

Frank laughs, but his hand slides along the back of the booth, brushing my shoulder.

“Are you jealous?”

“Of her?” I snort. “Please. Her heels were one wrong step away from a femur fracture.”

He doesn’t stop smiling. “I like you like this,” he says finally. “Defensive. Sharp-tongued.”

“I like me far away from overpriced vodka and mystery men,” I mutter, leaning forward to place my empty glass on the table. “Which is exactly where I’ll be if another one of your fan club girls tries to sit in my lap.”

Frank chuckles—clearly amused. Then leans closer. “Relax. This place is safe.”

“For you, maybe,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.

His eyes flicker. Then he reaches out, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear—his fingers linger a beat too long.

“This place is mine, doll. No one touches what’s mine.”

It echoes through my chest like a bell that was struck wrong. I can’t tell if I’m flattered…Or fucking terrified.

His? I fucking knew something was up. Especially with the way people were acting around him.

And what the fuck did he mean by no one touches what’s mine?

I lean back into the booth, as his words settle in my lungs like smoke. Around us, the bass throbs. Lights flash. People laugh and drink like nothing’s wrong—like I didn’t just hear something that could’ve been a flirtation… or a warning. Maybe both.