Page 31 of His To Erase

Ani

Istir the straw in my iced coffee like it personally offended me and Sarah’s watching me like I’m an active crime scene. One she hasn’t decided whether to report or cover up.

“You good?” she asks finally, tearing a piece off her croissant and popping it in her mouth.

I shrug, even though every muscle in my body feels like it’s been steamrolled and sewn back together by a man with too many secrets and not enough shirts. “Define good.”

Her brows lift as she gives me a once-over. “Alive? Semi-conscious? Not actively bleeding on the table?”

I snort. “Two out of three’s not bad.”

She leans back in her chair, sunglasses perched on her head like a halo she doesn’t deserve. “You ignored me for over twenty-four hours, and you’re covered in bruises. I was this close to storming whatever horror-movie basement you’d been dragged to with a shovel.”

I glance down at my coffee. “Trust me, it felt like that. Just one with central air and a guy who thinks bedside manner means verbal warfare.”

“Exactly. That’s how dire the situation was. Bitch, don’t do that to me again.”

I let the corner of my mouth lift, but it fades fast. I really don’t know what I’m doing or how I got here.

Sarah taps her nail on the side of her cup. “Ani.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I tear off a piece of my bagel. “I’m not lying,” I murmur. “I’m just... not totally here yet.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then leans forward slightly. “Was it him?”

I know who she means. Not Frank. Him. Steven.

“Sort of.”

“Ani—”

“I can’t talk about it yet.”

“Not an option,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee. “You ghosted me and showed up looking like you got mauled by a sexy bear. So either you talk, or I start guessing—and you know I’m not shy.”

I glare at her, but there’s no heat behind it. I’m too tired, and frankly still too raw. “I don’t even know where to start.”

She shrugs. “Start with the part where you didn’t die.”

I exhale, leaning back in my chair, and stare at the chipped edge of the table, trying to decide how to start. “I got attacked.”

“I see that.”

“And he found me.”

Her mouth tightens. “So the hot, tatted menace stitched you up like a psychopath-turned-doctor, and you still won’t give me a name?”

“Steven.” I mutter.

She whistles low. “Damn. I can’t tell if I want to high-five you or call the cops.”

“Same,” I say, a dry laugh catching in my throat. “Honestly? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Sarah reaches across the table and steals a piece of my bagel. “One. Thank God you’re alive. Two. Sounds like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

We eat in silence for a beat when Sarah breaks the silence again. “Are you still seeing the other one tonight?”

I nod, stabbing my straw into the melting ice of my water. “He wants to take me to dinner.”

“You gonna tell him to go fuck himself?”

“Eventually.”

“Jesus.” She leans forward, all playful sarcasm gone. “Just be careful, okay? I know you joke, but you’ve been off lately. And I don’t trust Frank. I never did.”

“Noted.”

“And Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I mean it,” She says, pointing at me with her straw. “No more ghosting. If I don’t hear from you by midnight, I’m calling the National Guard.”

I shake my head, but there’s warmth curling in my chest. “You’re insane.”

“And you look like shit, so we’re even.”

That’s the thing about Sarah, she really would too. I know in a heartbeat she would murder someone for me and help hide the body. I really want to tell her the rest, but there’s not enough time in the day. I’ll tell her later when we have more time. Then maybe I can figure out what to do.

When we stand up to leave, she pulls me into a quick hug.

“You good?” she asks.

I nod, lying through my teeth. “Yeah.”

She lets me go, but not before giving me a look that says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Text me. Or I swear to God, Ani—”

“Yeah, yeah. Hiking boots. National Guard. I got it.”

We split at the corner, and as I head back toward my apartment, the weight of what’s next starts pressing down on me.

I need to get my shit together, it’s almost time to leave.

I know it’s just dinner. That’s all this is. But it’s dinner with the man I used to think was safe. The man who smiles like he’s harmless and holds secrets like weapons.

What’s really getting to me—what I can’t shake no matter how many times I try to logic my way through it—is that I don’t know what’s real anymore. The dreams are getting stronger. More vivid, and more intimate.

The only issue is, every time I reach for one, it slips through my fingers like smoke. It’s like my brain is trying to protect me from something it knows I’m not ready to remember.

I stare at my reflection, trying to hide the evidence. The bruise on my cheekbone fades under layers of concealer, but it’s still there if you know where to look.

The cut near my hairline disappears behind a twisted updo that looks effortless but took twenty minutes, a prayer, and a whole bottle of product. I’m a goddamn magician.

My shoulder throbs with every movement, and the bandages beneath my dress feel like sirens.

Still, I line my eyes, curl my lashes, and put on some dark red lipstick, the color I wear when I need to feel like I’m the one doing the devouring. Even if all I’m doing is smiling through my teeth.

The dress is just a simple black number that holds my ribs like armor. It dips at the collarbone, clings to my waist, and splits high enough to count as a distraction.

It’s the kind of dress you wear when you want people to look—just not too close. Especially not at the way I flinch when I breathe too deep. I press a hand to my sternum and try to breathe through the tightness.

My phone buzzes again, breaking the silence. I expect it to be Frank with some smug confirmation, or how he wants to pick me up, but it’s not.

Unknown Number: I like when you pretend you’re not scared, it makes it more interesting.

My stomach twists. I stare at the screen for a beat too long before snapping a screenshot and deleting the thread—like that’ll make a difference.

The words are already stuck, buried under my skin, but I don’t fucking have time for this right now.

I toss my phone in my bag and glance toward the window because some paranoid part of me needs to check. There’s nothing but trees, and the apartments next door.

Still, I hesitate. Because whoever sent that text… knows too much.

I unlock my phone and open the Uber app like a normal person, doing normal things.

The driver’s two minutes out. I watch the pin inch closer, then set the phone down on the counter and smooth my hands over my dress again, checking for anything that might give me away.

Frank said to meet at his club, but insisted we weren’t staying. I grab my jacket from the hook as the Uber pulls up right on time, headlights slicing through the early evening. The driver steps out, all polite efficiency and harmless energy, and opens the door.

I nod, sliding into the backseat, and cross my legs like I’m not riding straight into a situation I already regret.

He tries to make small talk, asking if I’m having a good night.

I give him a lie wrapped in a smile and toss the question back.

My voice is fake, but polished. I’m getting good at that.

The rest of the ride is smooth, and I spend most of it pretending not to watch the map.

The closer we get to the club, the tighter my chest pulls.

By the time we glide up to the curb, I’ve already convinced myself this was my idea.

The car eases to a stop as I brace my palm against the seat and swing the door open a little too fast—pain slices through my shoulder and I freeze, clenching my jaw so tight it might crack. The movement yanked on still-healing muscle, and now it’s screaming. Deep breath Ani, we got this.

The bouncer spots me before I’m even fully out of the car.

He’s tall, built like a bulldozer in a suit, and gives me one long look before reaching for the velvet rope like he’s unlocking a secret kingdom.

It’s not even blocking anything. Just dangling there like a decorative suggestion. I’ve never understood how unclipping a piece of useless fabric became the universal symbol for wealth and exclusivity. But sure—I’ll play along. In places like this, everything’s about pretending.

I offer a tight, practiced smile.

The bouncer doesn’t say anything to me, he just nods. One of those “I know who you are” nods. Or worse—“I know who you belong to.”

Yeah. No.

Immediately fuck that.

My fingers twitch around the strap of my bag as I consider turning around and getting right back in the car.

“Evening,” I mutter, sliding past the bouncer, but he doesn’t reply, he just stares at me as I walk past.

I pause just past the entry, letting my eyes adjust. He said we wouldn’t stay long, but from the second I stepped out of that car, everything about this screamed performance.

The club smells like money, liquor, and desperation wrapped in designer cologne.

There are bodies pressed into each other on the dance floor, moving to the bass like it’s church.

I slip past a velvet curtain tucked just far enough to suggest privacy and there he is, sitting in a booth with his spine straight, and one arm draped casually over the backrest. He’s laughing at something the man across from him said—but there’s no joy in it. He looks pissed.

I’m close enough to hear him when he speaks, but barely. I’ve never seen Frank like this.

“…if he doesn’t deliver, you know what to do.” There’s a pause. “I don’t want excuses this time. I want blood.”

Something cold runs the length of my spine. The man nods once, then Frank leans back like he didn’t just order someone’s death with the same tone most people use to order a drink.

He hasn’t seen me yet. And for one breathless second—I get to see his mask slip.