Page 33 of His To Erase

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.

“You know,” I murmur, “this whole night feels a little… curated.”

Frank grins. “What can I say? I like giving you what you need.”

I laugh. “Are you sure about that? ‘Cause I’m starting to think you don’t know what the hell that is.”

Something flashes in his eyes—something that looks an awful lot like a flicker of frustration. But when he smiles again, it’s smooth as ever. “I know more than you think, Doll.”

I sit back, crossing my legs beneath the table, trying to ignore the ache in my ribs.

“You know,” he says slowly, “this could all be easier.”

I raise a brow. “Define easy.”

He shrugs casually, as he swirls his wine. “We stop doing this whole... back-and-forth dance, and you could let me take care of you. Move in with me.”

I blink. “Wait, I’m sorry. What?”

Frank smiles like it’s obvious. “It’s just a matter of time anyway.”

My stomach twists.

“I didn’t realize we were playing house,” I say. My voice is light, but I can feel the way it tightens at the end. Like my body’s rejecting the idea even before my brain finishes processing it.

“We’re not,” he says smoothly. “We’re building something real. You just haven’t caught up yet.”

I laugh, or at least I hope that sounded like a laugh. “You really think that’s how this works?”

“I know it is,” he says, and the certainty in his voice makes my blood boil. “You don’t have to believe it yet. You will.”

Something in me stills.

“I’m not some doll you can dress up and keep on a shelf, Frank.” Keeping my temper in check. “I don’t do leashes.”

He leans in, resting his hand on my thigh. “I don’t want to—”

His phone buzzes, and he glances down but doesn’t answer it. Instead, he slips a hand into his jacket and pulls out a black velvet box and my stomach drops.

“No,” I say immediately, instinct flaring.

He smiles like I didn’t say a damn word, then opens it. It’s a necklace. A single dark emerald sits at the center of a small chain. It’s elegant, and looks expensive, but it’s also not really my style.

“A gift,” he says. “For tonight.”

I don’t move. “Because you think this is going so well?”

He doesn’t miss a beat, he takes the necklace out and closes the box with a soft, final click, setting it aside.

He’s putting his arms around me before I can protest and I feel the brush of cool metal against my skin as he fastens the clasp at the back of my neck with steady fingers.

“There,” he murmurs in my ear. “Perfect.”

He watches me for a beat longer, then he stands.

“I need to make a call,” he says. “Be right back.”

I nod, waiting until he disappears behind one of the shadowed side halls. When I’m sure I’m alone, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.

What the hell is happening?

A few weeks ago, Frank was just fine with our little exchange. He didn’t complain about our friendship or try to pursue me. Now he’s wanting to play house, dropping emeralds and acting like this is the part where I just give in and say yes.

The worst part is, it’s working on some level because I keep showing up and I keep wondering if maybe this is better than feeling alone, and looking over my shoulder all the time.

Maybe some unhinged, masochistic corner of my brain thinks that’s justice.

My phone buzzes—again—dragging me back before I spiral straight back into hell.

Unknown Number: You looked this good the first time too.

What the fuck? My hand shakes as I type back.

Me: Who the fuck are you?

I hit send before I can stop myself. Seconds pass before there’s another buzz.

Unknown Number: You’ll remember. And when you do…

The message burns on the screen, and something inside me recoils. I type so fast, my fingers are shaking.

Me: Tell me who you are, or crawl back into whatever sad little sewer you slithered out of. I’m not scared of creeps who play dress-up with burner phones. And if you think I’m the same girl you remember, try me.

Unknown Number: Do you remember the look on his face when he handed you over?

Me: You’re disgusting. You don’t know shit about me.

Unknown Number: I know enough to be the reason you keep looking over your shoulder.

I almost hurl my phone across the room. Instead, I grip it tighter. “You want to scare me?” I mutter, clenching my teeth. “Pick a different girl.”

Me: I’m not scared of you. I have a boyfriend.

I almost laugh as I type it, because it couldn’t be further from the truth. But my brain conjures Steven’s face anyway.

I picture his tattooed arms, and that voice that sounds like violence.

If anyone could make a potential stalker second-guess themselves—it’s him.

Me: He’s not exactly the understanding type. So if you come near me again, you better pray he doesn’t find you first.

I hit send and just when I think I’ve finally scared this guy away, I get another message.

Unknown Number: Cute. Pretend all you want. You’ll remember who you belong to soon enough.

My jaw locks, and my pulse is thudding hard enough to drown out any leverage I thought I had. I read the message again. Every letter drags across my skin like it remembers where I’ve bled.

My thumb hovers above the screen, twitching to fire something back—something venom-laced, but I don’t, because if I answer, I give them exactly what they want.

I lock the screen, sliding the phone into my clutch like I didn’t just imagine hurling it through the goddamn mirror, and take one slow breath through my nose. I’m fine.

A shadow flickers near the hallway, and then Frank appears.

“Everything alright?” he asks, stepping closer.

I paste on a smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Peachy,” I say.

He reaches for my hand and I let him guide me out of the booth. I’m a live wire, ready to snap because someone out there knows more than they should.

If Frank thinks this night ends with me folded neatly into his world—he’s about to know what disappointment tastes like.

The air outside the club is cooler now—damp with the bite of spilled liquor. It smells like perfume and sweat and the ghost of a fight that probably happened an hour ago.

I expect some sleek black car to be waiting at the curb with tinted windows, and the engine running, but instead, Frank leads me to the passenger side of his own car—a matte black coupe that looks like it was custom-built for egos and mid-life crises.

He opens the door for me, waiting until I’m settled in. His hand brushes my leg when he helps me pull the hem of my dress in so it doesn’t catch in the door then walks around the car and gets in. He pulls out into the night like he owns the road too.

The silence stretches for a while, broken only by the hum of tires and whatever elevator music is slipping from the speakers. Nothing I’d ever pick—but of course, it fits him perfectly.

He doesn’t say much at first, but when he finally glances over at me, it’s with that same soft, dark smile that I can’t decide if I like or not.

“Why do you always look like you’re seconds from running?”

I raise a brow. “Maybe that’s because I am.”

He laughs, warm and deep like it actually touches something in him.

“I like that about you,” he murmurs. “You don’t give anything away.”

I want to say he’s wrong. That I give away too much. That I’ve been bleeding pieces of myself for months trying to figure out what the hell’s broken in me. But I just smirk and look out the window.

“Don’t romanticize it,” I mutter. “It’s called trauma.”

He laughs again, and this time his hand drifts to my thigh, letting it sit there with his fingers pressing down softly.

“You look good in my car,” he says, his eyes still on the road. “Bet you’ll look even better in my house.”

I turn my head, brows pulling in. “What?”

He smiles again. “I told you, it’s inevitable. I’ll give you ‘til the end of the month. After that, we’re done playing around.”

And then we’re pulling up to my house. The headlights flash across the parking lot of my apartment complex like a punch to the chest, and for a second, I forget what we were talking about.

Wait, I never told him where I lived. My jaw tightens and.. my mind stalls. And what the hell does that even mean? Done playing around.

I stare straight ahead, blinking hard, trying to process what he just said. I should ask, but the words get stuck in my throat, clinging to the edge of panic that never really left me.

It’s the way he said it—so offhanded and casual, like it didn’t mean anything. But I’ve seen what Frank looks like when he means something.

I open my mouth and close it. My hand hovers over the door handle, “I’ve never told you where I lived. How did you know I lived here?”

“You probably forgot, baby. You do realize we’ve been seeing each other for months.”

He says it so easily, like I’m the one who must be confused. Maybe I did forget.

“You okay, Doll?” he asks. His tone is warmer now, sweet even. “You look like you’re somewhere else.”

I force a tight smile, grabbing the handle. “Long day.”

He leans over slowly, but I don’t move fast enough to stop him before he’s grabbing my chin. His lips brush mine, and I just let it happen.

Because I’m tired. And he can be charming, sometimes. And because pretending someone wants me for something other than leverage feels better than nothing.

His hand slides to my upper thigh, fingers brushing over the fabric like he’s memorizing the feel of me. And just as quickly, he pulls back—gone before I can react.

“Sleep well, baby,” he smiles. “I’ll see you when I get back from my trip.”

I didn’t even get dinner. What the fuck.