Page 38 of His To Erase

Ani

Some nights, it hits the second I walk in. That itch under my skin feels like if one more thing goes wrong, I’m flipping a table and setting the bar on fire.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

The second I step through the back door and into the low thrum of beer-slick floors and neon haze, I know I should’ve called in sick. But I didn’t, because I’m a responsible adult with rage issues and poor coping skills. And bills.

Sarah’s already mid-shout, barking orders at a guy who looks like he’s two seconds from quitting. “Don’t just stand there, mop it up before someone dies.”

Another tray crashes near the pool tables and I flinch like it was aimed at me. My shift hasn’t even started and I’m two minutes from an assault.

I shove past two regulars glued to the bar like barnacles, snatch a semi-clean towel, and start scrubbing the counter with enough force to take the finish off. If it had feelings, it’d file a restraining order

Sarah glances over from the taps with one brow raised. “You good, or are we about to have another bar fight?”

I don’t look up. “I’m not not about to stab someone.”

She smirks like she’s proud of me. “There’s my girl.”

I keep wiping, trying not to spiral, but the walls feel too close, and my skin feels too tight.

And I swear the ceiling’s breathing down my neck.

On the bright side, my tip jar’s filling up, probably because I look like I’d bite someone if they touched me.

Men are disgusting like that—mistaking venom for foreplay.

And then I see him. Sitting there in a black shirt, and built like sin, with that same unreadable face that makes you want to scream or sob, depending on the hour. He’s just sitting there smirking at his phone.

I want to punch him. Maybe that’s the feeling in my chest that lights the hell up the second I see him.

It has to be him. He has to be the one fucking with me. If it’s not him, then I’ve officially lost my mind. And honestly, maybe that would be easier. Before I can think better of it, I’m across the bar.

“What the hell is your problem?” I hiss, slamming my palms flat on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me from launching across it.

“You’re going to have to be more specific, dear.”

Dear?

The way he says it is laced with condescension and it hits like a hot iron to the spine. I want to slap the smirk right off his face, then claw it off with my teeth.

My pulse is screaming, and my brain’s glitching. All I can do is stare at him like I’m the only one who forgot we’re not friends.

He looks like every bad decision I’ve ever fantasized about, poured into one perfect, infuriating man. God. Even his veins look like they could wreck me. My mind goes right to images of his big hands, and all the places I’d like them…

I snap. “You seriously have nothing better to do than play stalker on your off days?”

“If I wanted to watch you,” he says, keeping voice low, “you wouldn’t be standing here to ask me about it.”

That voice—Jesus. It slides over my skin like smoke and settles between my legs like it pays rent. I hate how fast it happens too. How my body reacts like it’s his problem to solve. Wait, what did he just say?

I blink, trying to keep my spine straight. “Was that supposed to scare me?”

“It’s supposed to make you think.”

“I’m not here for philosophy,” I bite. “I’m here because you don’t know how to stay the fuck out of my life.”

He stares at me and the look in his eyes is lethal. “You think it’s me.”

It’s not a question.

“Don’t act like it’s a reach,” I say. “You’ve shown up out of nowhere. You’ve been in places I’m at. You’ve been circling me since day one like—like you’re waiting for something.”

There’s that fucking smile again. I wish I wasn’t paying such close attention to him, and wouldn’t notice the way his shirt clings to every cut line of his chest. Or the way he smells—like cedar and violence. I also wish my thighs weren’t currently pressed together right now.

“That’s cute,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “You think this is about you.”

My jaw tightens.

“It’s always going to be about me when I’m the one being followed.”

His gaze sharpens. “You sure I’m the one following?”

I step in, close enough to feel the heat coming off him. My heart’s pounding like a threat against my ribs, and it’s getting harder to tell if I want to hit him or kiss him.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?”

He leans in, just enough to steal the air between us. “Watching.”

“Why?”

His voice drops. “Because someone needs to.”

I blink. That wasn’t the answer I expected. But it’s not a denial either. My pulse stumbles—just a beat—but I recover. What’s that supposed to mean?

“Who else would send that photo?” I hiss. “Who else knows where I live? What I wear? Who I’m with?”

Something flickers behind his eyes. And for the first time, I think—fuck—maybe I’m actually onto something here. He straightens slowly, and it’s fucking lethal because he towers over me.

“Must be someone close, then,” his tone is smooth, but there’s something behind it. “Someone you let in.”

My jaw clamps shut. That lands too hard and way too close to the truth I don’t want to admit. He’s saying it like it’s my fault someone crawled through the cracks and started pulling threads. This is what I get for letting anyone in at all.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Well, he can fuck right off. This isn’t my fault.

“I didn’t let anyone in,” I snap. “They just… found a way.”

He studies me in silence. It’s the kind of still that says he’s cataloguing every word I’ve ever said and storing it for later. Every fucking blink feels like a risk with him.

“So, because I look at you, and know what I’d do if I had you,” he says, “you think I’m…?”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I try to recover but I fumble—my whole nervous system flares like it’s on fire and he’s the one holding the match. My skin is too tight and my throat is now too dry. Suddenly I’m back to picturing what he’s capable of…in bed. God, Ani, not now.

“You don’t even know me,” I manage, though it sounds more like a dare than a defense.

“Don’t I?”

His voice drops another octave, and my insides do that awful traitorous thing where they clench in all the wrong places.

“I know what perfume you wear when you want to be noticed. I know you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re lying. I know you went on a date with a man who doesn’t deserve to breathe your air—and I know you’re still wearing the necklace he gave you like it means something.”

My hand flies to my throat like a reflex. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His mouth twitches.

“You do realize that made you sound exactly like a stalker, right?”

His smile is slow. “No. That’s called paying attention, dear.”

I roll my eyes so hard I almost see God, but it’s just a cover. He leans in—elbows on the bar like he owns it—and his voice slithers under my skin.

“You were biting your nails when you thought no one was watching. But only when someone ordered gin. You hate gin. And the guy who orders it? Regular. You don’t like him.”

I blink. My pulse stutters. What the hell is this, Dr. Phil? But he’s not done.

“You’ve checked your phone three times since I got here, but you haven’t responded to anything. Which means you’re dodging someone.”

The silence between us locks up and all I can think is, he’s been watching me longer than I even realized. Maybe he is the stalker. He leans back like nothing out of the ordinary just happened and he didn’t just dissect me with surgical precision.

“That,” he says smoothly, “is called observation. Not stalking.”

My jaw tightens and heat crawls up my neck before I can shove it down. I hate that he’s right about those things, and I really fucking hate that my pussy, for some deranged reason, loved every second of that like it was some kind of mating ritual.

Like yes, Daddy, thank you for noticing I flinch at gin orders.

I hate even more, that he sees things I didn’t even know I was doing.

“I’ve got customers,” I mutter, spinning on my heel.

I don’t wait for a response before I shove through the swing gate and back to the taps, nearly elbowing some frat bro who smells like Axe and daddy issues.

“Two more whiskeys!” someone yells from table six.

“Then get off your ass and come get them,” I snap.

He laughs like I’m joking. I’m not.

Sarah throws me a look, but I ignore it. My hands move on autopilot, but my head’s somewhere else. If it’s not Steven sending those texts…if it’s not him who broke into my apartment and left that card…then who the hell is?

My stomach coils.

I should’ve gone with Frank.

I should’ve said yes, even though it would mean letting him play bodyguard in some overpriced hotel suite. Instead I’m here—still being watched and toyed with. I’m now questioning my own sanity instead of a man I should hate.

Steven might be dangerous, but if it’s not him, and I was wrong, that means someone else out there is worse—and I don’t know who they are or what the hell they want.

I wipe down the last sticky table and glance back toward the end of the bar, and yup, he’s still there.

God, I hate him.

And goddamn it, he’s hot.

I swipe a hand through my hair, muttering something under my breath I wouldn’t want anyone to hear, and storm over like I’m not currently burning alive in my own skin.

He watches me approach—like I’m the only thing in the room worth watching and I slap my hand on the bar in front of him.

“You know, I’ve got a genius idea.”

He lifts a brow. “Dangerous words coming from you.”

“I want your phone.”

He doesn’t blink. “Oh, this should be good.”

“You heard me.” I lean in. “Unlock it. Give it to me.”

He stays perfectly still. That mouth of his twitches like he might laugh—and I hate that part of me wants to know what he tastes like.

“You planning on finding something that will make you hate me? That’s cute.”

“I’m planning on calling myself,” I bite. “From your phone. So I know once and for all if you’re the one who’s been texting me.”