Page 66 of His To Erase

Ani

Frank kills the engine without answering, and the silence stretches. I stay frozen, watching him get out, then slam the door shut. I grip my phone tighter, staring straight ahead. Maybe if I don’t move, I can pretend none of this is happening. Then the door is yanked open.

“Ani,” he says, voice lower now. “Get out of the car.”

I lift my chin defiantly. “Can you please just take me home?”

He exhales through his nose like he’s counting to ten in a room full of triggers.

“You can either get out by yourself,” he repeats, voice harder now, “or I throw you over my shoulder and take you inside.”

That does it. I whip around, heat rising fast and furious. “Frank, I’m not in the mood and I’m not staying here.”

He crouches slightly, one hand braced on the frame of the car—and everything about him shifts. The mask he’s always wearing falls. Gone is the charming man with dinner reservations and polite smiles. This is something colder.

“I’ve waited long enough for you to get on board,” he says quietly. “I gave you time, patience, and space. I bent over backwards trying to let you come to this on your own.”

I stare at him. What the fuck is he talking about?

He clears his throat and the air gets smaller. “I’m done waiting.”

“I—” I start, but he lifts a finger. That same fucking finger he used to brush hair behind my ear. A move that used to feel sweet. Now it feels loaded.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he says. “Just let it happen.”

A slow freeze spreads through my limbs, because somewhere in that twisted logic, he actually believes this is going to work out. I guess I only have myself to blame for that, I like having him around, but I just don’t think I want to date him.

“That’s the thing about consent,” he murmurs. “Sometimes silence speaks louder.”

My mouth opens—but nothing comes out. I bolt upright in the seat, panic rising in my throat. “I’m not going inside with you.”

“You are.”

“Or what?”

He doesn’t answer, instead, he just straightens slowly. He exhales and the mask slides back into place with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Jesus, Ani.” He chuckles, like I’ve overreacted. Like this is all some lover’s spat. “You really think I’d hurt you?”

I say nothing as he crouches more, bringing himself closer to my eye level, one hand braced on the car door.

“I brought you here to talk, baby. That’s it.” His tone softens. “You looked upset earlier. I thought maybe you could use a break. A breather. That little shop clearly didn’t go the way you wanted it to.”

I swallow hard, keeping my expression neutral.

He continues, coaxing. “Look, I’m sorry. I just… missed you. I’ve had a really long day. Come inside, have a drink, cool off. You don’t have to stay long. I know you’ve got to work later.”

His voice is all warm and confident as my heart hammers like a warning bell in my ribs, but I nod once and finally climb out.

“Good girl,” he murmurs as I step past him.

It still doesn’t hit the way it does when Steven says it. It lands flat, and I don’t melt. I just follow him up the steps of a house I’ve never seen, telling myself over and over that it’s fine.

The door creaks open, and I step into a space that’s too clean. It’s the kind of place that smells more like lemon polish and curated silence than real life. The walls are white, lined with expensive art. It’s giving hotel lobby vibes in a mansion’s skin. And somehow, that fits him.

“Kitchen’s this way,” Frank says, casually. “You want something to drink?”

I nod once. “Sure.”

I perch on the edge of a barstool, when my phone buzzes in my pocket but I don’t check it yet. It’s probably another creepy text.

He sets the glass in front of me then leans against the counter with his arms folded. He watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to play nice or press harder.

“I know you’ve had a rough couple of weeks,” he says, his voice low and almost sympathetic. “And I’m not mad, love. I get it. You needed space. Time to think.”

I grip the water glass tighter. I can’t have another feelings conversation right now.

“I didn’t mean to crowd you,” he goes on, pushing off the counter to close the space between us. His hand lifts, brushing a piece of hair from my face like he does. “You’re still getting used to everything. But I need you to understand something, okay?”

My throat tightens. Everything in me pulls back, because I don’t want to lead him on even more.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he whispers. “I know you don’t remember everything. That’s fine. I remember enough for both of us.”

My stomach lurches. What does that mean, you remember enough for both of us? How did I even get into this mess? Sure, I might’ve led him on, but I never encouraged him to think I wanted to date.

His eyes narrow slightly, and his voice goes quieter. “You’ll see. You’ll realize I’m the only one who’s been honest with you.”

The room feels too small now. “I need to go soon. I have work.”

He nods, like he understands, but he doesn’t move. “Of course. I’ll drive you,” he says.

I push back from the barstool, forcing my voice to stay even. “I—I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Down there,” he says, gesturing down the hall. “Second door on the right.”

I nod, turning too fast. As soon as I round the corner, I yank my phone out with shaking fingers, my pulse slamming in my throat.

There’s another grainy photo attached, it’s the outside of the bar.

The exact back entrance I always use—the one without cameras.

It’s a photo of me and Sarah, mid-laugh.

She’s got her arm slung around my shoulder and my head’s tipped back, mouth open.

I don’t need to know what the message says to know what the message is.

UNKNOWN: If you show up tonight, I can’t promise she’ll make it home.

I’m done waiting in the shadows.

My stomach twists as cold, paralyzing nausea floods me, slow and suffocating. I don’t even realize I’ve braced both hands on the bathroom sink until my knuckles start to ache. My pulse is so loud it drowns everything else out as I check to make sure I locked the door.

I look like a girl who hasn’t slept in days. A girl who’s lived three lifetimes since yesterday, and maybe I have. I grip the sink edge and suck in a breath.

Get it together, Ani. You’re smart. You’re still breathing.

Glancing back down at my phone, I don’t let myself cry. I don’t let myself think.

I just type out a quick excuse to Sarah, fingers trembling as I hit send, and pray she doesn’t ask too many questions. If anything happened to her…No, I can’t go there.

ME: Hey. I’m so sorry—I can’t cover tonight. Something came up. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.

SARAH: Babe. You okay? Not judging, but if you’re getting dicked down, just say that. AND It’s fine. I’ll figure it out. But you owe me greasy fries and deets next shift.

I look in the mirror again, I look like someone on the verge of unraveling and pretending not to notice.

“Get it together,” I whisper, running cold water over my wrists like that’ll magically stitch me back up. “It’s fine. You’re fine. End of story.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the sink again, until my knuckles throb. I could text Steven… The thought barely finishes forming before I kill it.

No.

Fuck that.

I don’t need saving. Not from him. Not from Frank. Not from anyone.

I’ll stay here for the afternoon, keep my head down, then bail later. I’ll say I’m sick, or tired, or just not up for it. Hell, it’s not even a lie.

The truth is—my body still hurts from last night.

Every inch of me aches, and not just from the sex, but from the emotional whiplash of being wanted, then discarded, then wanted again.

My brain can’t keep up. My chest is tight, and my thoughts are loud enough that I’m not even sure who I’m running from anymore.

Myself, maybe.

I dry my hands, swiping under my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve, and force a deep breath into lungs that barely expand, and head back downstairs.

Thank God Sarah will understand, and not question me if I don’t respond to her text. I’m not going to tell Frank that though, I don’t need him to have any more reasons why I should stay here and hang out with him.

He’s still in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, and a pitcher of something bright and citrusy on the counter beside two plates. He looks up as I step into the room, with a smile already in place.

Frank’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You look like you didn’t sleep much last night,” he says gently. “Have you been eating?”

I blink slowly. Well, that’s one way to say I look like shit. Every girl’s dream compliment.

I glance up at him, and he’s watching me now, not bothering to hide it. My fingers tighten on my phone, but I keep my mouth shut since I’m trying to get out of here in one piece.

“I was thinking,” Frank says, his voice low and coaxing. “Do you want to grab dinner before your shift?”

I don’t answer right away. Something about the way he says it gives me pause.

I know I should say no. That I should stand up, say thank you for drinks, and walk the hell out of this house with whatever dignity I’ve got left.

But my limbs feel heavy. Not dramatic like I’m about to collapse—just slow.

Probably means I should eat something, honestly.

“If it’s just dinner.” I say—mostly to myself. But even as the words leave my mouth, a part of me knows he’s not going to make it that simple.

He nods and gestures to the couch. “Sit a minute, won’t you.”

I hesitate—because I am tired. Hopefully I’m not sitting for too long, because I’m sure the second I let myself think about how easy it’d be to rest here, to just lean back for a moment—I’ll be out.

But I sit anyway.