Page 7 of His To Erase

Ani

After last night’s shift, my body aches in that used up, still vibrating from noise and people kind of way. My brain floats somewhere between consciousness and denial—half-asleep, and half-reluctant to wake up at all.

Today is mine.

No bar. No library. No drunk flirtations. No fake smiles. No smug, cocky men walking in like they own the air.

Just me. My bed. And no plans.

The first real full day off I’ve had in—I don’t even know how long.

I stretch slowly, blinking at the ceiling, letting the weight of silence press into me. It’s almost nice enough to pretend things are normal.

Today I’m supposed to start looking at buildings.

The thought should make me feel excited and hopeful, like I’m finally moving toward the thing I swore I wanted.

But instead, it knots in my chest—tight and sharp and way too familiar. This was always the dream, wasn’t it?

A little bookshop. Nothing flashy. Just… safe. And mine.

Somewhere quiet, somewhere new. Somewhere that smells like pages and paper instead of spilled beer and cigarette breath. Somewhere I could breathe, and start over. And now that it’s actually here—on the edge of becoming real—I don’t know what to do with it.

It’s hard to chase a dream when you’re still trying to convince yourself you deserve one.

It’s also hard to have your dream life when you’re still looking over your shoulder.

It’s been over six months. Surely, no one’s after me anymore. Surely, I’m safe to actually start living again.

Right?

I exhale, rolling onto my side and reaching blindly for my phone on the nightstand. Maybe I’ll check some new listings. See what’s out there. See if this dream still fits or if I’ve outgrown it without realizing.

Maybe I’ll even text Sarah—see if she wants to come with. I didn’t get to see her at the bar last night, and she’s not on the schedule tonight either.

I tap the screen, and I have one new message.

Sarah: Babe. I wanted to hang today, I swear. But I’ve been puking my guts out for like three hours straight. Pretty sure my insides are staging a coup, so I don’t get laid.

I stare at her message, thumb hovering over the screen. But then my phone buzzes again.

Sarah: Also I think I’m dying.

If I don’t make it, you can have my vibrator and my collection of emotionally unavailable fictional men.

I snort.

Me: Wow. A whole legacy. Should I give your eulogy or just read your search history out loud?

Sarah: Just scatter my ashes in the bar bathroom where I peaked socially. Tell the cute guy from Tuesday I loved him.

Me: He asked if ranch comes on the side, Sarah. You’re better than that.

Sarah: Am I though?

Before I can fire back, another message pops up—and this one wipes the grin right off my face.

Boss: Need you tonight. Taylor already told me you’d cover. Thanks.

I blink at the screen. What the actual fuck. Taylor is the new girl, and I already don’t like her.

Ugh.

I groan, letting my head drop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

I stare up at it, silently daring my boss to change his mind through sheer force of will. Yeah. That’ll happen. Right after men learn how to tip.

So instead of spending my one sacred, mythical day off scoping out potential bookshop locations like a functioning adult with dreams and ambition, I get to spend it dodging drunk idiots and pouring top-shelf whiskey for men who think a “nice smile” is a tip.

I sigh like the world has wronged me—which, honestly, it has—and shove the blankets off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed with the enthusiasm of a woman headed to her own funeral.

Fine.

If I have to go, I’m at least doing it with decent eyeliner and a soundtrack. Music first. Sanity second. Murder third.

I grab my phone and flick through the only playlist worth having when the world feels like a headache wrapped in a work shift.

Billie Eilish.

Just the right amount of don’t talk to me energy wrapped in velvet vocals and barely concealed rage.

I hit play and let the first notes roll in like fog, the kind of sound that settles into your bones before you even realize it’s there. They crawl up the walls, soak into the floor, and lodge somewhere behind my ribs.

It’s a vibe.

My vibe.

One I apparently needed like air.

Some people meditate. I let Billie haunt the room until I feel like a person again.

I twist my hair up, letting the strands fall where they want. It’s the kind of effortless that takes ten minutes and a handful of cuss words. A swipe of eyeliner sharp enough to warn people. And a touch of highlighter I’ll pretend is accidental.

Just bold enough to say don’t even think about it.

Then comes the outfit.

I don’t reinvent the wheel—I just stick to black.

I land on a fitted top that hugs in all the right places but says I dare you more than look at me. High-waisted shorts. Sheer black tights. Topped off with my favorite boots, the ones with thick soles and bad decisions stitched into the seams.

They add an extra inch, but more importantly—they’ll let me put someone through a wall if it comes to that.

The shift starts fine enough. Annoying but manageable. It’s the usual crowd.

And then—of course—two drunk idiots decide to ruin everyone's night by taking their half-assed testosterone contest from slurred insults to swinging fists.

When I round the bar, glasses are shattering, chairs are screeching against the concrete, and one of them’s got the other in a chokehold so weak it’s mostly just aggressive cuddling.

I sigh, cracking my neck.

Why is it always the dumbest ones who want to fight in public?

"Alright, idiots," I call out, like I’m already bored. "Take it outside before I throw you both out myself."

The bigger one turns toward me, red-faced, sweaty, and way too full of false confidence.

"Mind your business, sweetheart."

Oh.

Oh, honey.

He really picked the wrong girl for this conversation. Especially tonight of all nights. Please, fuck around and find out.

I don’t give him the chance to finish his next word. I grab the back of his collar and yank—hard. And there’s a beat where his brain short-circuits, his feet stumble, and his expression goes from cocky to confused in the span of half a second.

Good.

I don’t wait for him to recover. Don’t give him the dignity of catching up before I shove him straight toward the door with the kind of force that’s been building in my chest all fucking night.

His friend stumbles after him, arms flailing like a cartoon idiot, barely catching himself before I decide to make him my next project.

“Out,” I snap, the word sharp enough to draw blood. “Before I call the cops, or better—before I stop holding back.”

The whole bar’s watching now, but I don’t care. Let them remember what happens when you mistake short for soft.

“And don’t come back,” I add as the door slams shut behind them. “Ever.”

I turn back toward the bar, pulse hammering, hair stuck to the back of my neck, and absolutely zero regrets.

Not even two minutes later, some idiot decides to test my patience again. Because apparently, tonight is Let’s See How Far We Can Push the Bartender night.

A hand is suddenly, inappropriately low on my waist, fingers curling like they belong there. Then it slides lower.

The laugh that follows is low and slurred with cheap liquor and an overinflated ego.

I don’t think. I react.

My fingers wrap around his wrist in a flash, twisting it back hard and fast—not enough to break it, but enough to make a point.

He gasps, and the sound is choked and ugly, like the realization is just catching up to him mid-breath.

His whole body jerks, stumbling toward me as his eyes go wide.

“Don’t,” I growl, “ever touch me like that again.”

He tries to say something—some drunk defense, some pathetic plea—but I give his wrist a little more pressure, just enough to cut the words off before they can crawl out of his throat.

I should stop there. I know I should, but logic never wins with me. Because for one dark, flickering second, I want to feel it.

The shift. The snap. The break.

I want to feel bones give under my grip. I want to hear that sharp, unmistakable crack—the kind of sound you don’t forget.

A reminder that girls like me aren’t here for your amusement. That the next time he reaches for someone, he’ll think twice—and maybe the time after that, he won’t reach at all.

I hate the way the thought coils in my chest like it belongs there.

Instead, I shove him. Hard. Right toward the bouncers, my teeth clenched so tight my jaw pops.

His face goes red—humiliation flushed across his skin like a slap—rage simmering just below the surface, but I don’t care.

The bouncer grabs him without ceremony, yanking him toward the exit like he’s trash that stayed too long at the party.

He stumbles, sputtering, but doesn’t say a word. Not with my eyes on him. And not with everyone watching.

Another problem solved.

Another impulse buried.

I take a slow breath, exhaling through my nose, trying to shake off the heat crawling beneath my skin.

Ever since the incident—the one I don’t let myself name—these thoughts come too fast and I hate it.

I hate that violence feels like muscle memory now. That my first instinct is no longer to flinch—but to fight.

I exhale again, this time slower. Letting the pulse in my throat finally settle.

My hand finds the bottle of whiskey without looking, already halfway through pouring myself a drink that isn’t technically allowed but is absolutely earned. Then I turn back to the bar—and I freeze.

There’s a guy tucked in the farthest corner, just outside the reach of the bar lights. I can’t see much of him, just his broad shoulders, long legs, and the kind of stillness that feels intentional.

My stomach flips before my brain has a chance to play catch-up. If danger had a favorite seat, it’s definitely the one he’s in.

He’s not drinking, or I would’ve been over there by now.