Page 69 of His To Erase
God, I hate how easy it is to laugh around him. How easily he slides back into the role like he never left. This night’s just getting started and I already feel like it’s going to end badly.
He leans back, one arm draped over the booth, legs spread wide, radiating confidence in that smug, territorial way men do when they’re trying to stake a claim without saying it out loud.
And it’s working.
I feel like everyone who looks at him knows I’m the one he’s here with—and that somehow makes me the possession instead of the problem.
The bartender appears without being called, she doesn’t even glance at me. Just drops a drink at Frank’s elbow like she was waiting for this moment to shine. “Let me know if you need anything else,sir.” She says it like she’s having sex and I can practically see drool coming out of her mouth.
Her eyes never flick to mine. Not once. Right. Because clearly I’m not the important one at this table.
Frank gives her a nod, like this happens all the time and that’s when I start noticing the other things. The two men in suits who keep glancing over. The way one leans in and says something to the bouncer—who nods without question and disappears through a side door.
Frank doesn’t seem to notice, which is the most unsettling part.
I watch how people glance toward him before doing anything. How the DJ gave him a head nod when we walked in. How someone brought him a drink before we even sat down.
I lean back slowly, crossing my legs as I study him from the corner of my eye. “So... tell me again how you found this place?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “A friend of mine owns it.”
I arch a brow, lifting my drink to my lips just to have something to do. “Must be a fun friend.”
He grins into his glass but doesn’t answer right away—just takes a sip of his whiskey and lets the silence stretch.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally says, all smooth denial and sharp amusement.
Yeah, okay.
The DJ switches to something bass-heavy and obnoxious, vibrating through the floor and right into my spine. Frank leans in, his mouth brushes my ear like he’s about to whisper something private—only a woman in stilettos cuts in, her dress barely covering her body. Her eyes are locked on Frank like she’s hoping he’ll remember her name.
“Frank,” she purrs, breathy and lip-glossed. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
He doesn’t even look at her when he answers.
“Just got back.”
She giggles.
“Let me know if you need anything,” she adds, dragging her fingers along the edge of the table before strutting away, swaying her hips, clearly hoping he’s watching her.
I watch her go, then turn to him, deadpan. “You always bring your groupies on dates here or something?”
He smirks, staying infuriatingly calm. “Didn’t realize this was a date. You called it that, not me.”
“I said yes because you were annoying. I didn’t realize I’d be sharing you with the cast of Love Island.”
Frank laughs, but his hand slides along the back of the booth, brushing my shoulder.
“Are you jealous?”
“Of her?” I snort. “Please. Her heels were one wrong step away from a femur fracture.”
He doesn’t stop smiling. “I like you like this,” he says finally. “Defensive. Sharp-tongued.”
“I like me far away from overpriced vodka and mystery men,” I mutter, leaning forward to place my empty glass on the table. “Which is exactly where I’ll be if another one of your fan club girls tries to sit in my lap.”
Frank chuckles—clearly amused. Then leans closer. “Relax. This place is safe.”
