Page 101 of His To Erase
I don’t want to wear his clothes. But I’m also not walking around like a blood-soaked horror show, so here we are.
I pull them on slowly, and everything hurts. Bending, breathing, existing. My ribs scream with every movement. I somehow manage to get the shirt over my head, knot it at my waist, and pretend like I haven’t just surrendered something vital.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and open the Uber app, I have no idea where I am—just that it’s deep in the woods, and the house looks like it probably eats people for fun.
Still, I drop the pin and hit confirm, because I need to feel like I’m doing something.
I set the phone on the bed, screen-side up, watching the timer count down like it will keep me from losing it completely.
My hands are still curled into fists at my sides, when the screen lights up again.
Uber: Your driver will arrive in 2 minutes.
That was fast.
Good, it’s not enough time to hunt him down or talk myself out of leaving.
I grab my bag and head for the door, my pulse hammering harder than it should. I’m not sure why, because I’m not stayingin someone’s house just because they stitched me up and made breakfast.
That’s not how this works. That’s not who I am.
The hallway is quiet, but I manage to find the front door on the first try without any awkward encounters. I sling the bag over my good shoulder and step outside into the cold morning air.
I stay on the stone path, scanning for headlights, when a sleek, black car rolls up the long driveway—I didn’t double-check the name or look at the license plate, but it looks like the photo. Close enough.
The car stops just outside the gate and I hear a soft click as the back door unlocks. The driver steps out, opening my door for me. He’s dressed in all black, but has a friendly expression on his face at least.
Ani
Istir the straw in my iced coffee like it personally offended me and Sarah’s watching me like I’m an active crime scene. One she hasn’t decided whether to report or cover up.
“You good?” she asks finally, tearing a piece off her croissant and popping it in her mouth.
I shrug, even though every muscle in my body feels like it’s been steamrolled and sewn back together by a man with too many secrets and not enough shirts. “Define good.”
Her brows lift as she gives me a once-over. “Alive? Semi-conscious? Not actively bleeding on the table?”
I snort. “Two out of three’s not bad.”
She leans back in her chair, sunglasses perched on her head like a halo she doesn’t deserve. “You ignored me for over twenty-four hours, and you’re covered in bruises. I was this close to storming whatever horror-movie basement you’d been dragged to with a shovel.”
I glance down at my coffee. “Trust me, it felt like that. Just one with central air and a guy who thinks bedside manner means verbal warfare.”
“Exactly. That’s how dire the situation was. Bitch, don’t do that to me again.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift, but it fades fast. I really don’t know what I’m doing or how I got here.
Sarah taps her nail on the side of her cup. “Ani.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I tear off a piece of my bagel. “I’m not lying,” I murmur. “I’m just... not totally here yet.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then leans forward slightly. “Was it him?”
I know who she means. Not Frank.Him. Steven.
