Page 103 of His To Erase
“Yeah, yeah. Hiking boots. National Guard. I got it.”
We split at the corner, and as I head back toward my apartment, the weight of what’s next starts pressing down on me.
I needto get my shit together, it’s almost time to leave.
I know it’s just dinner. That’s all this is. But it’s dinner with the man I used to think was safe. The man who smiles like he’s harmless and holds secrets like weapons.
What’s really getting to me—what I can’t shake no matter how many times I try to logic my way through it—is that I don’t know what’s real anymore. The dreams are getting stronger. More vivid, and more intimate.
The only issue is, every time I reach for one, it slips through my fingers like smoke. It’s like my brain is trying to protect me from something it knows I’m not ready to remember.
I stare at my reflection, trying to hide the evidence. The bruise on my cheekbone fades under layers of concealer, but it’s still there if you know where to look.
The cut near my hairline disappears behind a twisted updo that looks effortless but took twenty minutes, a prayer, and a whole bottle of product. I’m a goddamn magician.
My shoulder throbs with every movement, and the bandages beneath my dress feel like sirens.
Still, I line my eyes, curl my lashes, and put on some dark red lipstick, the color I wear when I need to feel like I’m the onedoing the devouring. Even if all I’m doing is smiling through my teeth.
The dress is just a simple black number that holds my ribs like armor. It dips at the collarbone, clings to my waist, and splits high enough to count as a distraction.
It’s the kind of dress you wear when you want people to look—just not too close. Especially not at the way I flinch when I breathe too deep. I press a hand to my sternum and try to breathe through the tightness.
My phone buzzes again, breaking the silence. I expect it to be Frank with some smug confirmation, or how he wants to pick me up, but it’s not.
Unknown Number: I like when you pretend you’re not scared, it makes it more interesting.
My stomach twists. I stare at the screen for a beat too long before snapping a screenshot and deleting the thread—like that’ll make a difference.
The words are already stuck, buried under my skin, but I don’t fucking have time for this right now.
I toss my phone in my bag and glance toward the window because some paranoid part of me needs to check. There’s nothing but trees, and the apartments next door.
Still, I hesitate. Because whoever sent that text… knows too much.
I unlock my phone and open the Uber app like a normal person, doing normal things.
The driver’s two minutes out. I watch the pin inch closer, then set the phone down on the counter and smooth my hands over my dress again, checking for anything that might give me away.
Frank said to meet at his club, but insisted we weren’t staying. I grab my jacket from the hook as the Uber pulls up right on time, headlights slicing through the early evening. The driver steps out, all polite efficiency and harmless energy, and opens the door.
I nod, sliding into the backseat, and cross my legs like I’m not riding straight into a situation I already regret.
He tries to make small talk, asking if I’m having a good night. I give him a lie wrapped in a smile and toss the question back. My voice is fake, but polished.I’m getting good at that.The rest of the ride is smooth, and I spend most of it pretending not to watch the map. The closer we get to the club, the tighter my chest pulls.
By the time we glide up to the curb, I’ve already convinced myself this was my idea.
The car eases to a stop as I brace my palm against the seat and swing the door open a little too fast—pain slices through my shoulder and I freeze, clenching my jaw so tight it might crack. The movement yanked on still-healing muscle, and now it’s screaming.Deep breath Ani, we got this.
The bouncer spots me before I’m even fully out of the car.
He’s tall, built like a bulldozer in a suit, and gives me one long look before reaching for the velvet rope like he’s unlocking a secret kingdom.
It’s not even blocking anything. Just dangling there like a decorative suggestion. I’ve never understood how unclipping a piece of useless fabric became the universal symbol for wealth and exclusivity. But sure—I’ll play along. In places like this, everything’s about pretending.
I offer a tight, practiced smile.
The bouncer doesn’t say anything to me, he just nods. One of those “I know who you are” nods. Or worse—“I know who you belong to.”
