Page 234 of His To Erase
“I need to go,” I say, breathless.
“You okay?” she asks, too fast. “Do you want me to?—”
“I’m fine.” I lie.
I don’t remember grabbing my keys or texting Sarah. I barely remember pushing through the front door, except for the part where the air hits me like a punch and my body finally remembers how to breathe.
The image of Steven—bleeding, tied, broken—won’t leave me alone.
I don’t know what I’m walking into. But I know who might have answers and if this has anything to do with Frank—If the gut-deep wrongness I’ve been ignoring finally decided to show its teeth—then .
My fingers move before I can stop them, dialing Frank. He doesn’t answer. The call cuts off on the first ring like the call was rejected. A second later, a message lights up the screen.
FRANK: Busy at the club, baby. What’s wrong?
My heart slams against my ribs because it doesn’t make sense. Something about it is off. Since when does Frank pass on a chance to talk to me? But still—some panicked, scrambling part of me thinks maybe he can help. Maybe if I show him the picture. Maybe if I lie and say Steven’s a friend, or my brother. Frank’s always been protective when it suits him. Calculated, but territorial.
He wouldn’t let someone hurt me… right? Not if he still thinks I’m his?
I don’t know but I’ll figure out the story when I get there. I just need him to look at it and tell me who the hell would send me something like that. And if he hesitates—Even for a second—I’ll know.
Even as the words echo through my skull, I know I’m grasping at smoke. But it’s a lie I need to believe—because the alternative is worse.
So I get in the Uber, heart racing like I’ve already made the wrong call, and I tell myself it’s a smart move. I’ll get help and play nice long enough to get answers. Then I’ll deal with everything else.
The car slows and the club looms in front of me like a monument to every lie I’ve swallowed. Every choice I didn’t getto make. Every time someone called me sweet or pretty or safe—then used me anyway.
It’s dark.
No valet.
No cars.
No bass bleeding through the walls like usual. Just shadows clinging to the doorframe like a warning. The front entrance is shut tight and there’s no flicker of security, no line of overdressed assholes checking their lipstick in the windows. Just silence and dead glass—reflecting nothing but me.
The driver glances back. “You want me to wait?”
“No,” I say, though my voice sounds hollow. Like someone else’s mouth is moving.
I step out and the door clicks shut behind me like the punchline to a joke I haven’t caught up to yet. My boots echo across the pavement, every step feels too loud. Frank said he was here, and that he was busy. So where the fuck is everyone?
My fist curls around the handle before I even register the movement. Locked.Of course it’s fucking locked.
I press my knuckles against the glass, leaning in, and cup my hands around my face to kill the glare. There’s nothing behind the doors. No bartender. No bass line. No overpriced perfume bleeding through the vents. Just overturned chairs, dark bottles lining the shelves like trophies, and a bar stocked with lies.
No Frank.
Not even a shadow.
My chest tightens, as heat starts rising fast—curling through my throat like smoke before the fire. He told me he was here and that he was busy. So why does it look like this place hasn’t seen a crowd in days?
The thought slams through me like a hit to the ribs, and suddenly everything inside me tips sideways.
My heart thunders, but it’s not panic this time. It’s rage.
He lied.
Not some casual omission, or a soft-edged sidestep or a clever half-truth—a flat-out, deliberate fucking lie.
