Page 236 of His To Erase
I don’t give a fuck what that was, whatever it is, I see betrayal layered on top of betrayal—and I am so fucking done letting men decide what I’m worth.
They want to play games with fire?
Fine.
Let them fucking burn.
My hands won’t stop shaking, but I don’t slow down. I try the front doors again—locked. Every entrance is sealed up tight, but I know better. Frank has to be in there somewhere.
There’s a side door I remember seeing when I was here last that was used by the staff. I don’t even hesitate. I move like I’ve done this before—because in some ways, I have. Different hallway, different man, but same fucking fear.
It’s locked—but security in this place has always been for show. Just enough to look intimidating, but not enough to stop someone who actually gives a damn. I pull a hairpin from my hair without thinking. Sarah taught me this trick once—half-drunk on a Tuesday, laughing too loud as she picked the lock on the jukebox just to skip to our song. I remember her saying,“Everything opens if you want it bad enough.”
Turns out, she was right.
My chest seizes as I slide the pin into place, heart slamming with each shaky breath.
Then—Click.
The door gives, and I slip inside. It’s pitch dark, and it feels like it’s pressing against my skin. The air is stale with old smoke and the ghost of bass that used to shake these walls. I move slowly down the hallway, boots echoing too loud against the floor. Every overturned stool and silent bottle gleams under the emergency lights like a grave marker.
The hallway narrows as I push deeper into the back of the club, past the liquor closet and the half-busted utility door. The silence is suffocating.
When I reach his office, the door is open.
I pause, every instinct in me is screaming that something’s off. But my feet move anyway, dragging me over the line like some part of me already knew I’d end up here.
The room is dark, lit only by a sliver of light cutting through the blinds. It lands in a pale stripe across the desk.
There’s papers scattered like someone was in a hurry. Steven’s name is on the first one. His real name. Full government file, sealed and stamped and tagged in a way that makes my stomach flip. There’s photos clipped to the corner—grainy surveillance, maybe from weeks ago. Maybe longer. But it’s him. In my apartment building, on the street outside the bar, in the library.
My stomach turns, but I keep flipping. Then I see another page, tucked halfway beneath the stack. I see my name in all caps. No middle initial, no address. Just a single word that feels like it’s been branded onto the page. Above it is a Property Transfer Request.
I freeze.
The words don’t compute at first. I stare like they’re written in some other language—like if I just tilt the page or squint, it’ll say something else.
It’s a legal form, with my name, my date of birth, and a signature that’s supposed to be mine—but isn’t.
And there’s more. Land deeds. Financial records. A fake ID tucked in the back with a photo of me I don’t even remember taking.
What the actual fuck is all of this?
I can’t breathe.
My knees nearly give out as I stare at the paper, rage crawling up my throat like smoke before the fire. My throat burns as I back away from the desk, chest cracking open around a scream I don’t let out.
I find myself behind the bar, hands moving before I can stop them. I rip open the bottom cabinet like there’s an answer buried in the sticky wood and spilled liquor. I don’t even realize what I’m reaching for until my fingers close around it tucked between backup mixers and a half-empty bottle of gin that smells like regret—there it is.
Everclear.
Flammable as hell.
I pull it out with shaking hands, and something clicks into place.
From the second Steven walked into my life—stalking me, seducing me, crawling inside my skin like he belonged there—he knew.
He had to.
