Page 63 of His To Erase
My heart starts racing and every nerve is on alert, even as my brain screamsbadidealike it’s the only word left in the English language.
I hate how controlled he is. I also hate how every move he makes is calculated and carefully timed, like he’s playing a long game I haven’t been given the rules to. I don’t even know what to think anymore.
“Frank—” I start, tone sharp.
But then he kisses me.
Not rough. Not demanding. Just soft. Intentional. A brush of lips that lingers a beat too long to be casual.
It’s the kind of kiss designed to disarm. Like if he plays it just right, I’ll fold before I even realize I’m doing it.
And maybe I would’ve. If I didn’t know better. If I wasn’t already haunted by another mouth.
Before anything more can happen, a sharp honk slices through the night. The Uber.Thank God.We both glance toward it, headlights cutting across the brick wall.
Frank just leans back a fraction, with that smug, practiced smile sliding back into place, smooth as ever.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, doll.”
I don’t answer. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I really need to figure out what the hell I’m doing about the men in my life.
I push past him, gripping the car door handle like it’s the only thing anchoring me to reality and slide in without looking back.
Because the truth is...yeah, he’s good-looking. He’s the kind of man girls ruin their lives for. But I’m not most girls.
And I’ve already been ruined once.
The last thing I need right now is a man. The only issue is—he’s not the one I can’t stop thinking about.
It’s not his inked hands I want touching me. Not his voice curling under my skin and making it hard to breathe. It’s not his stare that sees too much—stripping me bare like he already knows what I’m hiding.
Frank looks like the prize. But he feels like a fucking trap.
The Uber driver doesn’t say a word as we pull away, and I don’t look back. Not once. I just sit there—silently—watching the bar disappear behind me like a chapter I’m pretending not to reread in my head.
I’m too wired to breathe, and too tired to care. The kiss still lingers on my lips, and it feels like a mistake.How did this happen?
My mind drifts back to the first night I met Frank.
Thick, dark blood soaked through his shirt. His hand was pressed to his side like he was trying to hold himself together.
I remember freezing.
Not because I was afraid, but because of the way he looked at me. He was smiling through the pain. His knuckles were scraped, and his jaw was already bruised. He looked like he’d been jumped—or dragged behind a truck.
"You’re supposed to look scared," he said, sounding all gravel and pain.
I wasn’t scared of him, what could he possibly do in that state.
I dropped beside him and pressed my hands over his, trying to slow the bleeding. He winced and told me I didn’t have to stay. But I did.
I thought it was the right thing to do, to at least stay until the ambulance came. He never passed out. Not once. He just stared at me with that same unnerving calm, like we were meeting under normal circumstances.
When the medics arrived, he still found the strength to smile at me and insisted I ride with him to the hospital. He said it was either that or bleed all over the EMT who looked like he might puke at the sight of a paper cut.
And for some goddamn reason—I went.
We talked the whole way there. Or rather—I talked. He listened. Mostly because I was afraid if I didn’t keep him awake, he wouldn’t make it. But maybe part of me just didn’t want to leave him alone. Not like that. Not bleeding and half-smiling.
