Page 74 of His To Erase
“Just let me go,” I whisper.
Frank exhales behind me. “You’re not trapped.”
Not physically. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. He’s so close that I can feel his fingers brush mine, it’s soft enough to seem like an accident, but firm enough to make it clear it wasn’t.
“You say you want space, and then show up looking like that? In my club?” His chuckle is dark. “You’re sending mixed messages, sweetheart.”
I grit my teeth. “Maybe I just wanted the free drinks.”
His voice dips lower. “Or maybe you wanted to see what would happen if you pushed me.”
I spin, finally, shoving past him, shoulder clipping his chest. He lets me go, but I feel him smiling behind me.
My boots hit the sidewalk hard as I storm down the street. I’m already pulling out my phone to order an Uber when the screen lights up.
Unknown Number: You’re too pretty to walk home alone.
My pulse stutters and I stop walking. Another ping.
Unknown Number: Don’t worry. I’m watching. I won’t let anything happen to you. You look amazing in black, but you’d look better in nothing but my collar.
I spin in place, scanning the street, the rooftops, the shadows that feel a little too heavy now—but there’s nothing.
My fingers tighten around the phone, gripping it like a weapon I don’t actually know how to use. I’m not stupid. I know what this is. I know what it means when someone says they’re watching.
But I don’t know who it is—and that makes it worse.
Could be Tattoo Man? Hell, who else would it be? He’s already proven he’s the possessive, controlling type. Tracking me wouldn’t exactly be a stretch. Unless it’s Sloane fucking with me.
God. Please let it be Sloane or Sarah.
My pulse kicks harder as I glance down the street again, then force myself to walk at a normal pace, with normal posture. Like I’m not two seconds from spiraling into a full-blown panic.
Two blocks later, a pair of headlights crest the hill and pull to a stop at the curb. My Uber. I double-check the plate, my heart still racing, before sliding in.
The driver’s older, and has earbuds in. He’s half-listening to a baseball game, but doesn’t say a word as I slam the door and melt into the back seat, finally letting my shoulders drop.
I don’t relax. Not really. Because the whole ride home, I can’t stop thinking about that message. Who sent it? Who’s watching me?
By the time we pull up to my place, I’m already scanning the windows, the fire escape, the roofline across the street.
Nothing.
But I don’t let my guard down. Not even for a second. I don’t look over my shoulder when I unlock the front door, but every hair on my arms stands straight up like something’s breathing down my neck. I feel like I’m missing something.
Maybe I’m imagining it.
Probably.
Once I’m inside, I deadbolt the door, sliding the chain across, and I press my back against the wood like it might hold me up if I let it.
My phone buzzes again but I don’t move. I just stare at the floor, then slowly, I drag the screen up.
Unknown Number: Sweet dreams.
I stare at the message until my vision blurs.Sweet dreams?Ew. Two words too many, but it’s enough to make my skin crawl.
My thumb hovers over the screen, as my pulse skips. There’s a thousand things I could say.
