Page 82 of His To Erase
When she finally pulls back—just enough to glare at me with a look that says she wants to claw her way out of her own skin. She climbs off my lap without a word, straightening her shorts with shaking hands, and grabs the book she’d dropped and starts to walk away and doesn’t look back.
She’s been ignoringme all goddamn night. She just sent the other bartender over to take my order, eyes conveniently glued to the register like she didn’t know I was here.
Cute.
They’re slammed, sure. But she’s not that busy. Every time she walks past, she makes it a point not to look at me. Like I’m a ghost and if she pretends hard enough, I’ll disappear.
It’d be infuriating if she didn’t look so fucking good while doing it.
She’s still in those cut-off shorts—the ink on her thigh poking out, and those goddamn boots on like she’s ready to kill someone and look hot doing it. Her cropped tank clings to her chest, and every time she reaches for a bottle, it rides up just enough to show that sliver of skin I’ve already marked in my head.
I could sit here all night just watching her.
I don’t get the chance to say anything because her friend has already clocked me.
The name tag says Sarah—and I’ve seen it before, blown-up on her phone screen in those late-night texts. The ones that always start with ‘you okay’ and end with ‘want me to bury a body.’
Sarah slams a glass down in front of me like she’s trying to rattle a corpse.
“You again,” she says, one brow cocked, and her lips twisted in a knowing smirk. She’s got the kind of attitude that doesn’t ask permission—it announces itself. She’s definitely trouble.
I glance at her. “Didn’t order anything.”
“Didn’t ask,” she says. “Consider it on the house. Or an offering. Depends on how weird you plan on getting tonight.”
I lift the glass but don’t drink. “You always this friendly with your customers?”
“Only the ones who eye-fuck my best friend from the back booth like it’s a contact sport.”
That gets my attention. I turn toward her fully now, but she doesn’t back down.
“I don’t know who you think I am,” I murmur.
“No,” she fires back, cutting me off. “I know exactly who you are. You're the one who shows up like clockwork, and makes my girl forget how to breathe.”
I don’t answer, instead I just lean back in the booth, watching her, letting the silence press between us like a blade.
She taps the edge of the table with one red-painted nail. “Look. I’m not saying I don’t get it. She’s hot, unavailable, and emotionally constipated. It’s a whole thing. But if you hurt her…” She leans in, her smile going razor sharp. “I’ll end you. And I’ll make it look like an accident.”
I blink once. “You done?”
“Not even close.” She straightens, chin tilted like she’s daring me to ask what she means. Then she jerks her head toward the bar. “You’re welcome, stalker.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, watching her over the rim. “She told you about me?”
She snorts. “Sweetheart, she didn’t have to. I’ve seen that post-trauma glow. Plus, she came in looking like she got rearranged alphabetically.”
I nearly choke on my whiskey.
She grins, unbothered. “Relax. I think it’s romantic. In a feral, possible-felony kind of way.”
I shake my head, biting back a laugh. I glance toward Ani, who’s still pretending I don’t exist with her tight jaw, and her long hair twisted up like she’s trying not to think about the last time I had my hands in it.
Sarah follows my gaze, then leans in close, dropping the act just long enough for me to hear the warning in her voice. “Just so we’re clear? I’m dead ass serious, I don’t care how big and scary you think you are, I’ll stab this straw through your eye and make the lobotomy look accidental.”
Then she pats my arm like we’re best friends, spins on her heel, and walks off like she owns the place.
I watch her go, knowing exactly what she is—trouble in red lipstick and loyalty sharp enough to cut. She’s the kind of girl who’ll smile at you while slipping the knife between your ribs if you hurt someone she loves. And right now, she’s watching Ani like a hawk in eyeliner.
