Page 100 of His To Erase
What the fuck am I doing? How did I even get here, and what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
I’m in his kitchen—his territory—bloodstained and exhausted, trying to remember why I ever thought I had the upper hand. This man stripped me, stitched me, touched me like I was his... and walked away like I was irrelevant.
My eyes flick toward the hallway he disappeared down.
Am I supposed to wait?
No. Fuck that.
My brain feels scrambled—but I push to my feet and head down the same hallway he vanished into.
The floor’s cold beneath my feet, and the house is silent. As soon as I reach the guest room, I close the door behind me, leaning against it longer than I should.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back. My skin is bruised, my lips are cracked, and I’m still wearing a shirt that doesn’t belong to me.
I glance toward the nightstand—and freeze. My bag.
Fuck.Sarah.
I snatch it up, digging for my phone like it’s the only thing tethering me to what’s left of normal. The screen lights up with unread messages.
Sarah: Are you alive???
Sarah: Bitch I’m gonna kill you
Sarah: You disappear and now I'm googling what to do if your best friend gets kidnapped by a hot felon. You have 24 hours to contact me before I start to actually worry.
I huff out a breath that might be a laugh or a sob. It’s hard to tell the difference right now.
Then I see the other texts.
Frank: It’s been long enough. We’re having dinner. I need to talk to you.
Frank: I’ll pick you up tonight. Wear something I like.
My stomach flips. And not in a good way. More like a…crawl-out-of-your-skin kinda way.Wear something I like.How about you fuck off and I wear a paper bag.
I don’t know what the hell kind of vibe I put out that men think they can just tell me what to do—but apparently I’ve got welcome mat energy, and I fucking hate it.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
I should say no, I want to say no, but I know he’ll just keep asking. Maybe I should just go, and we can actually talk.
Me: Fine. But only for dinner. I’ll get my own ride.
I hit send and immediately want to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I exhale, flipping to Sarah’s name, and text her before she sends out a search party.
Me: I’m alive. Not kidnapped. Just emotionally damaged and possibly making stupid decisions.
Me: Can we meet for lunch later? I need… a reset. And maybe a taser. I’ll fill you in then.
I toss the phone onto the bed and press the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars bloom behind my lids.
What the fuck am I doing?Seems to be the question of the century.
I head for the closet looking for anything I can wear out of here. I’m not about to leave in an oversized shirt.
There aren’t many clothes, just a few black tees, sweats, and a hoodie. All his. I grab a pair of black sweats and a plain white tee that smells like cedar and clean linen—like him, which pisses me off more than it should.
