Page 22 of His To Erase
I blink at the screen.What the actual fuck.Taylor is the new girl, and I already don’t like her.
Ugh.
I groan, letting my head drop back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
I stare up at it, silently daring my boss to change his mind through sheer force of will.Yeah. That’ll happen. Right after men learn how to tip.
So instead of spending my one sacred, mythical day off scoping out potential bookshop locations like a functioning adult with dreams and ambition, I get to spend it dodging drunk idiots and pouring top-shelf whiskey for men who think a “nice smile” is a tip.
I sigh like the world has wronged me—which, honestly, it has—and shove the blankets off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed with the enthusiasm of a woman headed to her own funeral.
Fine.
If I have to go, I’m at least doing it with decent eyeliner and a soundtrack. Music first. Sanity second. Murder third.
I grab my phone and flick through the only playlist worth having when the world feels like a headache wrapped in a work shift.
Billie Eilish.
Just the right amount of don’t talk to me energy wrapped in velvet vocals and barely concealed rage.
I hit play and let the first notes roll in like fog, the kind of sound that settles into your bones before you even realize it’s there. They crawl up the walls, soak into the floor, and lodge somewhere behind my ribs.
It’s a vibe.
My vibe.
One I apparently needed like air.
Some people meditate. I let Billie haunt the room until I feel like a person again.
I twist my hair up, letting the strands fall where they want. It’s the kind of effortless that takes ten minutes and a handfulof cuss words. A swipe of eyeliner sharp enough to warn people. And a touch of highlighter I’ll pretend is accidental.
Just bold enough to say don’t even think about it.
Then comes the outfit.
I don’t reinvent the wheel—I just stick to black.
I land on a fitted top that hugs in all the right places but says I dare you more than look at me. High-waisted shorts. Sheer black tights. Topped off with my favorite boots, the ones with thick soles and bad decisions stitched into the seams.
They add an extra inch, but more importantly—they’ll let me put someone through a wall if it comes to that.
The shift starts fine enough.Annoying but manageable. It’s the usual crowd.
And then—of course—two drunk idiots decide to ruin everyone's night by taking their half-assed testosterone contest from slurred insults to swinging fists.
When I round the bar, glasses are shattering, chairs are screeching against the concrete, and one of them’s got the other in a chokehold so weak it’s mostly just aggressive cuddling.
I sigh, cracking my neck.
Why is it always the dumbest ones who want to fight in public?
"Alright, idiots," I call out, like I’m already bored. "Take it outside before I throw you both out myself."
The bigger one turns toward me, red-faced, sweaty, and way too full of false confidence.
"Mind your business, sweetheart."
