Page 24 of His To Erase
Another impulse buried.
I take a slow breath, exhaling through my nose, trying to shake off the heat crawling beneath my skin.
Ever since the incident—the one I don’t let myself name—these thoughts come too fast and I hate it.
I hate that violence feels like muscle memory now. That my first instinct is no longer to flinch—but to fight.
I exhale again, this time slower. Letting the pulse in my throat finally settle.
My hand finds the bottle of whiskey without looking, already halfway through pouring myself a drink that isn’t technically allowed but is absolutely earned. Then I turn back to the bar—and I freeze.
There’s a guy tucked in the farthest corner, just outside the reach of the bar lights. I can’t see much of him, just his broad shoulders, long legs, and the kind of stillness that feels intentional.
My stomach flips before my brain has a chance to play catch-up. If danger had a favorite seat, it’s definitely the one he’s in.
He’s not drinking,or I would’ve been over there by now.
I can’t tell if his eyes are on me or the door or nothing at all—but I feel it. That prickle. That old, familiar whisper of instinct that says you’re not alone.
Whatever. Not my problem. If he wants a drink, he’ll come ask for one like everyone else. I shove the thought away and turn back to the bar, forcing myself to focus. I pour drinks, take orders, and pretend the exhaustion dragging claws down my spine isn’t winning.
A familiar buzz rattles against my thigh, so I pull out my phone when no one’s watching and glance at the screen.
Sarah: Still dying, thanks for asking. Send whiskey and forgiveness. Preferably in that order.
Me:You’re the worst coworker I’ve ever had. And I’ve worked with a guy who used to put pickles in his pockets.
Sarah: Hot. What’s happening? Anyone cute? Any murders?
I glance at the far corner, feeling the weight of his stare, and I don’t know why, but I bet that man would be a good time just based on his energy alone.
Me: One possible shadow-dwelling psycho in the corner. Jury’s out. Could be hot. Could be a hallucination.
Sarah: DO NOT BANG A HAUNTED MAN, HOE.
I tuck my phone away with a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, but it fades quickly, because when I look back up—the table is empty. And yet… I feel it. The air thickens with gravity that wasn’t there a second ago.
I feel it before I see it and my pulse kicks up.Traitor.
It’s him.
Tattoo man.
Library guy.
Mr. Philosophy with murder eyes and a jawline that belongs in a museum I wouldn’t survive.
He’s all dark gaze, broad shoulders and carved-from-trouble energy wrapped in bad decisions. And somehow—some-fucking-how—he looks better than I remember. Which should be illegal. Or at least taxed.
Let’s be honest—I didn’t do him justice.
Not even close.
He steps up to the bar, placing both hands on the counter like he owns it. The ink on his knuckles stands out against his skin, intricate and brutal—a warning dressed as art. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t need to.
"Whiskey. Neat," he says.
His voice is exactly how I remember it—low, deliberate, and smooth enough to be velvet but threaded with something darker. It’s a punch straight to my pussy.
