Page 42 of His To Erase
Sloane leans on the desk, narrowing her eyes. "Seriously, girl. Are you okay?"
I force a nod, already reaching to shut down the computer. "Didn’t sleep much."
"Well, you better find time to rest. You’re gonna burn out, Ani. And trust me, you’re way less fun when you're dead on your feet."
I offer her a ghost of a smile, one that probably doesn’t reach my eyes.
"Are you working tonight?" she asks.
"Yeah."
She groans. "Booze and bullshit. You really know how to treat yourself."
"Living the dream."
"You want to go out after. Just a few drinks. You need a break."
I pause, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The offer is harmless, normal even. It’s the kind of thing I should want. But the thought of sitting at a table surrounded by laughter and small talk makes my chest ache in a way I don’t understand. I’m not built for normal.
"Rain check?" I say quietly.
She just nods, too used to it to be offended.
"Your loss. Catch you later, spooky girl." She disappears behind the stacks, humming something upbeat just to spite me.
I shut everything down, grab my bag, and head out.
It’s colder than I expected. That kind of lingering cold that settles in your bones and makes you feel like the night’s already claimed you. I shove my hands into my coat pockets and tug my hoodie closer, slipping my headphones on as I start walking toward the bar.
The streets are quiet despite it being a Saturday night. Just the distant hum of traffic and the soft click of my boots on the pavement. I keep my head down, and let the music drown out the rest. Or at least I try to.
Halfway there, I get that weird feeling that something’s off. That tight, crawling sensation at the base of my neck, like someone’s watching me.
I don’t stop walking, but my body goes rigid. Every hair on my arms lifts, my pulse climbing a little too fast. I glance over my shoulder casually—but there’s nothing there. Just empty sidewalk and flickering street lamps.
Still, I pause the music. Just in case. But I still don’t see anyone.
I pick up the pace telling myself it’s just nerves and exhaustion. That my head’s playing games after the dream, after the power outage, and that knock on the window that I still haven’t explained away.
Still—my fingers curl tighter around the pepper spray in my pocket until I reach the bar.
The second I step inside, the noise hits like a wave. It’s loud and overwhelming, and smells like cheap cologne, spilled beer, and regret.
My kind of crowd.
Sarah’s already behind the bar when I walk in, hair piled on her head in a way that somehow makes her look both adorable and unbothered. She tosses a bar rag at me before I’ve even clocked in.
“You look like hell,” she says, grinning.
“You smell like gin and disappointment.” I grin back.
“Aw, babe. You missed me.”
“Only because you owe me twenty bucks from last week.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth behind it. This is our thing—banter first, breakdowns later.
I slide behind the bar, falling into a rhythm. Wiping counters, pouring drinks, and flashing just enough of a smile to keep the grabby ones from escalating.
