Page 5 of His To Erase
“You got a name, baby?”
I blink once, keeping my expression neutral and polite, but I’m already fighting the urge to dump his drink in his lap.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s No.”
He chuckles like I just flirted with him. I’ve been here a hundred times before—it’s just another night, and another man who mistakes disinterest for challenge.
“Feisty,” he grins, like he thinks he’s original. “I like that.”
I don’t.
I don’t like that he’s still staring, his eyes haven’t left my chest once. I really don’t like that familiar pressure behind my ribs—that quiet alarm that’s always right.
“Bar’s closing soon,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “Which means you should finish your drink and leave.”
There’s a long enough pause for me to glance at the door, clocking who’s left. Counting how many more minutes I’ll have to pretend for. I don’t keep pepper spray taped under the register for nothing.
“Not before I get your number."
I meet his eyes, letting my expression drop into something cold and bored. "You think I give my number out to drunk men? Let alone ones who can’t take a hint?"
He blinks, trying to process, but I don’t wait for a reply. I grab his glass, dump the contents into the sink, and slap his check down in front of him.
"Last call," I say, my voice sickly sweet. "Pay up."
The man glares at me but pulls out his wallet. I don’t move until he drops a few bills on the counter, stumbling slightly before making his way out.
I don’t breathe until the door swings shut behind him.
By the time I finally step outside, the night air is sharp as it creeps beneath my jacket. The streets are quiet, just the occasional car rolling by, headlights cutting through the dark. I pull out my phone and glance at the text from Frank.
If you need a ride, just let me know.
No thanks.
The last thing I need is another favor I didn’t ask for. I walk fast, my boots hitting the pavement in steady, measured steps, but something feels… off.
Notnormal-girl-walking-alone-at-nightoff. Not evencity-level-cautionoff.
It’s the kind of off that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like they’ve been personally briefed on incoming danger.
I glance over my shoulder, but the street’s empty. Every instinct I have is screaming. Not whispering. Not nudging. Screaming.
I know what it feels like to be followed. I know the difference between anxiety and experience. But it’s not paranoia if it’s happened before, right?
My keys are already in my hand by the time I turn the corner. I don’t look back again, because looking back makes it real.
My heart’s hammering by the time I reach my building. The entrance is half in shadow, and the flickering light above the door is doing that lovely horror-movie thing where it buzzes once, then goes dark.
Perfect.
I shove the key into the lock, twist, and duck inside like the door might disappear behind me. Then I slam it shut and lock it, pressing my back to it, just for good measure.
I don’t hear anything.
No footsteps.
No breathing.
