Page 43 of His To Erase
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. It’s probably Sloane again—trying to rope me into drinks, karaoke, or some other extrovert-coded nonsense I’m definitely not emotionally equipped for.
Sarah catches the movement out of the corner of her eye and arches a brow like she’s about to start shit.
“Ooooh. Who are you texting?” she teases, leaning in with her drink tray like this is a gossip emergency.
“Did you meet someone and not tell me? Rude.”
I snort. “It’s Sloane.”
“Of course it is. You know she’s gonna show up if you keep ghosting her, right?”
“Let her. I’ve got barstools and sarcasm. I’ll survive.”
She grins, that wicked sister energy in full force. “You’re so emotionally stunted, it’s kind of impressive.”
“Thanks. It’s my coping skill of choice.”
She laughs and wanders off to take an order like we didn’t just have a full-blown therapy session in under thirty seconds.
The phone buzzes again.
And again.
Then once more—this time with the kind of urgency that feels personal. Whoever it is, clearly knows I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t exist.
I sigh, wiping my hands on a bar towel before sliding my phone from my apron pocket.
Unknown Number: You look sinful tonight in black.
My stomach drops.
I glance down at my outfit like it might’ve changed in the last ten seconds. I’m wearing a black tank top, jeans, and my usual boots.
Nothing special. Nothing new. Nothing that screams sinful.
Unknown Number: Tell me, love. Did you wear it for me?
My gaze lifts slowly, sweeping the room.
It’s packed—shoulder to shoulder—but the shadows beyond the bar are too thick to make out anyone in particular. Just silhouettes and noise. A blur of bodies that all start to look the same.
I delete the message, and slip my phone back in my pocket, ignoring the spike in my blood pressure.
It’s not the first time some drunk loser tried to get clever. But when it pings again—an hour later—I flinch.
Unknown Number: Keep ignoring me. See what happens.
I tell myself it’s a joke.
Just some regular playing games—someone who caught my name and decided to push. It happens. I’ve seen worse.
I’m behind the bar, rinsing glasses, ignoring the sticky feeling of sweat clinging to the back of my neck when Sarah slides in beside me, snagging a half-full beer glass and wrinkling her nose.
“Why do they always leave a quarter inch of warm foam, that’s disgusting.”
“Because men don’t finish things they start.”
I say it without looking up, and she cackles.
