Page 106 of Ghosted

My hands curl at my sides. I should ignore him. I should lock the deadbolt and leave him out there until he gets bored or arrested or hit by a bus.

Instead, I stare at the door.

“What do you want?”

“Right now?” he asks. “A warmer welcome.”

“Try hell.”

He laughs, low and pleased, and I hate that sound. I hate that my body still knows what to do with it.

“I’m serious, Johnny. Leave.”

“See, I would,” he says, “but you sound pissed, and now I’m curious.”

“I’m not your entertainment.”

“No,” he says. “You’re my favorite bad decision this week.”

My jaw tightens. I cross the room and unlock the door before I can talk myself out of it. I open it only a few inches, keeping my hand on the edge, because apparently I enjoy pretending terrible choices have safety features.

Johnny stands in the hall with one shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets, smile already waiting. His hair is a little messy, his mouth a little swollen, a split lip, and his eyes are bright in that awful way that makes him look more awake when everyone else should be tired.

He looks at my face first. Johnny always knows where to look when he wants to hurt someone.

“There she is,” he says.

God, I hate him.

“What do you want?”

His smile widens. “Well, that’s a bad question, pretty thing.”

I start to shut the door, but his hand comes up and catches it, just enough to keep it from closing, which pisses me off more than if he forced his way in.

“Move your hand.”

“Make me.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s a lie.” His eyes move over me, slow now, taking in the coat on the floor behind me, my messy hair, and the look on my face I apparently forgot to fix before opening the door. “You’re very much in a mood.”

“Good. Use context clues and leave.”

“Nah.” His smile sharpens. “I want to know who ruined your day.”

I say nothing.

Johnny’s eyes brighten.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Was it my brother?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes.”

“I said shut up.”