Page 20 of Ghosted

Because getting my brother going has always been one of my favorite games, and she just handed me the match, the gasoline, and the perfect place to strike.

“You know,” I say, tipping ash onto the floor, “you’re getting real fucking bossy for someone pretending he doesn’t give a shit.”

His jaw flexes. “Stay out of it.”

I blink at him, all innocence and smoke. “Out of what?”

“Johnny.”

Fuck, I love when he says my name like that.

Like a warning. Like a threat. Like a pretty little prayer he’d rather choke on than admit he’s saying.

“What?” I lift my brows. “I’m making conversation.”

“You don’t make conversation.”

“Sure I do.”

“You start fires and act surprised when shit burns.”

My smile spreads because, Christ, maybe I taught him too well. “That was almost poetic. Did camera girl make you soft, or are you just bleeding into your feelings now?”

His hand twitches at his side.

Not a fist.

Not fully.

But Jagger is careful with his tells, and careful doesn’t mean invisible. Not to me. Never to me.

I lean in slightly, grinning around the cigarette.

“There it is,” I murmur.

His stare gets meaner. “There what is?”

“The fucking look.”

“I don’t have a fucking look.”

“No. You do,” I step closer, just enough to make the space between us feel smaller. Meaner. “And this one, god, it’s my fucking favorite.”

The corner of his mouth curls, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

“You need a hobby.”

“Oh, I’ve got hobbies.” I take a slow drag, smoke burning sweet in my lungs before I let my gaze slide toward the door Alice disappeared through. “But I think I just found a new one.”

Jagger’s eyes go flat.

There he is.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

I look back at him, smile already spreading. “Nothing.”