Page 23 of Ghosted

Maybe she’ll even believe it.

People do that all the time.

Take the smallest piece of you, build a whole fucking fantasy around it, then act betrayed when you don’t crawl inside and play the part they wrote for you.

Cute.

Pathetic, but cute.

I find a spot near the betting table where I can see most of the room without looking like I’m watching anything at all. That’s an art form, looking lazy while paying attention. Looking bored while memorizing every exit, every hand, every threat, every stupid little secret the room keeps bleeding out without realizing it.

Most people watch with their eyes.

Amateurs.

I watch with everything.

Alice had that too.

A way of watching without announcing herself.

She knew how to disappear in plain sight, dressed in black lace, silver crosses, and boots heavy enough to make the floor remember her. Somehow, she still stood like a shadow. Quiet and deliberate. Already convinced the room would look past her because she’d decided it should.

Most people wear black because they want attention.

Alice wore it like armor. Like a pretty little warning.

I drag another cigarette from the pack and hold it between my teeth while I light it. The flame catches, bright and orange, and for one stupid second, all I can see is her face when I said her name.

Alice.

The way her brows lifted when I offered my hand. The way she didn’t flinch when I held on a little too long. The way her attention moved between me and Jagger, quiet and sharp, like she was building a photograph out of everything we weren’t saying.

Interesting little thing.

But she isn’t the point yet.

Jagger is.

The way he reacted when she took my hand. The vein near his jaw. The shift in his shoulders and that sweet little fucking flash of murder in his eyes before he remembered he was supposed to be the controlled one.

Fuck, that got to him.

Her fingers in mine. The fact that she let me touch her. The fact that for half a second, Jagger had to stand there and watch someone else step into a space he was already pretending he hadn’t claimed.

That’s the part I keep turning over in my head.

Not her hand.

His face.

Because Alice might be interesting, but Jagger’s reaction to her?

That’s fucking addictive.

The tension in his shoulders stayed with me.

So did the step he took when she left, like his body had already made the decision before that locked-up brain of his could drag it back into line.