Page 24 of Ghosted

That wasn’t just lust.

Lust is easy. Jagger can want someone and still walk away. He’s done it plenty. Women throw themselves at him after fights, all flushed cheeks and terrible fucking judgment, wanting to touch the blood before it dries. He ignores most of them. Takes some home when he’s bored enough, angry enough, or desperate enough to feel human without having to say anything honest.

Alice wasn’t that.

Nope, she was quieter.

Worse.

She made him shift.

And Jagger doesn’t shift for people. He builds walls and calls them boundaries. Locks doors and calls it discipline. Keeps everyone at arm’s length, then acts like he’s too fucking evolved to want anyone closer.

Then Alice walked in with her camera, her steady eyes, and that rude little mouth, and my brother started making space without even realizing he’d moved.

Rude as fuck, honestly.

A shout goes up near the cage as one of the frat boys finally lands a decent hit. The crowd surges forward, hungry all over again, and someone stumbles into my side hard enough to slosh beer down my sleeve.

I look at the wet stain.

Then at the idiot holding the empty cup.

He freezes so fast it’s almost impressive.

“Shit,” he says, eyes darting over my face. “Sorry, man. Accident.”

I stare at him for a second, then smile.

His face gets worse.

“Relax.” I pat his cheek once, light enough to look friendly, firm enough to make his breath catch. “Accidents happen.”

Relief flickers across his face, stupid and bright.

Poor thing.

He actually believes me.

I turn back toward the betting table and wipe my sleeve with a napkin someone abandoned there, slow and bored, like he’s already stopped existing to me. The guy exhales behind me, nervous little laugh slipping out as he starts to step away.

I let him get one foot into feeling safe.

Then I slide the butterfly knife from my pocket.

It opens with a clean little flick, metal snapping into place against my palm like it’s happy to be useful. Pretty thing. Quick thing. The kind of blade that looks like a trick until it’s already under someone’s skin.

I turn with it hidden low against my wrist.

Fast enough to be missed, but close enough to look friendly.

The blade goes in with that first stubborn push, flesh and muscle resisting for half a heartbeat before his body gives up and lets me inside.

Fuck.

There it is.

That hot little rush under my skin. The quiet snap in my head where everything ugly finally has somewhere to go. Some people need prayer. Some need confession. I’ve always preferred the honest sound a body makes when it realizes the night just stopped belonging to it.