Page 86 of Ghosted

“Go check on your girl,” he calls, voice almost swallowed by the crowd. “She probably still smells like me.”

Then he laughs, and walks away.

I don’t wait for the referee. Don’t wait for the winner's call. I ignore the hands trying to shove me back toward the center of the cage.

I storm out of the warehouse with blood on my hands and Alice in my fucking head.

Johnny can laugh all he wants.

First, I’m going to find her, and then, then I’m going to fucking kill him.

I leave the cage with blood on my hands and murder sitting quiet behind my teeth.

People shout after me. The referee. The bookie. Some asshole at the door yelling about the fight like I give a fuck about rules right now. I shove through bodies, and when someone grabs my shoulder, I turn on him so fast he lets go before I have to make him.

Smart.

The crowd is still screaming Wraith behind me, drunk on what they think they saw. A fighter losing control. A bad fucking night. A man getting carried away because violence feels good once people start chanting your name.

They didn’t see shit.

They didn’t see Johnny at the fence with that grin on his face. They didn’t hear what he said low enough for me to carry alone, or how easy he made it look, pressing the right spot until everything inside me went still before it went violent.

My jaw aches from the hit I let land. My cheekbone pulses. My knuckles are split open under the tape, sticky with blood that isn’t all mine, and none of it matters because the wrong body went down in that cage.

Johnny walked away.

That’s the only thing in my head when I push out of the cage and into the crush of the warehouse.

I don’t stay for the winner call. Don’t let them lift my hand or wait for the crowd to get another look at the monster they paid to see.

I shove through them and head straight for the back door.

Cold air cuts across my face when I step into the alley, sharp enough to clear the sweat for half a second. Rain drifts down through the dark, turning the pavement black under the warehouse lights. Behind me, the noise dulls to a low roar, but Johnny’s voice stays clear in my skull.

She’s fine.

I unchained her.

Not walking in tonight, though.

Not after everything we did.

My hand curls around my phone before I remember pulling it out.

I call Alice.

It rings until her voicemail picks up.

I hang up and call again.

Same thing.

By the third call, my grip is tight enough to make the phone creak. I need her to answer. Need to hear her breathing, swearing, telling me I’m a psycho and she’s fine and to leave her the fuck alone.

Anything.

The silence is worse than the rage.