Page 91 of Ghosted

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There’s coffee in my hand, smoke in the air, and music playing low from the speakers with just enough bass to make the room feel awake before it should be.

There's a knock at the door. My lips pull into a smirk, because from the weight of the hand, I know it’s my brother. Looks like he’s finally come to play.

He knocks harder as I saunter across the open living space, and when I open the door, Jagger is standing on the other side.

When I open the door, Jagger doesn’t wait for an invitation.

Instead, he shoves it wider with one hand and steps in like it’s his place.

Fresh shower. Damp hair. Black jeans, Chucks, black muscle shirt clinging to his shoulders.

He cleaned the blood off, but not the mood.

That’s still all over him.

His chest is up, jaw tight, and his knuckles split raw at his sides.

Fuming.

Beautifully.

“Well you look like shit,” I say.

He doesn’t even slow down.

The door hits the wall behind him, and then he’s in my space, forcing me back toward the counter without touching me yet.

Which is fucking cute, honestly.

All that rage and still trying to pretend he has manners.

“Stay the fuck away from Alice.”

His voice is low, his eyes dead, letting me know this isn’t a request.

I glance past him at the open door. “Good morning to you too.”

“Johnny.”

There’s the warning.

I smile into my coffee. “What? You pushed your way into my apartment before breakfast. I’m allowed to be a little offended.”

He steps closer, and this time his chest bumps mine.

Hard.

My back hits the counter.

The mug in my hand sloshes coffee over my fingers, hot enough to sting.

I look down at it, then back at him.

“Well,” I say, smiling wider, “You want a mug? You look like you could use one after spending the whole fucking night on her floor.”

Jagger goes still.