Chapter 4 #3
“You should be careful with him,” I say.
Her mouth flattens. “There’s the warning.”
“Not for you.”
“For who?”
“For him.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, close enough that she has to decide whether to move back. She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t, because apparently Alice Aster handles danger by insulting it until it either leaves or proves her right.
“Jagger likes things that look breakable and prove they aren’t,” I tell her. “He gets attached to damage. Makes him feel useful.”
“I’m not damaged.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“No.” I smile. “I implied my brother has a type.”
Alice’s gaze stays on mine. “And what do you like?”
Wrong question.
Best question.
I let the silence sit for a second because she should have time to regret asking. She doesn’t look like she does, which is unfortunate for both of us.
“What do I like?” I ask.
“That’s what I said.”
I stand slowly and walk around the table. Alice tracks me with her eyes but doesn’t move, even when I stop beside her chair and look down at the open anatomy book.
Rib cage. Sternum. Lungs. Heart.
Very subtle, Alice.
“I like finding out where people keep the part they don’t want touched,” I say. “Then I touch it.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s actually very relaxing.”
“For you.”
“Obviously.”
She turns in her chair to face me properly, putting her knee close to my leg without touching. Her hand stays on the camera. The other rests near the edge of the book, fingers spread over the page like she can cover the bones from me.
I point at the diagram. “Is that why you like this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“Bodies. Bones. Dead men in old books.”
“It’s not about dead men.”
“No?”
“No.” She looks down at the page, then back at me. “It’s about what people look like when you remove everything they use to pretend.”
Well fuck. Now I understand why Jagger likes her.
That is annoying.
I bend slightly, bringing myself closer to her level. “Careful, Alice.”
“With what?”
“Looking too deep. Sometimes you find shit you can’t put back.”
Her mouth curves, but it isn’t soft. “You rehearsed that.”
“I did.” I lean closer, dropping my voice like I’m giving her something private. “In the mirror. Shirtless.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are. Still listening.”
“Against my will.”
“Sure.” My gaze drops to her mouth for half a second, just long enough to make her notice, then comes back up. “That’s what they all say when they’re enjoying themselves.”
Alice’s eyes narrow, but the attitude doesn’t quite cover the color climbing her cheeks. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I think you kinda like, it, dead girl.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
“When someone gives me a better use for my mouth.”
That lands.
Her fingers tighten around the edge of the anatomy book, and for a second, all that sharp little confidence of hers slips into something quieter. Not scared. Not exactly. More like she’s annoyed her body heard me before her brain had time to roll its eyes.
Fuck, that’s pretty.
I laugh under my breath and reach toward the table, not for her, or the camera, but for one of the photos lying beside the book. Alice moves fast, her hand shooting out to catch my wrist before my fingers touch the print.
Good girl.
Her fingers are cold from the basement, silver rings pressing into my skin, and she realizes what she did a second after she does it. I see the realization move across her face, see the little flare of irritation because letting go too fast would make it obvious she noticed too.
So she doesn’t.
She keeps her hand on me.
I look down at her grip, then back at her. “Well,” I say softly. “That was bold.”
“Don’t touch my work.”
“Bossy.”
“Careful.”
“Oh, I like when you say that.” I turn my wrist slightly, not enough to break her hold, just enough that my thumb brushes the inside of hers. “Sounds better from you.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’re not as charming as you think you are.”
“I know.” I smile. “That’s why it’s annoying when it works anyway.”
“It’s not working.”
“No?” I glance at her hand still wrapped around my wrist. “Then what are we calling this?”
Alice looks down like she forgot she was touching me.
She lets go.
Slowly.
Not fast enough to prove anything.
“Me stopping you from being an asshole,” she says.
“Sweetheart, that’s ambitious as fuck.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“What do you want me to call you?”
“Gone.”
I grin. “That’s not a name.”
“It can be yours.”
Fuck.
I really do like her mouth.
I shouldn’t. I don’t want to. Liking her makes this messy, and messy is supposed to be Jagger’s thing. I’m here to poke, press, and see what bleeds. I am not here to enjoy the way Alice Aster glares at me like she might bite if I move too close.
Which, naturally, makes me want to move closer.
I nod toward the photo beside her hand. “Isn’t that the whole point of photography?”
Alice’s eyes stay on mine. “What?”
“You point that little camera at people, take what you want from them, then hang it up for strangers to stare at.” I smile. “Sounds pretty fucking invasive when you say it honestly.”
Her fingers tighten near the print. “I choose what my work becomes.”
“Sure.” I lean in a little, voice dropping. “But what happens when the thing you’re looking at decides it wants to look back?”
Her grip tightens on the edge of the table this time instead of my wrist, like she learned too late that touching me gave away more than she wanted.
Smart.
Still too late.
Before I can enjoy that little crack properly, footsteps sound above us.
Not heavy. Not close yet.
But familiar.
My smile widens before I even look away from her.
Alice catches the change in my face, and her expression sharpens. “What?”
I don’t get a chance to answer before the sound of footsteps come down the stairs, slow and controlled, which is hilarious because Jagger only walks like that when he’s about to do something stupid and wants everyone to think he’s being reasonable.
My brother has two moods: silent murder and pretending silent murder is not currently on the menu.
Alice lets go of the table and looks toward the aisle.
Too late, pretty girl.
He already saw enough.
Jagger appears between the shelves with his hood down and rain in his hair, eyes cutting straight to where Alice’s hand had been on me, then to me standing too close beside her chair, then to the photos spread open beside the anatomy book.
His face gives nothing away.
That’s how I know he’s pissed.
Beautiful.