Chapter 6 #2
I drop my bag on the counter, hang my coat over the back of a chair, and start setting up without letting myself think too hard. Developer. Stop bath. Fixer. Tongs. Trays lined in a neat row.
Steps help.
They don’t ask questions. Because they don’t care if your life has suddenly become a bad decision with cheekbones and a criminal record waiting to happen.
The red light comes on, turning the room that familiar darkroom red that always makes everything look a little haunted and a little pretentious.
Basically, perfect for an arts building.
A few old bulbs hang from thin silver chains on the ceiling, swaying every time the building makes one of its dramatic old-building noises.
The shadows move over the counters, the trays, the peeling Halloween flyers outside the door.
Rain taps against the narrow windows near the ceiling, and somewhere above me, water rushes through the gutters like the weather is also having a breakdown.
Usually, I like it down here.
The darkroom makes sense. No one talks or stares. No one wears a creepy mask in the woods and ruins your ability to be normal.
Tonight, I start with the warehouse photos because those should be safe.
They’re for class. For my project. Very academic and serious. Very “please ignore the fact that the subject of these photos had me against a cemetery wall less than twenty-four hours ago.”
Totally fine.
Love a well-rounded education.
Jagger appears first.
In the cage. Half-turned. One fist raised with blood on his mouth. The crowd behind him is blurred and messy, but he’s clear. Annoyingly clear. Calm in that very Jagger way, like violence is just another Tuesday and everyone else is being dramatic about it.
I clip the print up, and then stare at it.
Then realize I’m staring at it and immediately hate myself.
“Great,” I mutter. “What the fuck is wrong with you Alice.”
Normally, I like watching photos develop.
There’s something calming about it. The tray, the chemicals, the slow way an image starts to appear like the paper is deciding whether it trusts me with the truth. It gives my brain something simple to follow. A process. A beginning, middle, end.
Very unlike my current life, which seems to have skipped the process and gone straight to whatever the fuck this is.
But these photos aren’t helping.
Because every time another piece of Jagger shows up through the chemicals, my mind goes right back to the woods.
I move to the next print and watch him appear slowly.
First the shape of his shoulder, then his arm, then his hand forcing his opponent back into the fence.
Another photo comes after that, Jagger looking straight at my lens after the flash, blood on his mouth, eyes calm in a way that makes absolutely no sense for a man standing in the middle of a fight.
I should be thinking about composition. Contrast. Movement. The cage cutting through the frame. All the very serious academic reasons I came down here in the first place.
Instead, I look at his hands and remember them on my hips. I look at his mouth and remember it against my skin. I look at the blood on his lip and remember his tongue dragging over the cut he left under my shirt.
My stomach flips.
Traitor.
The next image settles into focus, and there are his eyes again. Locked on the camera like he already knew I’d be stupid enough to keep looking.
That’s the problem.
Jagger Cutter is dangerous. Obviously. I have eyes, a functioning brain, and at least three survival instincts buried somewhere under the eyeliner and poor impulse control.
But he makes dangerous feel personal.
Like he isn’t just violent. He’s violent and paying attention. Violent and choosing me. Violent in a way that makes my brain go, Okay, this seems unhealthy, but maybe we hear him out for five more minutes.
Which is exactly the kind of thought that gets girls killed in movies.
I lift the next print with the tongs and let out a quiet laugh, because apparently this is who I am now. Self-aware enough to know better, still stupid enough to keep developing photos of the problem.
“Excellent work, Alice,” I mutter. “Truly groundbreaking survival skills.”
The darkroom stays quiet.
Rude, but fair.
I clip the last warehouse print to the line and step back.
Jagger fills the darkroom from every angle.
In the cage. Against the fence. Blood on his mouth. Eyes locked on my camera like he already knew I’d keep looking.
I laugh under my breath, because apparently this is who I am now. Self-aware enough to know Jagger Cutter is dangerous, stupid enough to stand here surrounded by proof that I still can’t get him out of my head.
The worst part is how personal he makes it feel.
Violence should be easy to hate. It should be simple. Loud man. Bad choices. Run away. Done.
Except Jagger looks at me like he means it. Like all that ugly focus has picked a direction, and unfortunately, the direction is me.
Which is exactly the kind of thought that gets girls killed in movies.
“Excellent,” I mutter, staring at the photos. “Love being aware of the red flag and still walking toward it.”
Something shifts near the doorway.
I turn fast.
Johnny Cutter leans against the frame like he’s been there long enough to enjoy the show.
My stomach drops, but I keep my face still.
His smile says he noticed anyway.
“Darkroom really suits you,” he says.
I grab the tongs off the counter before I can think better of it, which is unfortunate, because Johnny looks at them, then at me, then grins like I’ve just handed him the funniest possible version of this moment.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “No hello? No nice to see you? No, Johnny, thank God you’re here, this room was getting painfully under-supervised?”
“It’s a restricted room.”
“I know. Very exciting.”
“You’re not allowed to be in here.”
“Technically, I’m not allowed in a lot of places.” His eyes move lazily over the trays, the hanging prints, the red light bleeding over the walls. “That’s never really stopped being charming.”
“It’s not charming.”
“Give it time.”
I lift the tongs, because apparently I’ve committed to this now. “Leave.”
Johnny’s gaze drops to my hand again, and his smile gets worse. “Are those your weapon of choice, or did I interrupt before you could grab something scarier?”
“They’re metal.”
“They’re tongs.”
“They’ll still hurt.”
“I believe in you.”
I hate that my mouth almost twitches, and I hate more that he catches it. Johnny Cutter looks like the kind of guy who could spot a bad decision from across campus and immediately introduce himself.
“There,” he says softly. “See? We’re bonding.”
“We are absolutely not bonding.”
“No? Shame. I already felt us growing.”
I take a step back without meaning to, and the counter bumps my hip. His eyes drop, but not to the counter. Lower. My sweater has shifted from the movement, just enough for the stretched collar to slip and show the thin red cut on the curve of my breast.
Jagger’s mark.
Johnny goes still for half a second, and then he smiles like someone just handed him the answer key.
“Oh,” he says.
I yank the fabric up. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Look.”
“Alice.” His voice turns soft, almost offended. “I would never disrespect art like that.”
“That’s not art.”
“No?” He takes one step closer, slow and easy. “Could’ve fooled me. Looks intentional.”
His brows lift, and one look says he knows I’m lying, knows I know I’m lying, and is already bored of waiting for me to catch up.
“Right,” he says.
“Seriously, can you just get out? I’m trying to work.”
“Oh, I’m going to,” he says, still smiling. “Eventually.”
The red light swings above us on its thin silver chain, throwing his shadow across the wall behind him. He doesn’t move like Jagger. Jagger takes up space because he can’t help it. Johnny chooses exactly how much room to steal and makes you notice every inch after it’s gone.
His eyes flick to the prints behind me.
Johnny’s smile sharpens. “Poor little idiot.”
My stomach tightens. “What?”
“Jagger.” He nods toward the mark hidden under my sweater. “He really thought putting his hands on you first meant something.”
“It did.”
That comes out too fast.
Johnny’s eyes come back to mine, and for once, his smile almost disappears. Almost. Then it returns, smaller and meaner.
“Oh, pretty girl.” He laughs under his breath. “You should not have said that.”
I grip the tongs harder. “Why?”
“Because now I know which part hurts.”
My pulse jumps, and he sees that too. Johnny steps closer, so I lift the tongs between us, trying very hard to look like a girl who has a plan and not a girl holding photography equipment like a weapon because a very pretty psychopath found her alone in a basement.
“Don’t.”
He stops immediately.
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t, because he looks delighted.
“Look at you,” he says. “All brave with your little murder salad fork.”
“It’s not a salad fork.”
“That’s your takeaway?”
“Your face is about to be.”
He laughs, real and low, and the sound makes my skin prickle. Jagger’s laugh feels like trouble. Johnny’s feels like evidence being hidden.
“You’re funny,” he says.
“I’m serious.”
He reaches up, slow enough that I track every movement, and catches the chain above him between two fingers. The red bulb sways, making the room tilt in and out of shadow. “That’s what makes this fun.”
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing the lighting.”
“That’s not funny. You’re going to mess up my prints.”
“No,” he says, looking at me through the red glow. “But you keep telling me things aren’t funny like I’m supposed to care, and well, I couldn’t give a fuck about you’re silly little prints.”
My throat tightens as he twists the bulb loose. The room dips darker, not black, worse than black. Red and shadow and Johnny’s smile too clear in the middle of it.
I should run. I know that. I even look at the door, because apparently my brain would like to submit one final suggestion before making peace with the consequences.
Johnny follows my eyes, then sighs like I’ve disappointed him. “Alice.”
“What?”