Chapter 11 #2
For one second, everything goes stupidly silent.
Then Alice starts fighting.
She comes up hard, choking before she gets a full breath, one hand slapping the surface while the other claws at my shirt. Water runs down her face, into her mouth, and she coughs so violently her whole body jerks.
“Fuck you!” she spits, half cough, half gasp.
I laugh because she’s still trying. Because even terrified, Alice Aster has the nerve to sound pissed at me.
She kicks away, reaching for the ledge, and for half a second she almost gets it. Her fingers smack against wet tile, slip, grab again.
I catch her before she can pull herself up.
She claws at the ledge, coughing hard, dragging in messy little breaths like she’s earned them.
I lean close, smiling against the side of her face. “What was that you said?”
“Let me go.”
“No, no.” My grip tightens. “The other thing.”
Her chest jumps with another frantic inhale, water running down her face, her lashes, her open mouth. She glares at me through it, still furious, still trying to make hate look stronger than fear.
Stubborn fucking girl.
“You don’t want my hands on you,” I say. “You don’t want my eyes on you.” My smile fades into something colder. “You don’t even want to breathe the same fucking air as me.”
Her expression changes.
“So don’t,” I whisper.
She swings at me, but it’s messy now, panic making her movements wild. I catch her wrist and drag her back before she can get her feet under her.
“Johnny—”
“You don’t want my air?” I say, voice low and calm in a way that feels worse than yelling. “Fine, pretty thing.”
Her breath catches.
I smile.
“Stop fucking breathing it.”
Then I shove her under.
She fights immediately, both hands locking around my wrist as bubbles tear out of her mouth. Her knee catches me in the ribs, pain flashing hot enough to loosen my grip for one second before I force it back.
She breaks the surface once, sucking in air so hard it sounds painful.
“Johnny—”
I push her down again before she can finish my name.
Now she knows.
Now it isn’t anger. It’s survival.
Her hands claw at my arms, my neck, my face. Her feet scrape against the wall, but the tile is slick and she can’t get enough leverage to shove me off.
Water churns white around us as she gets her mouth above the surface again, barely, trying to scream before it turns into a wet, ugly gasp.
For a second, she panics so hard I almost lose her.
Almost.
I drag her back, one arm locked around her, my hand at the back of her neck. She bucks and twists against me, all frantic muscle and furious life, until it starts changing in pieces. The kicks lose rhythm. Her hands miss more than they grab.
Her nails drag down my arm one last time, weaker than before.
Maybe that should feel different.
Maybe I’m too fucked up to care.
I keep holding on because I don’t trust mercy, and I sure as fuck don’t trust luck.
Her grip is the last thing to go.
Those furious little fingers locked around my wrist, nails buried in my skin, holding on like hate alone might be enough to drag her back up.
Then they loosen. Not all at once.
One finger slips. Then another.
Her hand drifts away from me beneath the water, slow and useless, and that’s when she finally goes still.
When I let go, she doesn’t sink the way people think bodies sink.
She drifts.
Her hair spreads around her face. Tiny bubbles slip from her mouth and break against the surface.
For a moment, I just stare.
Then I remember Jagger, and the hollow feeling becomes useful.
I haul myself out first, water pouring off my clothes and slapping onto the tile. My hands shake once, quick and annoying, before I curl them into fists and make them stop.
Then I look back.
Alice drifts near the lane rope, hoodie dark around her body, hair spread across the water while the pool keeps moving for her.
Beautiful.
Fucked and mine to use.
A laugh slips out of me, but it isn’t happy. It’s sharp and pissed and a little breathless, because fuck her for making me do it, fuck Jagger for getting picked, and fuck both of them for thinking this place was ever going to stay clean.
He thought he won.
That’s the funniest part.
My baby brother walked out of here with her words sitting in his chest like a goddamn prize. Alice chose me. Alice trusts me. Alice looked at me and didn’t run.
Cute.
Really fucking cute.
I move fast after that, but not sloppy. Sloppy is Jagger’s thing when his feelings get too big for his fists.
I don’t need perfect. Perfect looks planned. Perfect gets questioned.
I need obvious.
Jagger brought her here. Jagger knows the side door.
Jagger touched everything because he always touches things when he’s trying not to touch people.
The cameras will have enough. The rumors will do the rest. Everyone already saw him lose his shit over Alice once, and people love a story that makes sense before they have to think too hard.
So I make it easy for them.
I clean up what points to me and leave everything that points to him.
Simple as that.
Jagger brought her here. Jagger touched her, and he knows this building. Plus, thanks to my little stunt with him in the cage the other day, already looked ready to kill somebody over her.
I don’t need to make the story complicated. I just need to make sure everything leads back to him.
By the time I’m done, my clothes have stopped dripping as much, and the room looks almost peaceful again. Almost. Alice floats face down quiet in the blue light, and I stare at her for one last second, still pissed at her fucking audacity.
“You shouldn’t have picked him,” I tell her.
My voice sounds calm in the empty room.
That pisses me off too.
I grab my jacket from where I left it hidden in the dark and pull it on, wet collar cold against my neck. Then I look toward the door Jagger left through and smile because now I can see it.
Every second of it.
Jagger coming back and finding her when he realizes I’m not at the fight..
Him hitting the water like he can fight death if he gets his hands on it fast enough. Dragging her out. Begging. Bleeding. Touching everything. Leaving pieces of himself all over the body of the girl he chose over me.
There you go, baby brother.
Keep her.
I take the service stairs instead of the main exit because Jagger isn’t the only one who knows how buildings breathe after hours. Outside, the night air hits my wet clothes, and I walk until my breathing evens out, until my hands stop wanting to shake, until the smile finally comes back right.
Under a broken streetlight, I stop and laugh once, at the irony of everything.
He wanted a clean place. Instead, I gave him a fucking crime scene.
And now my little brother gets to learn exactly what fucking happens when he wins something that belongs in my hands.