Chapter 2
JOHNNY
THE SHIFT
Jagger looks at me like he’s trying to decide which part of my face would break easiest.
It’s cute, honestly.
A little dramatic, sure, but cute.
My brother has always been like that. Quiet until he isn’t.
Controlled until something slips its fingers under all that restraint and pulls hard enough to make the ugly fucking show.
Everyone in this warehouse thinks they know him because they’ve seen him fight.
They chant Wraith until their throats shred, throw cash on his violence, and worship the way he takes men apart like it means they’re getting a piece of him.
But the crowd doesn’t get him.
They get Wraith.
The blood. The cage. The quiet violence he lets them worship from far enough away that it still feels safe.
I get what’s underneath.
The ugly parts he keeps buried. The things he shoves down so deep even he pretends they stopped breathing. The brother with murder in his eyes and a heart dumb enough to feel every fucking thing anyway.
Blood dries near his mouth. His jaw is tight, eyes dark enough to make smarter men step back and pray they weren’t the reason. That stillness clings to him again, the one people mistake for calm because they’ve never stood close enough to feel the pressure building under it.
I have.
Shit, I put half of it there.
“She looks like the kind of plaything you’ll want to keep, little brother.”
His expression sharpens before the words even finish leaving my mouth.
Perfect.
“Don’t.”
It comes out low and quiet, like that single word is supposed to mean a goddamn thing to me. Like Jagger hasn’t spent his whole life forgetting I only behave when there’s nothing worth fucking ruining.
I take a slow drag from my cigarette, let the smoke burn pretty in my lungs, then smile around the exhale.
“Don’t what?”
His eyes narrow, and fuck, there he is.
All that control splitting at the seams because I touched one tiny nerve.
The fight crowd keeps screaming behind us, already drunk on somebody else’s blood. The new match is fucking pathetic, two boys with more ego than skill swinging like the air insulted their mothers, but no one cares.
They’re loud. They’re bleeding. Down here, that’s enough to make people clap like trained seals.
Jagger doesn’t look at the cage.
Neither do I.
We stand near the edge of the floor with smoke curling between us and cold air still clinging to the door Alice disappeared through.
Alice.
Pretty name.
Pretty girl.
Pretty little fucking problem, apparently.
I didn’t think much of her when I first saw her. Not really. She was a flash in the crowd, a camera lifted near the support columns, one more little voyeur pretending the lens made her cleaner than the violence she came to watch.
Then Jagger noticed her.
And well, fuck me, that changed everything.
Because getting my brother going has always been one of my favorite games, and she just handed me the match, the gasoline, and the perfect place to strike.
“You know,” I say, tipping ash onto the floor, “you’re getting real fucking bossy for someone pretending he doesn’t give a shit.”
His jaw flexes. “Stay out of it.”
I blink at him, all innocence and smoke. “Out of what?”
“Johnny.”
Fuck, I love when he says my name like that.
Like a warning. Like a threat. Like a pretty little prayer he’d rather choke on than admit he’s saying.
“What?” I lift my brows. “I’m making conversation.”
“You don’t make conversation.”
“Sure I do.”
“You start fires and act surprised when shit burns.”
My smile spreads because, Christ, maybe I taught him too well. “That was almost poetic. Did camera girl make you soft, or are you just bleeding into your feelings now?”
His hand twitches at his side.
Not a fist.
Not fully.
But Jagger is careful with his tells, and careful doesn’t mean invisible. Not to me. Never to me.
I lean in slightly, grinning around the cigarette.
“There it is,” I murmur.
His stare gets meaner. “There what is?”
“The fucking look.”
“I don’t have a fucking look.”
“No. You do,” I step closer, just enough to make the space between us feel smaller. Meaner. “And this one, god, it’s my fucking favorite.”
The corner of his mouth curls, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
“You need a hobby.”
“Oh, I’ve got hobbies.” I take a slow drag, smoke burning sweet in my lungs before I let my gaze slide toward the door Alice disappeared through. “But I think I just found a new one.”
Jagger’s eyes go flat.
There he is.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
I look back at him, smile already spreading. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re so tense tonight.” I tip ash onto the floor. “Little flash of a camera, pretty girl says your name, and suddenly you’re acting like I pissed on your grave.”
“Leave Alice out of it.”
“Alice?” My brows lift. “Interesting. I don’t remember saying a name.”
“Johnny.”
There’s my name again.
Sharp this time. Snapped between his teeth like he wants to spit it out and choke me with it.
I grin around the cigarette. “Careful, little brother. You’re starting to make her sound important.”
Jagger moves fast.
Most people wouldn’t catch it until his hand was already around their throat and their feet were trying to remember how the floor felt.
But I’m not most people.
I see the shift in his shoulder. The weight change. The way all that quiet violence inside him lines up, neat and pretty, waiting for permission to become a fucking problem.
My smile widens.
Fuck, I love him like this.
All that control cracking because I looked too long at something he hasn’t even admitted he wants yet.
I don’t move away.
That would ruin the fun.
He stops inches from me, close enough that I can smell blood under the smoke, sweat under the cheap soap he probably used in that disgusting locker room sink.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
My pulse kicks once.
Not fear. Fuck no.
Interest.
Jagger’s always had a talent for making threats sound like vows. Low voice, dead eyes, violence sitting right there under his skin like a loyal dog waiting for the leash to drop.
“You keep saying don’t like it’s supposed to stop me.” I tilt my head, smile lazy. “Like you drew a little line on the floor and now I’m meant to stand here behaving myself.”
His voice drops. “I mean it.”
“I know.” I let my gaze drag over his face, slow enough to piss him off on purpose. The bruise darkening along his jaw. The cut near his brow. The blood still caught at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what makes it so fucking funny.”
His hand finally curls.
Yes, finally.
There’s my little brother.
Not Wraith. Not the cage version. Not the quiet little nightmare the crowd gets wet over because he breathes controlled and hits like judgment day.
This one.
Mine.
The boy I taught to hit first and feel bad later. The brother who learned how to swallow pain, spit it back as violence, and call the whole thing discipline. The one who still thinks being quiet means he’s hiding.
Poor little Jagger.
Still forgetting I knew him before he learned how to lie to himself. Before Wraith, before the cage, before he figured out how to turn silence into something people mistook for control.
I know what lives under it.
Every twitch and locked jaw.
Every little fracture in that careful, violent mask he wears without needing one.
He turns toward the back hall. “I’m getting my money.”
“Careful,” I call after him.
His shoulders go tight, but he keeps walking.
I laugh under my breath as he disappears past two guys arguing over a payout and a girl in smeared devil makeup trying to wipe fake blood off her phone screen.
Careful.
Right, as if either of us has ever been good at that.
The cigarette burns low between my fingers. I look at the end of it for a second, then flick it onto the concrete and crush it under my boot.
The warehouse keeps roaring like it doesn’t know something shifted.
That’s the thing about places like this. They’re too loud to notice the smaller violences. The ones that happen in a glance, a warning, in the half second before a man decides he wants something badly enough to become really fucking stupid.
Everyone saw Jagger win tonight.
But I saw him react, and to me, that’s worth more.
I cut through the edge of the crowd instead of following him.
No rush. Rushing is for people worried the world won’t wait for them. The world waits for me plenty. People too, even when they don’t mean to.
Bodies part as I pass.
Some recognize me. Some just feel something wrong moving toward them and step aside before their pride can get them hurt. Instinct is a beautiful thing when people are smart enough to listen to it.
A girl with glitter on her cheeks smiles at me from beside a stack of crates, eyes glossy, mouth parted, already deciding what kind of bad idea I might be.
I give her half a smile back.
Because I’m not rude.
She lights up like I handed her something holy.
Pretty little thing.
Forgettable little thing.
By tomorrow, she’ll tell her friends Johnny Cutter smiled at her, and they’ll turn it into a story. Add heat where there wasn’t any. Meaning where I gave none. Maybe she’ll say I looked at her like I wanted her.
Maybe she’ll even believe it.
People do that all the time.
Take the smallest piece of you, build a whole fucking fantasy around it, then act betrayed when you don’t crawl inside and play the part they wrote for you.
Cute.
Pathetic, but cute.
I find a spot near the betting table where I can see most of the room without looking like I’m watching anything at all.
That’s an art form, looking lazy while paying attention.
Looking bored while memorizing every exit, every hand, every threat, every stupid little secret the room keeps bleeding out without realizing it.
Most people watch with their eyes.
Amateurs.
I watch with everything.
Alice had that too.
A way of watching without announcing herself.