Chapter 8
JOHNNY
MAKE ME, LITTLE brOTHER
My little brother doesn’t come looking for me right away, which is rude as fuck considering the amount of effort I put into ruining his night.
I gave him the cage, the crowd, the photos, Alice’s name in my mouth like a lit match, and proof pressed against the chain-link right where he couldn’t ignore it. I watched Wraith, Brockville’s quiet little murder machine, turn ugly in front of everyone.
No sign of his usual patience or control. Just pretty violence and rage with fists.
It was fucking gorgeous.
For about five minutes.
Then he left the warehouse and went to her.
Not me.
Her.
That’s the part that crawls under my skin and stays there.
Jagger wanted me dead last night. I saw it in his face.
I put that here, handed him every reason to come here and put my head through a fucking wall, and still, before revenge, my little brother went to make sure his precious Ghost Girl was breathing.
Interesting.
But also fucking unacceptable.
You see, curiosity is a terrible fucking disease, and I’ve had it since birth.
When he didn’t show up by midnight, I took a little stroll past her building and saw him from across the street, through the second-floor window, sitting outside her door like a dog too vicious to let inside but too loyal to leave.
That image has been sitting in my head all morning.
Naive fuck probably thought he was being knightly. That the gesture was romantic. It’s not. It’s pathetic in that special Jagger way, all clenched fists and devotion he’ll pretend is strategy.
But thats not what bothers me. What bothers me is he chose her first.
That means she’s no longer just a button I can press when I want him angry. She’s becoming something with weight.
Something that changes the order of things between my dear baby brother and I.
And I really fucking hate when people move pieces on my board without asking.
I’m in the kitchen when he finally pounds on my door hard enough to shake the frame.
The building is quiet this early. Converted historical bullshit. Old brick, shiny floors, and spoiled rich kids pretending they’re not living off their parents’ money.
My apartment isn’t huge, but it’s too nice for me and just fucked-up enough to feel honest. Black leather couch. Curtains half closed. Records stacked by the turntable.
A bottle of expensive Scotch sits on the counter beside cheap cigarettes, which probably says enough.
My butterfly knife is open next to the ashtray because I used it to cut an apple last night and didn’t bother putting it away, or maybe I liked it there.
Easily accessible.
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.
Not calm or empty.
Still in that way that means the violence is already awake and just waiting for permission.
God, I missed him like this.
“Oh, don’t look so wounded,” I say, leaning back against the counter with my coffee like he isn’t standing in my kitchen looking ready to rip my face off.
“You weren’t exactly subtle, little brother.
Big bad Wraith, all bruised and bloody, sitting outside a girl’s apartment like a stray dog she didn’t trust enough to let inside. ”
His eyes flatten. “Were you there?”
I shrug. “Close enough to enjoy the visual.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you, Johnny.”
There it is.
Low. Mean. A pretty little warning wrapped in teeth.
I fucking love when he says my name like that.
“What?” I ask, grinning into my mug. “Don’t make me the villain here. You’re the one who spent the night guarding a door she shut in your face. That’s not on me. That’s just embarrassing.”
His jaw ticks.
Beautiful.
I set the mug down slowly, because I want both hands free when he finally stops pretending he has self-control. “That had to hurt, right? You show up covered in blood, all tragic and furious, probably thinking she’d open the door and fall into your arms because you looked so goddamn tortured.”
His stare gets colder.
I keep going.
“But she didn’t.” I click my tongue. “She looked at you, saw the whole fucked-up mess, and decided a locked door was better company. Jesus. That’s almost poetic.”
“Shut up.”
“No, I’m enjoying this.” I tilt my head, letting my smile cut wider. “All that ‘she’s mine’ shit sitting in your chest, and she still left you in the hallway.”
He moves fast.
One second, he’s across the room.
The next, his fist is twisted in my shirt, and my back slams into the counter hard enough to rattle the Scotch bottle.
My mug tips.
The ceramic hits the floor and shatters between us.
I glance down at the mess, then back at him.
“That was my favorite,” I say, because I’m not a fucking amateur.
His face is inches from mine, eyes dead and furious.
“This bullshit is over,” he says. “We’re not fucking kids anymore, Johnny. You’re going to stay the fuck away from her.”
I let that sit for a second.
Then I smile.
Slow and mean.
Because he really should know better than to hand me a sentence like that and expect me not to play with it.
“Oh, I know we’re not kids anymore.” I glance down at his fist twisted in my shirt, then back up at his face. “Trust me, little brother, I’m very aware.”
His grip tightens so I keep smiling.
“That’s the beautiful part. The stupid little games we used to play? They don’t do it for me now. Too small. Too easy.” I lean in as much as his hold lets me, lowering my voice like I’m telling him something sweet. “But this? You showing up at my door cause I messed with your little obsession?”
His jaw flexes.
I laugh under my breath.
“This is so much better.”
“Stay away from her.”
“You keep saying that like the words are supposed to scare me.” My smile widens. “So tell me, Jagger. What happens if I say no?”
His eyes don’t blink.
“What happens if I don’t stay away from your pretty toy?” I ask. “What happens if I decide I like her right where she is? Between us. Making you stupid and mean. Making you look at me like you finally fucking remembered how much you hate me.”
His fist jerks me forward, hard enough that my breath catches.
There he is.
I grin right in his face.
“Ah, shit,” I murmur. “Here we go.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“What? Pretty?” I tilt my head. “Little? Or toy?”
His fist hits me before I finish laughing.
Pain cracks through my jaw, bright and immediate. My head snaps to the side, and I taste blood so fast it’s almost funny.
For one second, everything goes quiet.
Then I laugh.
Jagger hits me again.
Harder.
This one catches my mouth, splits my lip, and sends me back into the counter hard enough to rattle the Scotch bottle behind me. Coffee spreads across the floor between our shoes, and my jaw pulses like a second heartbeat.
Fuck, that one hurts.
Good.
Finally.
I drag my tongue over the split in my lip and look up at him, smiling through the blood. “Well shit, now we’re getting somewhere.”
Jagger’s chest rises hard. His fist is still clenched, knuckles torn open again, and for a second I think he’s going to keep going. I want him to. I want him ugly and stupid and honest. I want the brother who came here to stop pretending there’s anything clean left inside him.
But he doesn’t hit me again.
He just stands there, breathing hard through his nose, looking at my face like he’s trying to remember why murder before noon is a bad idea.
“You go near her again,” he says, “and there won’t be a warning next time.”
I wipe blood off my bottom lip with my thumb and look at the red smear. “That was the warning?”
His stare doesn’t move.
“No,” he says. “That was me being nice.”
A laugh slips out of me, rough because my mouth is swelling. “Jesus. She really did a number on you.”
His hand shoots out and catches me by the throat. Not enough to choke. Just enough to make the point. His thumb presses under my jaw, exactly where the punch already hurts.
“Do not,” he says, each word slow and mean, “talk about her like that.”
I should stop, but obviously, I don’t.
“You hate it, don’t you?” I ask, voice rough under his grip. “That she got under your skin without even trying. That she told you no and you actually listened. That she shut the door in your face, and you stayed there anyway like a good fucking dog.”
His fingers tighten.
My pulse kicks against his palm.
“And then there’s the part you really don’t want to think about,” I say. “She let me in.”