Chapter 9 #2
Not fake. Nothing about him feels fake. But chosen. Controlled in a way Johnny never is. A door I open instead of one being kicked in. Jagger scares me, but I don’t believe he would ruin me just to prove he could.
Johnny would.
That’s the difference.
That’s why I’m here.
“Don’t go to the warehouse on Friday,” he says. “Stay away from the fight. From the cage. From him.”
I stare at him.
“Are you serious?”
His jaw tightens. “Yes.”
“You don’t get to give orders just because you don’t know what else to do with fear.”
His face hardens, but it doesn’t cover enough. The anger is still messy underneath. Hurt. Cornered. Too honest for either of us to look at straight.
“Alice, just fucking stay away from the fight.”
I laugh, but it comes out wrong. Sharp and shaky. “Fuck you.”
“I mean it.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“No, Jagger, you should.” I step closer, my voice dropping because if I get any louder, it’s going to break. “You should care that I’m standing right here telling you what he’s doing and you’re still choosing to walk into it.”
His hands flex at his sides. “I’m choosing to end it.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re choosing him. Again.”
That lands.
I see it hit his face before he shuts it down.
“Alice.”
“No, fuck you.” My voice comes out sharper than I expect, but I don’t take it back. “You don’t get to act hurt right now.”
His face tightens.
I step closer, hands curled at my sides because I don’t trust myself not to touch him. “I’m the one he hurt, Jagger. Me. I’m the one whose body he turned into a message for you. I’m the one standing here begging you not to go. Not to walk straight into the trap we both know he laid.”
His jaw works, but he says nothing.
That makes it worse.
“You know what he’s doing,” I say, my voice cracking despite how badly I try to hold it together. “You know, and you’re still choosing to give it to him.”
“I’m not fucking choosing him.”
“Yes, you are.” The words come out fast now, messy and hot and too honest. “You’re choosing the cage. The crowd. The blood. You’re choosing whatever fucked-up thing between you two matters more than listening to me.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”
“No.” I laugh once, and it almost sounds like a sob. “None of this is fair. But don’t stand there looking wounded because I’m mad at you. You don’t get to make your guilt louder than what happened to me.”
“Alice—”
“No.” I grab the strap of my bag tighter. “You can break every bone in Johnny’s body on Friday, and he’ll still win if you become exactly what he wants everyone to see.”
Jagger looks at me with too much sitting behind his eyes.
Anger. Fear. That possessive thing he keeps calling protection because it sounds better than control.
For once, he doesn’t say anything.
That should make it easier to leave. But it doesn’t.
Because the sad, stupid truth is I came here thinking I could stop him. Not with the truth we both know, or another speech about Johnny and traps and cages.
But with me.
By being enough for him to pause.
That thought hurts so much I almost laugh.
Instead, I cross the room and kiss him.
Hard.
Jagger freezes for half a second, and then he kisses me back, one hand catching my waist, the other sliding into my hair. He’s careful at first, which somehow makes me angrier.
I don’t want careful right now.
I want him to feel this. To understand that I am standing right in front of him, asking him to choose me over whatever sick thing Johnny keeps dragging out of him.
So I shove closer.
He makes a rough sound against my mouth, and my back hits the wall beside the door. His hand braces beside my head, holding himself off me, still giving me room, still trying not to be the thing I’m afraid of.
I hate that I notice.
That it even matters.
I hate that I want him this badly while I’m this mad at him.
My fingers twist into the waistband of his sweats, keeping him close even though I’m the one who should be pulling away. His mouth is hot and rough, his body tense against mine, and for one messy second, I let myself believe I can make him hear me this way.
Because maybe words aren’t enough, maybe this will be.
Maybe I will be.
I break the kiss first, breath shaky, forehead almost touching his.
“Don’t go,” I whisper.
His hand tightens in my hair.
“Please,” I say, and I hate how small it sounds. “Don’t do it. I’m asking you not to go, not to feed into his game, for me.”
Jagger closes his eyes, and I know before he even says anything.
That’s what breaks my heart.
His hand tightens in my hair. “Alice.”
“Please. Don’t give him this. Don’t give him you in a cage with everyone watching. Don’t let him turn me into the reason they all see you lose control.”
Something moves across his face.
Pain, maybe.
Want.
The kind of feeling that doesn’t know where to go unless it breaks something.
“I have to,” he says.
The words hit so hard I actually pull back.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes.” His voice is rough. “I do.”
I stare at him, waiting for more. Waiting for him to fix it. Waiting for him to take it back or explain it in a way that doesn’t feel like he just picked the fight over me while my mouth is still swollen from kissing him.
He doesn’t.
“So that’s it?” I ask.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says.
I laugh once, but it sounds almost wet. “You keep saying that, but I’m standing right here telling you what would make me feel safe, and instead of fucking listening, you’re still choosing what makes you feel better.”
He flinches.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I don’t give a shit about you.”
I stare at him.
Then I say the thing I know will hurt because apparently I need him to bleed somewhere I can see it too.
“Then give a shit about what I’m asking.”
His face changes.
For one second, he looks young. Not in a soft or harmless way. Just twenty-two and furious and completely lost under the weight of wanting something badly enough to ruin it.
“I can’t,” he says again.
My throat closes.
I nod slowly, because if I speak too fast, I’m going to cry, and I would rather die in this apartment than cry in front of Jagger Cutter after begging him to pick me and watching him pick blood instead.
“Okay.”
“Alice—”
“No, that’s fine.” I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand. It does nothing. His kiss is still there. Hot and humiliating and mine to carry out of the room. “That’s very clear.”
He reaches for me.
I step back.
The space between us isn’t much, but it feels huge.
“Don’t leave like this,” he says.
That almost does it.
That almost cracks me right open.
I look at him, standing there bruised and bare and stupidly beautiful, asking me not to leave while refusing to stay out of the one place I begged him not to go.
“You don’t get to ask me to stay,” I say. “Not after that.”
His hand curls at his side.
“Stay away from the warehouse Friday,” he says.
And there it is.
“Alice.”
I turn for the door.
“Alice, wait.”
I stop with my fingers on the knob because I’m pathetic enough to give him one more chance.
One.
He doesn’t take it.
He just stands there, breathing hard, looking like I’m hurting him by leaving.
“Fine,” I say, reaching for the door. “Go let him turn you into exactly what he wants.”
Then I leave before my voice can break again.
The air outside is cold against my face, and I make it halfway down the stairs before my eyes start burning for real.
I don’t cry. I fucking refuse to give him that. I swallow it down, hard enough to hurt, and keep walking.
By the time I reach the street, I’m mad again.
Messy mad.
The kind that sits hot in my throat because I kissed him, begged him, and still walked out knowing exactly where he’ll be Friday night.
In the cage.
With Johnny.
Choosing blood over the one thing I asked for.
I keep walking with no real plan except away from him.
Away from his apartment.
Away from the smell of oil and the stupid warmth of his hands still sitting on my skin.
By the time I get home, the anger has gone quieter, which somehow makes it worse. Loud anger is useful. Loud anger gets me down the stairs and across campus and through my front door without crying.
This kind just sits there.
Heavy.
I lock the door behind me and stand in my apartment with my coat still on, staring at nothing.
Ernie and Bernie scrape around in their tank.
Everything looks exactly the same, and I hate that too, because I don’t feel the same. I feel stupid. Raw and hurt in a way I don’t want to admit because like an idiot, I kissed Jagger. I begged him, like it might change something, and he still chose the cage.
He chose Johnny.
Blood and the fight.
Whatever the fuck it is between them that keeps pulling everyone else into the blast radius.
The knock comes while I’m taking off my coat.
I freeze with one sleeve halfway down my arm, standing in the middle of my apartment like an idiot. For one second, I think it might be Jagger, which is pathetic enough to make my chest hurt all over again.
Then the knock comes again.
Slower this time. Lazy. Cocky.
My stomach drops.
I yank my coat the rest of the way off and toss it over the couch. “Go away.”
A pause.
Then Johnny’s voice comes through the door, amused as hell. “That was rude.”
My hands curl at my sides. I should ignore him. I should lock the deadbolt and leave him out there until he gets bored or arrested or hit by a bus.
Instead, I stare at the door.
“What do you want?”
“Right now?” he asks. “A warmer welcome.”
“Try hell.”
He laughs, low and pleased, and I hate that sound. I hate that my body still knows what to do with it.
“I’m serious, Johnny. Leave.”
“See, I would,” he says, “but you sound pissed, and now I’m curious.”
“I’m not your entertainment.”
“No,” he says. “You’re my favorite bad decision this week.”
My jaw tightens. I cross the room and unlock the door before I can talk myself out of it. I open it only a few inches, keeping my hand on the edge, because apparently I enjoy pretending terrible choices have safety features.