Page 12 of Ghosted

There.

A crack.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I haven’t looked through all of them yet.”

“Show me.”

“No.”

Fast answer. Protective. Possessive, even.

I understand that more than I should.

My gaze drops to the camera. “You afraid I won’t like what I see?”

“I don’t care what you like.”

Liar.

“You’re bold for someone standing in a warehouse full of men who get paid to break bones.”

“You’re dramatic for someone who lets a crowd chant his fight name like he’s a haunted house attraction.”

This time I laugh.

A real one.

Rougher than it should be.

Her eyes sharpen, like she didn’t expect that sound from me, and I decide immediately that I don’t like being unexpected to her. I want her to look again. Look closer. Keep trying to figure me out until the rest of the room disappears.

That’s how it starts, maybe.

Obsession.

Not love. Not even lust.

Just attention.

One look hits wrong. One reaction sticks. One girl looks at you like she sees too much, and suddenly your mind won’t leave her alone.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She studies me for a second, like answering might cost her something.

“Alice.”

Alice.

The name doesn’t belong down here. It sounds like old storybooks, locked doors, girls falling into places they shouldn’t survive.

Except maybe it does.

Maybe Alice has always been the name for a girl who walks willingly into the wrong world.