Page 136 of Ghosted

One of the guys looks over. “Shit. Hey, Wraith⁠—”

I’m already moving.

Someone steps in front of me near the curtain, probably a bookie, probably stupid enough to think he can stop a fight from walking out before the money gets settled.

“Where the hell are you going? You’re up in ten.”

I shove past him.

He grabs my arm.

Bad choice.

I turn and hit him before he can say another word.

The punch cracks across his face hard enough to send him stumbling back into the table, knocking cash, betting slips, and a half-empty beer onto the floor. The whole corner goes quiet. Someone swears under their breath, but nobody steps in.

The bookie grips the edge of the table, blinking fast, blood already spilling from his nose.

I step in close. “Is Johnny here?”

He stares at me.

I grab the front of his shirt and slam him back against the wall. “Is my brother fucking here yet?”

His eyes go wide. He shakes his head fast, one hand coming up like that’s going to help him. “No. No, man. Haven’t seen him.”

The certainty hits before I even let him go.

Cold, sharp and wrong. Fuck. The fight was never the trap. It was just the noise around it. I release his shirt, and he drops against the wall, coughing blood into his hand.

By the time someone says my name, I’m already gone.

I tear out of the warehouse and into the cold night with my wraps still half done, one trailing loose from my hand like a white flag I don’t know how to raise. Rain has left the streets slick. My shoes hit pavement hard, each step sending pain through my ribs, but I don’t slow down.

Not Johnny.

Alice.

That’s the thought now.

Not the cage. Not the crowd. Not his throat under my hands.

Alice.

I call her as I run.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

My lungs burn.

Three times.

“Pick up,” I snap, voice tearing out of me. “Alice, pick up.”