Page 49 of Ghosted

Before I can enjoy that little crack properly, footsteps sound above us.

Not heavy. Not close yet.

But familiar.

My smile widens before I even look away from her.

Alice catches the change in my face, and her expression sharpens. “What?”

I don’t get a chance to answer before the sound of footsteps come down the stairs, slow and controlled, which is hilarious because Jagger only walks like that when he’s about to do something stupid and wants everyone to think he’s being reasonable. My brother has two moods: silent murder and pretending silent murder is not currently on the menu.

Alice lets go of the table and looks toward the aisle.

Too late, pretty girl.

He already saw enough.

Jagger appears between the shelves with his hood down and rain in his hair, eyes cutting straight to where Alice’s hand had been on me, then to me standing too close beside her chair, then to the photos spread open beside the anatomy book.

His face gives nothing away.

That’s how I know he’s pissed.

Beautiful.

I lean my hip against the table, making absolutely no effort to step back from Alice. “Well, shit,” I say, smiling at him. “Look what the basement dragged in.”

Jagger’s stare doesn’t move from me. “Johnny.”

God, I love when he says my name like that.

Low. Flat. Mean.

Like a warning with a body count.

I lift my brows. “Little brother.”

Alice shifts beside me, her voice dry but tighter than before. “Do you two always make entrances like this, or is it a family defect?”

“It’s genetic,” I tell her without looking away from Jagger. “Tragic, really. No cure.”

Jagger takes one step closer, and the air changes with him. Alice feels it too. I can tell by the way her shoulders pull back, by the way her hand moves toward her camera like the lens might save her from whatever the fuck is about to happen.

It won’t.

But it does look cute when she tries.

“What are you doing here?” Jagger asks.

I look at Alice, then let my gaze drag back to him with all the innocence I absolutely do not have. “Talking.”

His jaw ticks.

Perfect.

“About what?”

Alice answers before I can, sharp and irritated. “My project.”