Page 77 of Ghosted

When it’s over, Johnny takes his time. He stands beneath the broken red light, calm as anything, one Polaroid held between his fingers while the image slowly comes through.

I hate his hands.

That is the first clear thought I have.

Not him. His hands.

Steady. Clean. Unbothered.

Like this is normal.

Like he didn’t just walk into my darkroom and turn every safe corner of it into something I’ll never be able to stand in the same way again.

My wrists ache when the chain finally loosens, and the second my arms drop, my knees almost go with them.

Johnny catches my elbow.

Gently.

Like he didn’t just turn my whole body into another piece of evidence.

“Easy,” he says.

“Don’t.”

He lets go immediately, hands lifting in lazy surrender. “Look at that. I can behave.”

I hate him.

I hate that my legs shake. Hate that he sees it. Hate that the red light is still swinging above us like the room itself hasn’t figured out what just happened.

Johnny turns back to the counter, calm as anything, and picks up both photos. He looks at the first one, then the second, giving each a patient little glance while they finish developing between his fingers.

My stomach twists.

“Don’t give those to him.”

His eyes lift to mine, and for a second, he almost looks sweet.

Almost.

Then he stacks the photos together, taps them once against the counter to straighten the edges, and slides them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“But that’s the whole point, pretty girl.”

My throat burns. “He’ll kill you.”

Johnny smiles like I just offered him dessert.

“I know.”

He steps around me, heading for the door like this was nothing. Like he came in for a cigarette, stole my air, and got exactly what he wanted.

At the doorway, he pauses and glances back.

“Tell Jagger I said thanks,” he says softly. “His little warning label made you much more fun to ruin.”

The red light cuts across his face, turning his smile into something colder than it should be.