Page 8 of Ghosted

My jaw ticks.

“I didn’t almost eat anything.”

“No?” Smoke curls from his mouth as his gaze drags over my face, amused and sharp. “Because from where I was standing, you looked one bad second away from losing me a lot of money.”

I stare at him through the cracked mirror.

Then I turn away.

Johnny laughs like that’s a win.

Maybe it is.

I don’t give him anything else. Not another word. Not another look. Not another fucking reaction for him to pick apart and turn into something sharp. He came back here to piss me off, and I’m not in the mood to be entertainment.

I grab my shit from the bench and head for the door.

“Aw,” Johnny calls after me, voice dripping with that smug older-brother bullshit. “Leaving already?”

I shove the door open.

His laugh follows me into the hall.

Let him laugh.

Let him think this is about the fight. The money. The flash. Let him think I’m pissed because some girl with a camera got close to costing me a win.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I don’t like being distracted. Maybe I don’t like anything cutting through the cage, through the noise, through the part of me that knows exactly what to do with fists and blood and pain.

But that little flash didn’t just piss me off.

It got my attention. And she knew it.

Ghost girl stood there with her lens pointed at me like the rest of the warehouse didn’t exist. Not the crowd or the blood. Not even the guy I was taking apart in front of her.

Me.

She wanted to see so bad, fine.

I’ll let her.

Up close and fucking personal.

Only next time, when she points that camera at me, I’ll be looking right fucking back.

By the time I return to the main floor, the crowd has moved on to the next fight.

The warehouse is still packed, and filthy with noise, but the current match doesn’t have the same bite. Two frat boys are swinging at each other like they learned how to fight from action movies and bad fathers. The drunk crowd loves it, but I couldn’t give any less of a fuck.

I should just leave.

Cash is waiting in the office, there’s a shower at my apartment, and I have an early class in the morning that knowing me, I’ll likely skip.

Still, my feet don’t move toward the exit.

Ghost girl.