Page 2 of Howl for Me
“Welcome to Hollywood, baby. Hope you’re ready for the ride.”
With that, she disappears back inside, and I take a deep breath before heading toward my new apartment. If nothing else, at least I know one thing for sure; the people here are way faster than back home. They don’t seem like the type to hold their tongue.
Here it is. 4B. My new home. The door sticks before finally giving way with a groan, swinging open to reveal the place. I step inside and drop my bag by the door, taking it all in. The furnished apartment is a blessing since I definitely don’t have the money to buy furniture. The couch in the living room is one of those scratchy tweed ones in a shade of burnt orange. There’s a coffee table with mismatched legs and an ashtray already sitting in the center. A bulky TV on rickety legs takes up one corner. It looks like the kind you gotta smack on the side to get the picture right.
Some people may see this and think it’s trashy. I can’t see it that way, though. Perhaps in a few months I will think that way, but right now I’m blind to it. I’m looking through the eyes of a woman who thought she would never see anything new or different. So right now, all I see is beautiful and mine.
Tucked into a corner, the small kitchen is just a square of space, separated from the living room by a worn counter. The linoleum floor is cracked near the fridge, peeling up just enough to threaten stubbed toes. The cabinets are that cheap wood paneling, and the fridge hums loudly like it’s working overtime to keep from dying. I love it all. It’s mine. It’s home.
Down the short hallway, I peek into the bathroom to see its mint green tile, and a tub with rust stains creeping around the drain. The bedroom isn’t much bigger than the closet, but it has a bed. A real bed. No more motel mattresses with mystery stains, no more bus seats for pillows. Just a plain, full-sized bed with a wooden headboard and a sun-bleached quilt that’s soft under my fingers.
It’s not much, but it’s mine.
I exhale, pressing my palms against my thighs as I take another look around. This is where it starts. The new life. The making-it-on-my-own life. I can do this. A sharp knock on the door makes me jump.
“Yeah?” I call, already making my way back to the living room.
The door swings open before I even get there, and in steps a man who looks like he was probably a real knockout twenty years ago. Tall, broad shoulders and a strong jawline that’s softened with age. He’s got a head of thick, dark hair that’s gone a little salt-and-pepper at the temples, and he’s sweating through the armpits of his button-down. The scent of cheap aftershave clings to him, mixed with the faint musk of someone who’s been moving around in the heat for too long.
“You must be the new tenant,” he says, giving me a slow, deliberate once-over.
I fight the urge to fold my arms over my chest. “That’s me.”
He nods, stepping fully inside like he owns the place, which, I guess, technically, he does.
“Name’s Donny. I’m the landlord.” He wipes a hand down his face, then claps his palms together like he’s about to get down to business. “Rent’s due the first of the month. Three hundred bucks. Cash. No checks, no funny business. If I gotta track you down, there’s a late fee. You don’t wanna know how much.”
Three hundred. It’s steep, but I already knew that. L.A. isn’t cheap, and I’d rather have a roof over my head than get picky about the price.
I nod. “Got it.”
His eyes linger a little too long before he grins, flashing a set of teeth that are surprisingly straight but just slightly yellowed.
“If you got any… issues,” he says, and there’s a note in his voice that makes me feel like he isn’t just talking about leaky pipes,“you come find me. Apartment 1A. Always happy to help a pretty girl get settled in.”
I keep my face neutral. “Thanks.”
He lets his gaze drag over me one more time before he finally, finally, backs toward the door. “Welcome to the building, kid. Hope you like it here.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint whiff of sweat and aftershave. I lock the door behind him.
Great. Day one, and I’ve already met my flirtatious landlord. I can handle guys like him though, there are worse things. He’s a little too friendly, a little too familiar, but he doesn’t give off full-blown creep vibes. Just the kind of guy who probably flirts with anything in a skirt out of habit. I shake it off and turn back to my apartment, running a hand through my hair
I got this.
Chapter Two
Thesuitcaseyawnsopenon the floor, half-empty already, its contents spilling out in soft, familiar piles of clothes. I sit back on my heels, rolling a worn t-shirt between my fingers; it still smells like home. I shake the thought off and keep unpacking. Not that there’s much. A handful of clothes, a couple of dog-eared books, and a tin of loose change I never got around to spending. My dad’s old denim jacket that's too big on me but was impossible to leave behind feels heavy in my hands.. I smooth my hands over the fabric, my chest tightening. He didn’t want me to leave, but he was a little more supportive, knowing nothing was going to hold me back. He’d hugged me so tight the day I left. Told me to be careful, and to my surprise, whispered he was proud of me.
Mom hadn’t said much. She just watched from the doorway, arms crossed, mouth pressed into that tight little line that hadbeen her signature for as long as I could remember. No tears, no dramatic farewell, just a clipped "Don’t expect me to come save you."
As if I’d ever needed her to.
The last of my things get tucked away; clothes folded neatly, books stacked in the smallest, saddest pile on the nightstand. I glance toward the window. The sun has slipped away and I have no clue what time it is now. I let out a slow breath. All done.
Knock, knock, knock.
The knock is quick and impatient, like whoever’s on the other side is already planning on knocking again if I don’t answer fast enough. Probably just a mistake. Someone looking for a different door. Still, I hesitate only a beat before stepping forward and opening the door.
