Page 27 of Howl for Me
“Not a chance.”
“Persistent,” I mutter.
“Stubborn,” she fires back, already halfway hauling me up by the arm.
I give a grunt of effort and sit up too fast. The world spins sideways, becoming a funhouse mirror and the driveway an uphill marathon. I stumble forward with all the grace of a dying moose, Cassidy trailing behind like a pissed-off chaperone she is.
We reach the front step. I fumble through my pockets, slapping each one.
“I have your keys,” she says, catching me by the elbow and shoving me back against the house so I don’t face plant the ground. My shoulder hits the wall and I sag there, boneless.
“Fuck. Which key is it?” she mutters, holding up the set Hector gave her. They jingle like bells echoing in the night. I watch her fumble with the keyring, her lip curled in concentration, and it hits me all at once, blonde curls, wild and loose around her face, cheeks flushed with effort and anger.
“I love that foul mouth of yours,” I slur with a crooked grin. “All blonde curls and profanity.”
She doesn’t even look at me. “I’m really about to cuss you the fuck out if I don’t get this door open.”
A second later, the lock clicks and gives way. She shoves the door with her shoulder and guides me inside like she’s done it before. Like she belongs here. I trip into the dark living room and crash onto the couch, face-first.
The sound of cabinets opening and closing drifts from the kitchen. She’s rustling around, doing something domestic and entirely unwanted.
Then she’s back beside me, setting something down on the side table, water, painkillers, a trash can, I don’t know. I don’t look. I just reach for her, my fingers curling around her wrist before she can pull away.
“Why won’t you just leave?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t shake you.”
She rips her arm from my grip like I burned her. Her eyes blaze.
“Yeah, you’re welcome, asshole,” she snaps. She grabs the keys from the table and storms out.
I hear the door slam, and then the engine outside coughs to life. Headlights sweep across the ceiling. I try to lift my head, try to stop her. But the exhaustion slams into me like a brick wall and pulls me under.
And just like that, she’s gone.
And I sleep like the dead.
Chapter Twelve
Cassidy
I shouldn’t be doing this.
That thought plays on a loop as I pull into the lot of my apartment complex in Johnny’s car, his ridiculous, too-flashy car that rumbles like a beast even when it’s just idling. I throw it in park and just sit there, staring at the dashboard like it’s going to offer me answers.
What the fuck am I doing?
This is not my life. I don’t do this; I don’t drive men home who smell like whiskey and regret. I don’t drag them off sidewalks and into their houses, and I definitely don’t crash at said house like it’s normal. But here I am, about to pack a damn overnight bag so I can babysit a grown man who’s determined to set himself on fire and smile while doing it.
Five weeks.
It’s only been five fucking weeks working with him and I already feel like I’ve aged five years. He’s out of control, like, fully, irreversibly spiraling, and somehow, it’s my job to manage the mess. I have to apologize to the actresses that he ignores on set and drag him to shoots that he barely shows up on time for, he's high most of the time, or drunk. I don’t know if I can do this. It's the rare moments when I see the pain behind those golden eyes that keep me standing by his side, even if I want to kill him. I guess staying with him makes sense, seeing as how I haven’t really had a day off yet. Meetings, rehearsals, and shoots. For a studio that's “underground,” it sure is busy.
And the worst part? I think he enjoys pissing me off. It’s like he gets some sick satisfaction out of it. One second he’s glaring at me and the next, he’s looking at me like he wants to tear the clothes off my body with his teeth. My thoughts drift back to that day I heard him in the shower. He does something like that, then the next time he sees me, he’s back to being a pain in the ass.
It’s whiplash.
I rush upstairs, throw together a few days worth of clothes and my toothbrush. I can’t stay all the time. There needs to be a conversation when I get back. Maybe if I can get Johnny to promise to behave, I can just stay the day before and the day of shoots. Maybe weekends if Hector breathes down our necks again. That’s it. A loose schedule with some boundaries. Yeah, like those ever work with Johnny Howler.
By the time I pull back into his driveway, the sun’s setting. The house looks even prettier in the golden light, like a movie backdrop with wide glass windows, clean lines, and expensive landscaping. Typical LA dream home.
