Page 28 of Howl for Me
Too bad it’s wasted on a man like him. He can’t see just how good he has it.
I don’t even have the keys out before the front door swings open and there he is, barefoot, shirtless, jeans hanging low, hair wild like he’s been pacing.
“You stole my car?” he shouts. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”
Oh, here we go.
“I’ve been sitting around all day waiting for it. I almost reported it stolen!”
I don’t even respond. Just roll my eyes and shoulder past him with my duffel like this is the most normal shit in the world.
“Is that an overnight bag?” he yells, trailing behind me. “What the hell is going on, Cassidy?”
I drop the bag on his couch and turn to face him, arms crossed.
“First of all,” I say, “I’m pretty sure you woke up maybe an hour ago, max, so let’s not pretend like you had plans. And second, thanks to your little drunk joyride last night, I’m here. Hector’s orders.”
His face twists like he can’t understand a word I'm saying.
“What do you mean ‘you’re here’? Hell no. You gotta go.”
“Call Hector then,” I snap. “Ask him how thrilled he is that his leading man got arrested last night for driving high and plastered out of his mind.”
He scoffs. “So that means you can just take my car? You think this is some kind of fucking game? I didn’t sign up to play house with some plain Jane who doesn’t even own a car.”
My stomach flips, sharp and cold, and he keeps going.
“I get it. This is probably a big upgrade from wherever the hell you usually stay, but next time? Don’t take shit that doesn’t belong to you.”
And that’s it.
That’s the moment something inside me snaps. I step toward him, fists clenched, and say it before I can think better.
“Your big, shiny house doesn’t mean shit when a fucking loser lives in it.”
He blinks, stunned, but I’m not done. Not even close.
“You’re spiraling, Johnny. And yeah, maybe I am a plain Jane. But I’m the plain Jane who drags your drunk ass home, keeps you out of jail, and still shows up every single time when you treat me with this back and forth wishy washy bullshit. ”
I’m shaking now, but I don’t care.
“You’re not cool. You’re not big-time. You’re a washed-up porn star with one foot in a jail cell and the other in the goddamn grave. So fuck off.”
I turn on my heel and walk, but I barely make it three steps toward the door before he’s on me. Fingers wrapped around my arm, back slammed against the wall, the entire world narrowing to the heat of his chest pressed to mine. I suck in a breath, stunned.
His voice is low, dangerous, teeth gritted. “I’m a fucking loser, huh?”
I glare at him, but it’s hard to hold when he’s this close, when I can smell the lingering whiskey and something warm and male and him in the space between us.
“Then why do you care?” he snaps. “Why’d you even agree to something like this, huh?”
His face is inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my lips. My heart’s beating loud in my ears and I hate, hate how much my body likes this, how it leans in before my mind can say don’t.
“I don’t care,” I say, jaw tight.
His mouth curves, not amused, something meaner, something knowing.
“Yeah?” he says. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
