Page 29 of Howl for Me
His voice is a whisper now, but it hits like a punch. That smile of his is pure sin, dripping with smug satisfaction, because he knows. He knows. He can feel the way I haven’t pushed him offme. The way my breath caught when he touched me. And I hate him for it. I hate how easy it is for him to crawl under my skin, to twist everything inside me up into heat and want and fury.
“I’m not trying playing house with you,” I mutter.
“Good,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “'Cause I don’t do housewives.”
The silence stretches, thick and hot and buzzing with something neither of us wants to name. I could shove him off. I should. But I don’t and he doesn’t move either. He just watches me like he’s waiting for something to snap. Like maybe he wants me to kiss him or slap him or both.
Maybe I do too. “I’m just trying to do my job,” I snap, voice tighter than I want it to be. “You didn’t seem to mind last night when I drove you home. When I carried you inside.”
His eyes drag over my face like he’s trying to memorize something, it feels like he’s inhaling me.
Then he shakes his head, slowly, like it physically pains him. “You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly. “You should’ve run the first day.”
I give a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “I did, remember?”
His jaw ticks.
“You carried me back.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just stares at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t decide if he wants to solve or smash against a wall.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “That was a mistake.”
The words sting more than I expect, but before I can swallow them down, he keeps going.
“But the fucked-up part?” His voice dips, eyes heavy and dark. “If you ran out that door right now, I’d probably do the same thing again.”
My breath catches. I hate how that confession hits. It’s like he’s giving me a peek into something raw, something buried beneathall the sarcasm and snarling bravado. I hate how my body arches toward him again, instinctual and traitorous. The tension’s been building for five goddamn weeks, this unbearable back and forth, the heat, the looks, the way my skin feels electric anytime he’s within ten feet.
He closes his eyes like he’s barely hanging on. And I ask because I need to hear it, even if I hate the answer, “Why? Why chase after a plain Jane?”
His eyes open. And something in him shifts. He steps back like I just slapped him, like he’s sobering up from whatever haze just gripped him.
“I shouldn’t,” he says, tone clipped now. Cold. “I should let you go. Because you don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this world.”
Then he laughs, bitter and humorless, and grabs the half-empty bottle of bourbon off the coffee table.
“But if Hector says you’re here,” he mutters, already turning his back, “then I guess you’re fucking here.”
He disappears down the hall, bottle swinging from his hand, and slams the door behind him.
I flinch at the sound. The silence that follows is heavier than his body ever was.
Chapter Thirteen
Johnny
I wake up with a mouth full of cotton and a headache that feels like someone took a sledgehammer to my skull. My brain’s slow to boot and my thoughts are sludgy and refusing to line up in any kind of helpful order. My mouth tastes like bad decisions and bourbon. And..wait.. Is that smoke?
I jolt upright, heart hammering, every muscle in my body barking in protest as I stumble out of bed and into the hallway. The smell gets stronger; something’s burning. I round the corner into the kitchen, ready to grab a fire extinguisher or whatever the hell’s closest, and then I stop because there’s no fire. Just a shit ton of smoke and her.
Cassidy.
She’s peeling bacon off a scorched pan, quick and unfazed like she’s done this a hundred times before. She hasn’t seen me yet,which gives me a second to swipe a hand over my face and try to blink the sting out of my eyes. She sets out two plates on the bar, then turns and opens the fridge like this is her kitchen. She acts like she’s been here forever. Is she making breakfast?
The smoke’s finally clearing and my gaze lands on her legs. Jesus, those shorts. Thick thighs, smooth skin, that little curve where hip meets waist. How the fuck has she been hiding those this whole time? A growl rumbles out of me before I can stop it. She jumps, startled, a carton of juice in one hand.
“Do you like your bacon extra crispy?” she asks, eyeing the plate.
