Page 36 of Howl for Me
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”
“Can I come?”
That snaps the trance right in half. I scoff, amused, and push his hand off my thigh as I stand up. “No, you can’t. It’s my day off, remember?”
He growls, actually growls like the werewolf he is, and looks up at me “Why can’t I come? How are you gonna get around?”
I grab my clipboard and tuck it neatly into my bag. “I’ll ride the bus.”
He recoils like I said I was gonna hitchhike barefoot across the freeway. “No way. You can’t ride the bus.”
I shrug. “I like the bus. What’s wrong with the bus?”
“No one likes the bus,” he says, horrified. “It’s sticky. And slow. And smells like, like despair and wet gum.”
I bite back a grin and zip my bag slowly, savoring the way he watches me like I’m a live wire he doesn’t know how to touch. “Let me bring you,” he says, voice soft now, like he’s bargaining.
I roll my eyes but try not to let the smile bloom too obviously. Johnny wants to tag along with me shopping. Why?
“No,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Now come on. I’ll let you bring me home.”
He stands, finally, dragging his hands through his hair with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. So you can see me naked, but I can’t see you?”
My jaw drops. “Oh, that’s why you were being so generous about taking me shopping. You thought you’d get a show.”
He grins, unashamed. “I tried.”
I snap my fingers at him and head for the door. “Yeah, yeah, come on, perv.”
He throws a shirt over his head and follows me out, muttering just loud enough for me to hear, “But you like it.”
I don’t reply. Not out loud. But… yeah. I do.
Chapter Seventeen
Johnny
Cleaning. I’m cleaning and organizing...
Never thought I’d hit that point in my life where alphabetizing records felt like a form of therapy, but here I am, crouched in front of my shelf, sliding Zeppelin behind Zappa like my sanity depends on it. Everything’s neat now. Rows of vinyl lined up like soldiers. I even dusted. Twice. Which is probably a cry for help.
I get up, stretch, and make my way to the kitchen. The fridge smells like something crawled in and died two months ago. I open it anyway, nose wrinkling, and start pulling things out one by one. Old takeout boxes with fossilized noodles. A bottle of ketchup that looks like it predates Nixon. Half a lemon that’s more mold than fruit.
Toss, toss, toss.
As I’m scrubbing down the shelves, I start making a mental note to ask Cass what she likes to eat so I can stock up. Behaving… isn’t exactly fun. Especially when she’s not here to distract me. What does one even do when they’re trying to behave?
I wander back to the living room and flick on the TV. Some talk show blares at me.. A guy with too many teeth smiling at a crowd that laughs way too easily. My eyes land on the ornate little wooden box on the coffee table. That familiar itch creeps up.
Cass said no coke, didn’t say I couldn’t get stoned. I lean forward and pop the lid. Empty. Not even a tiny nug.
“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. I reach for the little address book tucked beside the phone. Flip through until I find Reggie. There’s a number scribbled beside a peace sign. I dial and it rings and rings.
Then a slow, groggy voice answers. “Hello?”
“Teddy, that you?”
“Yeah, man… who’s this?”
