Page 43 of Howl for Me
Another silence. This one is thicker.
Finally, she says, quieter now, “It’s just a party. We’ll see each other there.”
I grip the receiver tighter, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
“I assumed you were going to be my date,” I bite out. “Cass. Come on.”
She sounds… sorry. I can hear it in her breath, that soft exhale, like she didn’t mean for this to get under my skin. But that only pisses me off more. Because sorry doesn’t pull the knife out of my chest. Sorry doesn’t fix the image I have in my head of her next to some production monkey in a polyester suit.
“Well,” she says gently, “maybe you shouldn’t have just assumed. You should’ve asked me.”
I want to scream into the receiver. I want to yell and tear the wall in half and go find this Hugo idiot and break his smug set-designing face in two. But instead, I level my voice. I try. I try to be calm.
“Fine,” I say, and it comes out rough. “I’m asking now. Be my date. Come with me.”
I hate how pathetic it sounds. Like I’m a dog begging for scraps. Like I didn’t already spend half the night high and building her a toy like a fucking idiot with hearts in his eyes.
There’s a pause. A long one. Then her voice, quiet but final: “It’s too late, Johnny.”
My claws come out. Literally. I hear them tear straight through the fabric of the armchair like butter. Leather shreds, the padding underneath crackling as I dig in, trying to stay grounded in something that isn’t this wild, irrational heat boiling under my skin.
“No, it’s not,” I growl. “Blow him off. He’s a nobody.”
I can hear her eyes roll. “Johnny. You sound crazy.”
She’s not wrong. I am crazy. For her. I press my fingertips harder into the armrest, breathing sharply through my nose.
“Just be there on time,” she says and hangs up.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the broken seam in the chair. The silence in the house feels loud. Too late, huh?
We'll see about that. I throw on some black slacks, and a tight cream button-down, and brush out my mustache with more care than usual because I know she likes it when it’s neat. She once told me it looked like Burt Reynolds and Tom Selleck had a baby, and I pretended to be annoyed, but I haven’t gone a day without brushing it since.
Keys. Wallet. Smokes.
I’m out the door and in the car, ignoring every red light and flipping off a dozen LA drivers who think they own the road. Doesn’t matter. By the time I’m close to her apartment, I’ve cooled off just enough to convince myself that this is the right move. I’ll show up, pick her up like I should’ve in the first place, and if this Hugo asshole shows up… well, he’ll get the picture. I’ll take her anyway and leave him standing on the curb like a chump. But the moment I pull up to the gate, something’s off.
I slam the car door shut and march across the lot, taking the stairs two at a time. My fists are clenched and my jaw’s tighter than it should be. I stop in front of her door and knock—once, then twice, then hard enough to rattle it in the frame.
“Cassidy!” I shout. “It’s me. Open up.”
No answer.
I pound again.
Nothing.
Just as I’m about to lose it and start pounding again, a door creaks open a few feet down the hall.
“Now hold on just a second,” a voice calls,
I turn and a woman stands in the doorway beneath a pink flamingo wreath, one hand on her hip, the other balancing a cigarette and a glass of something brown on ice.
She narrows one eye at me. “You’re looking for Cassidy, aren’t you?”
I nod. “Yeah. Is she here?”
She takes a sip from her glass and leans against the doorframe like this is the most entertainment she’s had all week. “Depends who’s asking.”
