Page 71 of Howl for Me
“Could be worse. You could’ve hit me with it.”
“I was trying to.”
His mouth twitches like he’s holding back another laugh. “Yeah. I got that.”
For a second, it’s quiet. Just the soft pat of the cloth, the drip of the sink, my stupid, traitorous heart knocking against my ribs like it’s forgotten why I’m here and who he is.
I feel him hesitate. His hand stills on my jaw. He’s too close. His scent curls around me, and I hate that it makes my stomach twist.
He clears his throat first, stepping back like he felt it too. “You’re fine now. You can keep hating me with full vision.”
“I was doing that before just fine.”
“You sure?” he says with a smirk, already halfway out the door. “Your scent says otherwise.”
I toss the damp cloth after him. I miss. Of course. My scent? He keeps talking about how I smell, and it's only grating on my nerves even more.
“Go to hell, mutt.”
“Already there, doll.”
The door clicks shut, and I’m left alone, face on fire, pride in pieces, and heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. I slide off the counter. My legs are a little shaky, not that I’d admit it. I turn to the mirror, bracing myself for the disaster staring back.
Yeah. Disaster confirmed.
My eye is still red and watery, the surrounding skin puffy and angry. The other half of my face isn’t doing much better, flushed and blotchy. I roll my eyes at the sight, wincing when it tugs at the raw skin.
“Gorgeous,” I mutter under my breath. “Just fucking perfect.”
But the thing that sticks with me isn’t the pain. It’s the way I felt when he held me, solid, warm, like being yanked out of a nightmare and dropped into something just as terrifying, but...safer. That’s what makes zero sense. I should be scared out of my mind. I should be running until my lungs give out.
But with Johnny?
I didn’t feel in danger. Annoyed, yes, but he’s not threatening, just an asshole. If anything, I felt grounded. Like I was caught and anchored to something I didn’t ask for but didn’t hate, either. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the humiliation, or the sheer audacity of that smug, infuriating werewolf and his stupid gold eyes.
A werewolf.
God. Even thinking about it makes me feel like I’ve gone off the deep end. I mean, I always knew L.A. was different, but monsters? Real, actual monsters? I’ve heard the rumors, the urban legends, but it was all conspiracy where I’m from. But I saw him change his eyes. That was not a trick of the light. Johnny Howler isn’t just a stage name. And if he’s real, if werewolves are real, then what else is? How deep does this actually go?
My stomach knots. It should be fear, but it’s not. Not exactly. I rub my hands down my face, desperately trying to clear my head. Think, Cassidy. Think. If I were in danger, I’d be dead already. He’s had a hundred chances to hurt me, and not once has he even come close. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m the one making assumptions and expecting violence just because someone’s different. To act like this, all because they’re not like me. That's not fair. I’ve spent my whole life being told what to be, how to act, what box I should fit into. I hated it. Hated how it made me feel. So who the hell am I to slap that same judgment on someone else?
Even if that someone is a six-foot-something werewolf with a mouth that could tear me apart and hands that made me feel things I definitely shouldn’t have been feeling.
I exhale slowly, square my shoulders, and stare myself down in the mirror like I’m about to walk into battle. I need this job. That’s the bottom line. And Johnny might be a cocky, broodingpain in my ass, but he has to listen to me now. I outrank him. Technically. And I’m going to use that.
I smirk at my reflection. “Game on, dog boy.”
I walk back out and push the office door open like I wasn’t just crying with one eye and spraying myself in the face ten minutes ago. Johnny’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed like he’s been there for years instead of seconds, and Hector’s already mid-chuckle.
“Well,” he says, giving me a once-over. “I see you two are off to a great start.” Hector leans back in his chair, chuckling softly as he watches the two of us. He offers me the papers and a pen, and I briefly consider running again.
I grab the pen, already knowing what I'm walking into. Hector clears his throat and starts flipping through the papers, his voice serious but laced with that same undercurrent of amusement.
“You’re signing up as Johnny’s assistant, no surprises there,” Hector says, eyes flicking over to Johnny, who’s lounging by the door like he couldn’t care less about the whole situation. “You’ll make sure he shows up on time, keeps his shit together, and doesn’t screw up the shoots. Think of yourself as his... handler. You’ll keep him in check, and you’ll be the one to pick up the slack when he inevitably loses focus.”
I raise an eyebrow at the wording, but keep quiet, not wanting to show just how much of a headache this whole thing already feels like.
“Can’t tell anyone about your job,” Hector adds, his eyes hardening. “Not about Johnny, not about the studio. You work for the studio, period. Your life outside this room stays normal. No exceptions. No talking about us, or what we do. You will sign this NDA right here, just to make sure we are under a very clear understanding about that. ”
