Page 80 of Howl for Me
His hand comes up to his chest, fingers grazing the center like something’s crawling under his skin. He scratches once, then again, slower this time, like he’s trying to rub something out.
“You good?”
He doesn’t answer. Just rubs at his nose and clears his throat like he’s trying to shake something off.
We keep going.
“I can hear your heartbeat. You’re scared. I like that.” His line comes out almost strangled. His shoulders tense. I can feel the heat rolling off him, more than before, like something in him is getting closer to the surface than it should be.
"What are you going to do to me?” I read the line more breathy than I intended and his entire body stiffens and moves away from me.
He clears his throat, tries another line, but his voice hitches again, and he rubs his chest like it aches.
I stop reading.
“Johnny.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for the last five minutes, and then slams the script down on the table hard enough to send one of the pages fluttering to the floor.
“I can’t do this.”
I blink. “What are you talking about?”
He stands like he can’t be in his own skin another second, pacing once, then twice, then raking both hands through his hair.
“I said I can’t work like this.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, go bum a smoke from someone if you're going to act like this. You’re such a baby.”
“It’s not the smokes, it’s you,” he growls
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “That’s the problem.”
I stand too, heart thudding now for a very different reason. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He’s halfway out the door. “I can’t focus. Not with you sitting there, smelling like that.”
Slamming the door behind him, he leaves me standing here, sniffing myself. This isn’t the first time he’s made a comment like that, and I still don’t get it. I don’t smell. I know I don’t. I shower and I don’t wear heavy perfumes or anything. There’s nothing on me strong enough to be a distraction unless he’s allergic to clean laundry and frustration.
I sink down on the couch and stare at the script he abandoned, lying there, taunting me with more work unfinished. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to work with him if he hates me, literally down to the way I smell? It’s humiliating that this is what’s going to make me lose my job. Maybe if i just punch him in the nose he won’t be able to smell me and we can finish these lines.
I sigh, rub a hand over my face, and grab the script before it can get left behind for someone else to pick up. I hug it to my chest and walk out of the room, trying not to let the heat in my face follow me down the hallway.
Of course, Hector is outside his office, deep in conversation with Demitri, our lighting tech, who also happens to be a mothman. Although his appearance can be a little jarring at first, I like Demitri. He’s tall, quiet, and unsettlingly graceful. I always fight the urge to stare at his wings. They shimmer with flecks of deep blue and green, twitching occasionally. His big red eyes flick to me as I approach, and he gives a slow, polite nod before pretending to check something on his clipboard.
I try to slip past without drawing attention, but Hector clocks me immediately.
“Cassidy,” he says, “Leaving so soon?”
I stop. “Actually, do you have a second?”
Demitri nods to Hector and me, and leaves us to go do whatever Hector was barking at him to do before I interrupted.
I lower my voice. “Weird question, but... do I smell?”
Hector blinks, just once. “Like a human.”
