Page 88 of Howl for Me
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.
I smirk, walking around the bar and dropping onto the stool like I’m not losing my mind. “Apparently.”
She slides a plate toward me of eggs, a biscuit, and bacon that looks like it did a stint in hell. She watches me with this weird little hopeful glint in her eye that makes my chest feel like it’s two sizes too small. I should laugh at this breakfast. I should make a smartass comment, grab the Advil, and crawl back into bed. But I don’t, because something about it is so fucking cute and it makes me want to knock the plate off the bar and pull her up onto it instead. She grabs a glass and turns back to me. “Milk or orange juice?”
“Orange juice,” I say, voice rough from sleep. “Thanks.”
She pours and slides the glass over, brushing crumbs off her shirt. “I’m not the best cook,” she says with a shrug. “So maybe don’t thank me yet.”
I take a bite of the biscuit. It’s dry as hell. I almost choke, but I wash it down fast with the juice, forcing a smile because there’s no way I’m ruining this moment. She sees right through it anyway and grins, like maybe she’s proud of the disaster she created.
“It’s a peace offering,” she says, settling onto the stool beside me.
I nod, tapping my fork against the plate, and try not to stare at the way her shorts ride up when she crosses her legs.
“A peace offering, huh?” I say, voice low. “That means you’re not gonna call me a washed-up porn star today?”
She smirks. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If you act like one.”
Goddamn. She comes into my house, nearly sets it on fire, serves me cardboard in the shape of bacon, and somehow, somehow, I don’t want her to leave. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either. Part of me wants to keep her, claim her. That part being the ache in my chest. But I know it's not fair to her. I’ve been telling myself this for weeks. I’ve been fighting what is biologically normal for me but unfair to her. I know she’s my mate; I knew it from day one. I tried to run her off, but fate is determined to win. She deserves better.
She’s eating in slow bites, like she’s trying to figure out how to say what she wants to say without setting me off. She sets her fork down and angles toward me, voice calm, even. “We need to work this out. I don’t want to encroach on your place. You have your life, and I’ve got mine. So I was thinking… if we can just talk and set up a schedule or something, then maybe I just stay here the night before a shoot and the day of. That’s it. You just have to promise you will behave.”
My jaw tightens. What I want to say is no, I need you here all the time. But instead, I go with, “Okay… define ‘behave.’”
She rolls her eyes. Fuck, I love when she does that.
“Behave,” she says slowly, “means no drinking yourself into oblivion, and definitely no more drinking and driving.”
I lift a brow, mouth twitching. “That’s two already.”
“And no more coke.”
I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “No more coke? Come on. I don’t even do it that much.”
“Then it’s unnecessary,” she says, lips pressed tight. “And every time you do it, you get in trouble. You spiral.”
I pause. She’s not wrong. I just hate hearing it.
“Okay. Fine. We can… see about that.”
She narrows her eyes. “No, we don’t see about that, Johnny.”
