Page 14 of Howl for Me (Moonlight Magic Studios #1)

Chapter Twelve

Cassidy

I shouldn’t be doing this.

That thought plays on a loop as I pull into the lot of my apartment complex in Johnny’s car, his ridiculous, too-flashy car that rumbles like a beast even when it’s just idling. I throw it in park and just sit there, staring at the dashboard like it’s going to offer me answers.

What the fuck am I doing?

This is not my life. I don’t do this; I don’t drive men home who smell like whiskey and regret.

I don’t drag them off sidewalks and into their houses, and I definitely don’t crash at said house like it’s normal.

But here I am, about to pack a damn overnight bag so I can babysit a grown man who’s determined to set himself on fire and smile while doing it.

Five weeks.

It’s only been five fucking weeks working with him and I already feel like I’ve aged five years.

He’s out of control, like, fully, irreversibly spiraling, and somehow, it’s my job to manage the mess.

I have to apologize to the actresses that he ignores on set and drag him to shoots that he barely shows up on time for, he's high most of the time, or drunk. I don’t know if I can do this.

It's the rare moments when I see the pain behind those golden eyes that keep me standing by his side, even if I want to kill him. I guess staying with him makes sense, seeing as how I haven’t really had a day off yet.

Meetings, rehearsals, and shoots. For a studio that's “underground,” it sure is busy.

And the worst part? I think he enjoys pissing me off.

It’s like he gets some sick satisfaction out of it.

One second he’s glaring at me and the next, he’s looking at me like he wants to tear the clothes off my body with his teeth.

My thoughts drift back to that day I heard him in the shower.

He does something like that, then the next time he sees me, he’s back to being a pain in the ass.

It’s whiplash.

I rush upstairs, throw together a few days worth of clothes and my toothbrush.

I can’t stay all the time. There needs to be a conversation when I get back.

Maybe if I can get Johnny to promise to behave, I can just stay the day before and the day of shoots.

Maybe weekends if Hector breathes down our necks again.

That’s it. A loose schedule with some boundaries.

Yeah, like those ever work with Johnny Howler.

By the time I pull back into his driveway, the sun’s setting. The house looks even prettier in the golden light, like a movie backdrop with wide glass windows, clean lines, and expensive landscaping. Typical LA dream home.

Too bad it’s wasted on a man like him. He can’t see just how good he has it.

I don’t even have the keys out before the front door swings open and there he is, barefoot, shirtless, jeans hanging low, hair wild like he’s been pacing.

“You stole my car?” he shouts. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

Oh, here we go.

“I’ve been sitting around all day waiting for it. I almost reported it stolen!”

I don’t even respond. Just roll my eyes and shoulder past him with my duffel like this is the most normal shit in the world.

“Is that an overnight bag?” he yells, trailing behind me. “What the hell is going on, Cassidy?”

I drop the bag on his couch and turn to face him, arms crossed.

“First of all,” I say, “I’m pretty sure you woke up maybe an hour ago, max, so let’s not pretend like you had plans. And second, thanks to your little drunk joyride last night, I’m here. Hector’s orders.”

His face twists like he can’t understand a word I'm saying.

“What do you mean ‘you’re here’? Hell no. You gotta go.”

“Call Hector then,” I snap. “Ask him how thrilled he is that his leading man got arrested last night for driving high and plastered out of his mind.”

He scoffs. “So that means you can just take my car? You think this is some kind of fucking game? I didn’t sign up to play house with some plain Jane who doesn’t even own a car.”

My stomach flips, sharp and cold, and he keeps going.

“I get it. This is probably a big upgrade from wherever the hell you usually stay, but next time? Don’t take shit that doesn’t belong to you.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment something inside me snaps. I step toward him, fists clenched, and say it before I can think better.

“Your big, shiny house doesn’t mean shit when a fucking loser lives in it.”

He blinks, stunned, but I’m not done. Not even close.

“You’re spiraling, Johnny. And yeah, maybe I am a plain Jane. But I’m the plain Jane who drags your drunk ass home, keeps you out of jail, and still shows up every single time when you treat me with this back and forth wishy washy bullshit. ”

I’m shaking now, but I don’t care.

“You’re not cool. You’re not big-time. You’re a washed-up porn star with one foot in a jail cell and the other in the goddamn grave. So fuck off.”

I turn on my heel and walk, but I barely make it three steps toward the door before he’s on me. Fingers wrapped around my arm, back slammed against the wall, the entire world narrowing to the heat of his chest pressed to mine. I suck in a breath, stunned.

His voice is low, dangerous, teeth gritted. “I’m a fucking loser, huh?”

I glare at him, but it’s hard to hold when he’s this close, when I can smell the lingering whiskey and something warm and male and him in the space between us.

“Then why do you care?” he snaps. “Why’d you even agree to something like this, huh?”

His face is inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my lips. My heart’s beating loud in my ears and I hate, hate how much my body likes this, how it leans in before my mind can say don’t.

“I don’t care,” I say, jaw tight.

His mouth curves, not amused, something meaner, something knowing.

“Yeah?” he says. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

His voice is a whisper now, but it hits like a punch.

That smile of his is pure sin, dripping with smug satisfaction, because he knows.

He knows. He can feel the way I haven’t pushed him off me.

The way my breath caught when he touched me.

And I hate him for it. I hate how easy it is for him to crawl under my skin, to twist everything inside me up into heat and want and fury.

“I’m not trying playing house with you,” I mutter.

“Good,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “'Cause I don’t do housewives.”

The silence stretches, thick and hot and buzzing with something neither of us wants to name. I could shove him off. I should. But I don’t and he doesn’t move either. He just watches me like he’s waiting for something to snap. Like maybe he wants me to kiss him or slap him or both.

Maybe I do too. “I’m just trying to do my job,” I snap, voice tighter than I want it to be. “You didn’t seem to mind last night when I drove you home. When I carried you inside.”

His eyes drag over my face like he’s trying to memorize something, it feels like he’s inhaling me.

Then he shakes his head, slowly, like it physically pains him. “You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly. “You should’ve run the first day.”

I give a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “I did, remember?”

His jaw ticks.

“You carried me back.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just stares at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t decide if he wants to solve or smash against a wall.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “That was a mistake.”

The words sting more than I expect, but before I can swallow them down, he keeps going.

“But the fucked-up part?” His voice dips, eyes heavy and dark. “If you ran out that door right now, I’d probably do the same thing again.”

My breath catches. I hate how that confession hits.

It’s like he’s giving me a peek into something raw, something buried beneath all the sarcasm and snarling bravado.

I hate how my body arches toward him again, instinctual and traitorous.

The tension’s been building for five goddamn weeks, this unbearable back and forth, the heat, the looks, the way my skin feels electric anytime he’s within ten feet.

He closes his eyes like he’s barely hanging on. And I ask because I need to hear it, even if I hate the answer, “Why? Why chase after a plain Jane?”

His eyes open. And something in him shifts. He steps back like I just slapped him, like he’s sobering up from whatever haze just gripped him.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, tone clipped now. Cold. “I should let you go. Because you don’t belong here. You don’t belong in this world.”

Then he laughs, bitter and humorless, and grabs the half-empty bottle of bourbon off the coffee table.

“But if Hector says you’re here,” he mutters, already turning his back, “then I guess you’re fucking here.”

He disappears down the hall, bottle swinging from his hand, and slams the door behind him.

I flinch at the sound. The silence that follows is heavier than his body ever was.