Page 2 of Howl for Me (Moonlight Magic Studios #1)

Chapter One

The bus hits a pothole big enough to shake my soul loose, and my head smacks against the window.

“Ow, damn,” I mumble, rubbing my forehead.

My cheek had been stuck to the glass, warm from hours of sleeping, and now there’s probably a red mark.

Cute. Real cute. I blink hard, trying to clear the fog from my brain.

The view outside isn’t the same sleepy nothingness I left behind.

Now it’s palm trees, neon signs, and buildings that stretch higher than anything back home.

Everything is different. Bigger and louder.

I made it.

My stomach twists, but I sit up straighter, gripping my bag.

Seven hundred miles. That’s how much space I’ve put between me and “home.” Not that home ever felt like a place I belonged.

Too many people telling me what I should do, who I should be, like I was born to fit into some tiny little box.

Well, I popped the lid off that thing and ran. Now, I’m here. In L.A.

This is my fresh start.

I inhale deep, but my nerves won’t settle.

It doesn’t matter, I can’t go back. I won’t, not after everything I’ve put into this.

I’ve got a place to stay waiting for me, a plan.

It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. And that’s more than I ever had before.

I’ll settle into my new place and then find a job. I’ll take whatever I can get.

The bus wheezes to a stop, and the doors creak open. Heat slaps me in the face the second I step out; thick and heavy, carrying the smells of pavement, exhaust, and something greasy frying somewhere. L.A. air. Smells like opportunity… and maybe a little like hot garbage, but I’ll take it.

I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder, grab my little suitcase, and start walking. The city moves fast, but I don’t yet. Gotta take it all in first.

A couple of guys in tight jeans and unbuttoned shirts strut past, hair feathered like they stepped off of a Bee Gees album cover.

A Cadillac rumbles at the curb, its driver leaning against the door, gold chains catching the sun.

Someone’s blasting Marvin Gaye from a storefront, the music humming in my chest. Already, everything seems so different from back home.

I keep moving, my arms already aching from my bags.

After a few blocks, sweat trickles down my back, and my suitcase wheel starts acting up.

I huff out a breath, stopping near a street corner where a woman is lighting a cigarette.

She looks so different from the women back at home in her crochet halter top and platform sandals.

“Hey, you know where Sunnyside Plaza is?” I ask, adjusting my grip on the suitcase handle.

She takes a slow drag, eyes me up and down, then jerks her chin down the street.

“Couple more blocks, sweetheart. Keep going until you reach the sign with the missing E.”

I nod my thanks and push forward, ignoring the way my feet already ache.

This is it, my new life. My big shot. The city doesn’t know it yet, but I’m here to make something of myself.

I’ve always wanted to be the one calling the shots.

Not just another pretty girl in front of the camera.

Nah, I wanna be the one behind it, making the magic happen.

A director. A woman running the show in a man’s world.

That’s something real. Something worth busting my ass for.

Something I could be proud of and I could call home about. Not that they’d care; my parents.

Even if I made it big, even if my name lit up in credits, they’d still hate me for leaving.

For walking away from the neat little life they planned out for me, find a nice man, settle down, buy a house a few doors down so I could pop out grandbabies and bring potato salad to Sunday dinner.

That’s all they ever wanted. That’s all I was supposed to want.

But I didn’t want that. I can’t see a life where I could ever want that. I want more.

When I left, I ripped the control right out of their hands.

I broke the chains and walked away. And to them, that was betrayal.

But to me, it was survival. There’s nothing back there for me; there never was.

That town felt like a cage, and I’ve spent my whole life pressing against the bars, waiting for my chance to run.

Now I’m here, and for the first time, I get to see who I really am, who I can be, when I’m the one holding the reins.

I squint my eyes and see I’ve arrived. The building is not much, but then again, neither am I right now.

A sun-faded stucco complex, the kind that probably looked decent in the ‘50s but has been left to bake in the L.A. heat ever since stands in front of me. The sign out front reads “Sun_ysid_,” half the letters missing, the other half clinging to the frame like they’re scared to let go.

I check the address again, even though I already know this is it.

I take a breath and start up the stairs.

“Well, well, well. Ain’t you just a sight.”

Looking up, a woman leans out of a second-floor window, one arm propped against the sill like she’s making an entrance.

She’s got curlers in her hair, a cigarette dangling from two long fingers, and a silk robe that might’ve been expensive once but now is faded and just kinda slouches off her shoulders.

“You movin’ in, sweetheart?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, honey, ain’t no need for all that ‘ma’am’ business. You can call me Miss Audrey.” She takes another drag, then points her cigarette at me. “Now, don’t tell me, you’re an actress.”

“Uh, well.”

“No, wait. Lemme guess.” She squints at me like she’s reading me. “You got that wide-eyed look. The kind that says you’re fresh off the bus.” She sighs dramatically.

“Am I that obvious?” I squint. “Yeah, fresh off the bus, and looking for work, actually.” I try to sound confident, even though my throat’s dry as hell.

Miss Audrey raises a thin, penciled-in brow. “That right? Well, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

She studies me for a second, then smirks.

“You seem like a nice girl, and nice girls don’t last long in this city without a little help.

You ever need anything, sugar, coffee, a stiff drink, or even a good cry, you come see Miss Audrey.

I’m in 2B. You can’t miss it. I’ve got the pink flamingo wreath on the door. ”

I smile despite the nerves still crawling up my spine. “Thanks, Miss Audrey. My name’s Cassidy.”

She waves me off, already pulling another cigarette from the pack tucked into her robe pocket.

“Welcome to Hollywood, baby. Hope you’re ready for the ride.”

With that, she disappears back inside, and I take a deep breath before heading toward my new apartment. If nothing else, at least I know one thing for sure; the people here are way faster than back home. They don’t seem like the type to hold their tongue.

Here it is. 4B. My new home. The door sticks before finally giving way with a groan, swinging open to reveal the place.

I step inside and drop my bag by the door, taking it all in.

The furnished apartment is a blessing since I definitely don’t have the money to buy furniture.

The couch in the living room is one of those scratchy tweed ones in a shade of burnt orange.

There’s a coffee table with mismatched legs and an ashtray already sitting in the center.

A bulky TV on rickety legs takes up one corner.

It looks like the kind you gotta smack on the side to get the picture right.

Some people may see this and think it’s trashy.

I can’t see it that way, though. Perhaps in a few months I will think that way, but right now I’m blind to it.

I’m looking through the eyes of a woman who thought she would never see anything new or different.

So right now, all I see is beautiful and mine.

Tucked into a corner, the small kitchen is just a square of space, separated from the living room by a worn counter.

The linoleum floor is cracked near the fridge, peeling up just enough to threaten stubbed toes.

The cabinets are that cheap wood paneling, and the fridge hums loudly like it’s working overtime to keep from dying. I love it all. It’s mine. It’s home.

Down the short hallway, I peek into the bathroom to see its mint green tile, and a tub with rust stains creeping around the drain.

The bedroom isn’t much bigger than the closet, but it has a bed.

A real bed. No more motel mattresses with mystery stains, no more bus seats for pillows.

Just a plain, full-sized bed with a wooden headboard and a sun-bleached quilt that’s soft under my fingers.

It’s not much, but it’s mine.

I exhale, pressing my palms against my thighs as I take another look around. This is where it starts. The new life. The making-it-on-my-own life. I can do this. A sharp knock on the door makes me jump.

“Yeah?” I call, already making my way back to the living room.

The door swings open before I even get there, and in steps a man who looks like he was probably a real knockout twenty years ago.

Tall, broad shoulders and a strong jawline that’s softened with age.

He’s got a head of thick, dark hair that’s gone a little salt-and-pepper at the temples, and he’s sweating through the armpits of his button-down.

The scent of cheap aftershave clings to him, mixed with the faint musk of someone who’s been moving around in the heat for too long.

“You must be the new tenant,” he says, giving me a slow, deliberate once-over.

I fight the urge to fold my arms over my chest. “That’s me.”

He nods, stepping fully inside like he owns the place, which, I guess, technically, he does.

“Name’s Donny. I’m the landlord.” He wipes a hand down his face, then claps his palms together like he’s about to get down to business.

“Rent’s due the first of the month. Three hundred bucks.

Cash. No checks, no funny business. If I gotta track you down, there’s a late fee. You don’t wanna know how much.”

Three hundred. It’s steep, but I already knew that. L.A. isn’t cheap, and I’d rather have a roof over my head than get picky about the price.

I nod. “Got it.”

His eyes linger a little too long before he grins, flashing a set of teeth that are surprisingly straight but just slightly yellowed.

“If you got any… issues,” he says, and there’s a note in his voice that makes me feel like he isn’t just talking about leaky pipes, “you come find me. Apartment 1A. Always happy to help a pretty girl get settled in.”

I keep my face neutral. “Thanks.”

He lets his gaze drag over me one more time before he finally, finally, backs toward the door. “Welcome to the building, kid. Hope you like it here.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint whiff of sweat and aftershave. I lock the door behind him.

Great. Day one, and I’ve already met my flirtatious landlord.

I can handle guys like him though, there are worse things.

He’s a little too friendly, a little too familiar, but he doesn’t give off full-blown creep vibes.

Just the kind of guy who probably flirts with anything in a skirt out of habit.

I shake it off and turn back to my apartment, running a hand through my hair

I got this.