Whiskey sighs.
She pulls out her seatbelt and forces herself to breathe deeply. Once then twice. Knowing a third or a hundredth heavy breath wouldn’t be able to calm her nerves.
'This is my last chance,' she thought to herself.
She examines herself from the rearview mirror, a bit of her lipstick seems to have faded because of the handful of donuts that she gobbled down while driving on her way to this place. So she took her time to retouch her make-up, undoing a button of her white polo to reveal a hint of her cleavage. This is one of the few opportunities in this job wherein she can use her sexuality to ensure a higher chance of success, and in the precarious situation that she is in right now, she’ll take any advantage she can get. After all, there is nothing wrong with appealing to a man’s desire to get what she wants.
She fetched her pristine coat jacket at the backseat of her car. She puts it on, fixes her hair, and takes one long final breath before opening the door of her car, only to be greeted by bits of raindrops and a gust of wind that instantaneously nullified the preparation she did in her car. The sky was clear which made her think that the droplets that assaulted her seem to be caused by the trees that still bear the weight of the earlier rain within their leaves.
Placing her hand on top of her head to shield herself from what seemed to be the afterthought of rain, she stumbled her way on the mud-slicked path to find a small hovel in the middle of Oregon’s rainforest. She approaches the house's front porch and examines the welcome mat that seems to be weathered by years of being untouched until recently. It is highly unlikely that a world-renowned actor would hide here out of all the places in the world but, if her inferences are correct, this small hut, despite its state of disrepair would make the most sense.
She lifts her hand and knocked on the door, but only was answered by the noises of the forest.
“Hello? Is anybody here?” she shouts. She makes her way to look through the windows only to realize that it has been muddled heavily that it made it impossible to see the insides of the house. However, she senses a hint of light coming from within.
“Mr. Cross? I know you’re in there. I don’t mean to be too much of a bother I just need to talk to you for a second if you don’t mind? I promise I’m not a reporter,” she shouts, straining her throat. She isn’t used to speaking so loudly, but if she needs to sacrifice her voice box in order to be heard by this guy, she is damned well prepared.
She wants to keep her job, not because she is good at it. One could say that she is probably the worst, so much so that her superior gave her an ultimatum that failing her next assignment would get her fired. She didn’t even know it was possible to get fired from this job, but the fact that she might be the first person to be threatened by the possibility resonates how much she sucks at this. The funny thing is she still enjoys her job despite knowing that she’s not very good. Probably because it’s the only place she felt like she belonged. It gave her the sense of purpose she has always wanted.
“Mr. Cross?” she shouts again, knocking at the door vehemently. “I don’t know if you can hear me, maybe you don’t feel like talking and that’s okay. I can wait,” she said.
She steps back and proceeds to circle the house in which her client seems to have holed himself. She was surprised and delighted to know that the hovel seems to not have a backdoor, which means she can guard the only entrance and exit of the place alone.
'You will need to come out eventually, and when you do, I’ll make sure I won’t miss my chance,' she chuckles to herself as she loops back into her car.
She opened her trunk to get some supplies. She grabbed some canned goods, a couple of bottles of water, a portable table, a radio, some nail polish, and a large syringe filled with three dozes of tranquilizer for large horses. If that darned actor plans to make her wait, she might as well get comfortable fast.
She propped the table by the side of the door, put the radio on top of it, and turns it on, blaring the notes of Fritz Kreisler’s Liebesfreud. The sound of the violin echoes throughout the forest, giving the air a sort of whimsical feel as she knocks at the front door again.
“I’ll be here whenever you’re ready, Mr. Cross,” she says as she sits down, puts her foot upon the table, and starts getting her fingernails a fresh set of paint.
-
From the other side of the door, Walter Cross sits upright on his makeshift bed, absentmindedly staring at the light his battery-powered lantern emits as classical music pierces through the walls. He can vaguely hear the sound of a woman’s hums following along to the notes of the song that was playing. He honestly couldn’t believe that the paparazzi were able to track him down this far. Small anxiety crept up inside of him about the high probability that the woman may have led a flock of news reporters that are secretly waiting behind the trees of the rainforest. But that worry was dwarfed by the incessant fear that has welled up into a black hole in his heart. A vacuum that has overwhelmed everything else. He was convinced that he should feel guilty, to feel dread towards the shards of memories that splays before him like shattered glass. Memories of mindless fervor and bloodthirsty howls, yet instead, nothing. He sees nothing but a light of a lantern. Hears nothing but the notes of a violin. He feels nothing, his breaths knotting. Until eventually, he dreams of nothingness.
He was awakened by a crack of thunder. Based on the lack of light cascading down the window, he infers that it probably is nighttime. Something inside of him curdles at that thought. It’s fair to say that he is someone who has grown to hate the night. He despised the darkness that comes with it, how it blurs and leaves everything unperceivable except the glowing piece of rock that floats millions of miles away from him. How that celestial object seems to follow him wherever he goes. Looming and waiting for the time when he will inevitably lose himself.
He can still hear the radio blasting outside of the house and is probably alerting all wildlife near the vicinity. It is no longer playing classical music, instead, the radio seems to be running an editorial news program as he can hear the voice of an announcer reading through headlines after headlines.
“On Celebrity News, romance actor and star of the box-office hit, Love or Lust, Walter Cross, has been reported missing. The 31-year-old actor was last seen in his own home during a live interview via Zoom two days ago. After being asked the truth about the rumors that he has hypertrichosis, a condition in which a person suffers from excessive hair growth, the claims that he takes an unsupervised vacation every month for 2 days and one night, and the videos on the internet displaying his violent streaks, the actor abruptly left the call and was never seen since. What do you think about this, Harry?” the radio news anchor says.
“I don’t know Carl, but everything about this mess screams werewolf to me,” his co-host answered.
“You joke about it, Harry, but there are actually fan clubs, or should I say cults, that is obsessively trying to prove that he is a werewolf,” he retorted.
“I don’t even know if I should be sorry for the guy or just be downright afraid of him,” their laughter was muted by another thunderclap as heavy rainfall begins to pour down from the heavens. Walter was still stunned in silence after overhearing the rumors about him until he was reminded that there was a person on the other side of his door. He hurriedly unlocks the latch and opens his door to find a woman sitting by the side of the doorway.
Despite the droplets of rain that splash her, the girl seems to still be asleep. Amused by what he is seeing, He kneels closer, examining the finer details of the painfully gorgeous woman that has been a plank of wood away from him all this time. Her lashes are long and curled while a few tiny freckles that are poorly hidden by her now faded make-up are splayed across the sides of her cheeks. Her legs are long and slender, he notices the few undone buttons of her shirt, exposing one of the straps of her bra. He can’t help but notice the smile on the girl’s lips while she is sleeping. Something about her angelic face reeks of innocence and naivete.
“Did you get a good look at my beautiful face?” her mouth moved as she maintains her eyes closed, catching him off-guard. He clears his throat and quickly jumps off his feet, slightly stumbling off-balance and sending him a few feet back from where he started.
“Were you awake the whole time?” he asks frustratingly. The radio that sits on top of the small table that tucks the girl’s legs is still on, but the sound of the heavy rain and the constant cracks of thunder seems to overwhelm the device. Finally, the head of the girl rises as she opens her eyes, scratching heavily on her left eye, and unabashedly stretching her arms.
“I woke up as soon as you opened the door, figured the sight of a sweet girl shivering in the cold would make you want to talk,” Whiskey yawns, “Did it work?” she asked. The man just raised his eyebrows at him as she stands up.
After pulling her hand out of her itching eyes, she finally had the chance to get a good look at the actor. She admits that he found Walter Cross a bit too manly for her taste, the movies he starred in always showed him in a dark brooding light, the perfect specimen for a werewolf character, but as she stares at the man before him, he couldn’t see the wolf that reeked of masculinity nor the dominant alpha that exuded overwhelming confidence, instead, as she gazed into his eyes, she realized that this man is just lost and confused and alone. A pup in need of shelter.
She smiles as she finds herself newfound confidence to help this man however she can. She folds up the table, picks up the radio with one hand and her blanket with the other, and makes her way inside the old and rickety house.
“Where do you think you’re going? And who are you?” she hears from the outside as the footsteps of the only other person in a 1-mile radius come towards the doorstep. She places her stuff on the opposite side of the makeshift bed, dusts his pants off, and proceeded to make the space she made for herself more comfortable.
“You opened the door. I assume you didn’t want a poor girl like me to stay there outside in the cold. Don’t worry I won’t be here for long,” she said, ignoring his question about who she is. “By the way, how many times per day do you usually shave?” she asked, noticing the thick facial hair that has grown on his face. She clearly remembers his interview wherein he was unmistakably cleanshaven. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve thought that the video and the sight he is seeing now happened 2 months apart and not 2 days. Interesting, she thought.
“I came outside to ask you to leave. It’s dangerous here, there are... wild animals in this forest. Big, dangerous ones. I can’t be responsible for your safety out here,” he continues.
“You mean you? I appreciate your concern, Mr. Cross but I can handle myself just fine. You, on the other hand, need some help. My help, to be specific,” she sits down on the blanket she spread across the floor and fishes for her business card inside his jacket pocket.
Walter walks inside as he sees her pulls a spoon out of her pocket, “Not that one,” she said as she puts it down on the floor. She fishes again but finds a terrifyingly large syringe full of a clear white liquid. “Sorry, this isn’t it, just a moment,” as she places it beside the spoon.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“For you,” she answers, “Let’s hope I don’t get to use it,” she smiles ominously as she finally pulls out a wallet. She opens it and gave him a small business card.
“The name is Whiskey Flint,” she says, the same name written on the card. It says that she is an agent of an unpopular talent agency called L&Z.
“I appreciate your passion for your job to follow me here, but I already have an agent. Now, if you please get out, I would be very thankful,” he says as he makes his way into his bed.
Whitney just stares at him blankly, “Okay, one question though, do you know that it will be a full moon tonight, Mr. Cross?” Walter pauses, not knowing what to think about the question. “Let’s not kid each other anymore, you know what I’m talking about. Do you think hiding out here every full moon would solve everything?” she asks. He just grinds his teeth, clenching his fist.
“What if the urge comes unexpectedly? It’s happened before, it will inevitably happen again, are you kidding yourself?”
He just sits there, unmoving. “What do you want from me?” he said.
“I want to help,” she said. He looks at her and saw a woman with cold and arrogant bravado. If Walter was on his right mind, he would’ve looked at her and saw the disinterest in her heavy steps, her cold and dark expression would’ve translated what she said as lies.
Maybe it was the influence of the feral entity that convinced him, the instinct of a werewolf that many times has led him to a path he regrets. Maybe it was how for the first time in his life, he has appreciated the moonlight, how it reflected and glowed and shone in the girl’s eyes. Maybe it was her eyes, how it felt like it would cry for him, and blindly believe in him, how it seems to see him for who he truly is, and at that moment, Walter had no choice but to believe.
