1. Wolves in Hollywood

Fuck Hollywood. The sun is always shining, but the people are ice-cold and fake like plastic. It’s fast, hungry, and it chews girls like me for breakfast.

“Leave me alone, you creep. Or I’ll call 911!” In the dead of a hot summer night, my blood runs cold as the footsteps stalking me home grow louder.

My pace quickens, breath ragged.

I can’t see him, but I feel his presence all around, lurking, circling, inching further.

“Don’t come near me. Don’t! I’ve got a pepper spray in my purse. And a knife. I’ll cut off your dick,” I bluff, squeezing my fist. Truth? My purse holds exactly two crumpled dollars.

“I’m bigger than you, little human,” he snarls. “I could swallow you whole.”

Out of the shadows, he steps. Eight feet of nightmare—fur, claws, and teeth that glint in the streetlight. He is not a man to be outrun. He is not a beast to be fought. He is far worse. Even if I had a knife, it would barely make a scratch.

“Please… please don’t kill me,” I whisper, sinking down, heartbeat pounding louder than my screams ever could.

He leans closer, savoring my terror. “Look at this,” he sneers. “The tiny human can cry.”

“Please,” I beg again.

“You could cry me a river of tears,” he hisses. “It wouldn’t change a fucking thing. You’re prey. And I’m predator.”

He lifts me like a ragdoll. I dangle in his grasp as he opens his large mouth, death yawning right in my face.

Then, my silver bracelet catches his eyes, he abruptly jerks back, dropping me and runs off with the wind.

I collapse to the pavement, clutching the wrist he grabbed, my body aching. My bracelet glitters in the dark.

“What… the hell just happened?” I breathe.

Did a piece of jewelry just save my life?

I push to my feet and run home in panic. Still looking back to see if he’s following me, I finally reach the door of the apartment, bang it open, hurry in, close it shut, rest on the door, slide down to the floor, panting heavily.

“Alyssa!” I scream for my roommate and best friend’s attention.

She pauses the TV she had been watching, and turns to me, worry evident in her eyes.

“Lara, what happened to you? You look scared to death,” She asks, coming to kneel next to me.

“Lyss, I think… I just saw a werewolf?”

She stares at me with a deadpan look. “Say what now?”

“It stood like a human.. but looked wolf-like. And it said… it said I smell delicious?”

Alyssa snickers in amusement and stands up, walking back to the TV. “Lara, come on. You had me so scared there.”

“I’m serious. I saw a werewolf,” I say with more conviction, still seated in the floor.

“No, you didn’t. It was probably weird Tony down the street playing a prank. You know how creepy he is. He probably got costumes and everything. Lara, werewolves aren’t real.”

I sigh, realizing that she was right. “Werewolves are stuff you see in books or movies, not in Hollywood. Maybe I was just imagining things because I’m so tired, working a million part-time jobs and still going to school. I’m just so fucking tired!”

Alyssa hurries back to me. “Hey, hey, don’t cry, you know I’m not great with weepy people.” Still, she pulls me into the tightest hug. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself melt in another’s embrace.

“The harder I work, the less money I have,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

Alyssa allows my tears wet her silk pajamas as she runs her hand down my back. Funny how five years can blur by. Alyssa has gone from being the Uber driver who picked me up from the airport when I had just moved to the States, to my roommate in our shoebox apartment, to one person I now can’t imagine life without: my best friend. Or, as Alyssa insists on calling us: bestiees!

Alyssa glances at the ticking clock and gasps. “Lara, you’re about to be late for your waitress gig!”

I follow her gaze to the clock. “Crap, I forgot!” I jump to my feet, scrambling into the stiff black-and-white uniform.

“Hurry, hurry!” Alyssa claps like a frantic coach on the sidelines.

“By the way…” I mutter, halfway through buttoning up. “Thanks for giving me this gig. I know how much you wanted to be at the Oscars tonight.”

This isn’t just any waitress job. This is the gig — serving champagne and overpriced hors d’oeuvres to Hollywood’s crème de la crème. When Alyssa landed it, she nearly fainted at the thought of breathing the same rarefied air as her ultimate crush, Leonardo Knight. Not like she’d actually talk to him — God forbid a waiter do more than serve food. But she would’ve basked in the glory of proximity.

And she gave it up. For me. Because she knew I need the paycheck. Desperately.

“Now, go! Before I change my mind!” Alyssa laughs.

I smile and mouth another, Thank you.

*•*•*

As a waiter at the Oscars, you have one job: make sure the celebrities are happy. Smile, serve, and leave. Over and over again. Now, it’s hour 7, and I’m fucking tired of this. So tired that I might bash my head in with an Oscar statuette. I try to look busy, so that nobody asks me to take the garbage out to the dumpster. Damn, I had done that twice already.

I absentmindedly walk to the backstage bathroom when the sound of grunts, growls and groans fill my ears.

Oh no, did I just walk in on two celebrities having sex?

I quietly back away, but the sounds get louder and more aggressive. Too violent to be sex. Now, I’m worried.

Someone’s life might be in danger.

“Hey, is everything okay?” I call out shakily.

“Get lost!” the voice grunts out.

I flinch at the rudeness. “No need to be rude. I just thought you needed some help.”

“You can’t help me. Nobody can.”

This time, there is a quiet, and familiar sadness to his tone. A feeling of helplessness that I know about all too well.

“You seem very familiar,” I say — well, to the door, since I can’t even see him.“Have we met before? Are you a waiter too?”

He scoffs. “I might be severely overqualified for that. Unfortunately.”

Ouch. I feel my ego being nicked with a sharp razor. This guy is definitely one of the pompous A-listers. According to the waiter rulebook, I’m to smile, serve and leave him. If I don’t, I could get blacklisted. But since this particular stuck-up celebrity is stuck in a bathroom stall, unable to see my face or name tag, he can’t exactly report me to my boss…

That gives me the courage to say this:

“Okay, asshole. I’m sure you’re overqualified for anything that involves actual work.”

I angrily turn around to leave. Then he starts shouting and banging the door, bawling.

The chaos stops me in my tracks again, and I roll my eyes. “You’re not a child. Stop throwing tantrums.”

“I. Need. Help,” is all he says when the stall door swings open.

A man falls out to the floor. His eyes are blood red. His brown hair is scattered around his face. His jaw is bruised. But his handsome features are still recognizable.

“Leonardo Knight,” I whisper in horror.