Siren Song (The Chameleon Effect Book 3)

by Alex Hayes

  “Rae?”

  I stop in my tracks. Tears come unbidden from a memory so long buried I’d forgotten it was there. A foggy image of Con searching for me, shouting my name. Rae-Rae! I’d hidden too long, frustrated and hurt him, but a cuddle and a kiss on the cheek had brought him back.

  Con rounds the vehicle and catches up to me on the sidewalk. His hand slides down my arm. “I remember.” His voice is low, little more than a whisper. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  I turn and sink into his arms, chest shuddering, unable to push away the ache in my heart. The loss. The years we’ve been apart with nothing but a black hole to take his place.

  His thumbs sweep my wet cheeks.

  What does this mean, his affection? He hugs me close. Does it matter?

  Electricity zings through my chest, energy that jumps from my crystal to his and back again. Can he feel it too?

  Eventually, he pulls away. “I’ve gotta go, but we need to meet up again. Soon. There’s so much I need to understand.” His eyes bore into mine.

  “Tomorrow?” I hope I don’t sound desperate.

  A smile lightens his features. “Yeah.” He pulls out his cell phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you mine.”

  I reel it off and the phone in my pocket chimes.

  He squeezes my arm, then tilts his head and winks. “See you tomorrow, Rae.”

  Before I can blink twice, his car pulls away and disappears around a corner.

  Love is too damned complicated. And I’m as far from an aficionado as one can get. I’ve never been in love, so how do I tell whether Con is in love with that she he talked about.

  Sure, I’m attracted to him. But how much of that comes from chemistry and how much is derived from our crystals? My affection for the Con of my childhood remains with me. Strong. Like family.

  But I hardly know this adult Con with a life all his own.

  I’m barely through the front door of the apartment when pounding shoes rush down the staircase.

  Idris stops at its foot. “Rowan. Finally. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  “What’s up?” I step backward to close the door and rub my temples against the floating headache I’d almost managed to forget.

  He rocks back and forth on his heels, arms swinging with pent-up energy, then darts across the living room and throws himself onto the couch.

  “Nicole’s been calling non-stop. I apologized about the photo, like a thousand times. She said she doesn’t care, but wants to meet up and talk. I told her what Max said, about lying low, and she said the photo wasn’t a big deal, that we should go out, let people see we’re just friends.”

  I settle on the other end of the sofa. “Are you sure friends is all she wants?”

  He sinks back into the seat cushions. “What else could she want? She knows I’m engaged.”

  “And you think she’ll respect someone else’s claim?” Given her behavior, I kind of doubt that.

  “Claim?” His face scrunches into a pained expression. “What am I, a gold mine?”

  I laugh. “To her, maybe, and I’ll bet she’s hoping to hit the mother lode.” I sigh. “She’s using you, Idris. You’re talented, good-looking and kind, which makes you an easy target. Reality doesn’t matter to her. It’s what appears to be going on that she cares about.”

  He shakes his head. “Nicole’s done nothing but help. She’s connected me with dozens of people.”

  “Yeah, but they’re people who now connect her to you.”

  His breath whistles out of him in a tired sigh. “I’ve heard plenty about sleazebuckets like the paparazzi guy who took that picture, but Nicole’s not like that.”

  “I think what she wants from you is more subtle.” I rock my head against the cushions, trying to ease the growing ache. “Be careful, that’s all. This isn’t just about your popularity or your reputation. It’s about that beautiful girl you left in New York who’d be here if she weren’t stuck in lizard form carrying your baby. She’s what you can’t afford to risk.”

  “I’ll stay away from Nicole. But I can’t stay cooped up here for long. Do you think those paparazzi will keep following me?” His hands ball up. “I came here to make music and build my career. I don’t need this tabloid drama.”

  I tilt my head. “Unfortunately, this stuff goes with the territory. You’ll have to get used to it and get wise to the tricks people play.” Like ever-so-helpful Nicole.

  Idris harrumphs. “If Cadi were here, Nicole would be clear on the state of my relationship.”

  “But Cadi isn’t, so you’re going to have to deal with Nicole on your own.”

  “You could help me. What if we hung out together more?”

  I raise both hands. “Then the paparazzi will think you and I have something going on. How would that help?”

  A twisted smile contorts his face. “You could pose as Cadi.”

  I belly laugh, but the scary thing is, he means it. “Idris, be serious. Once Cadi has the baby, she’s going to have to make an appearance. If we happened to be identical twins, we might get away with it, but we don’t look anything alike. The paparazzi take photographs. Everyone would compare the before and after. How would Cadi explain her transformation?”

  “That’s it!” Idris shouts. “Transformation.”

  “What?”

  A giant grin lifts his cheeks. “You could transform to look like her.”

  My lower jaw hits my chest. “No way, Idris. Posing as her would be beyond awkward. I wouldn’t know how to behave, and anyone I meet or anything I say could come back to haunt Cadi because she wouldn’t know. Talk about a ticking time bomb.”

  He slumps. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, but what am I going to do?”

  “Get on with your life and avoid that bitch.”

  “Rowan. Nicole isn’t—”

  I purse my lips. “Don’t be so sure. I may not be great at sizing people up, but given the downward momentum of her career, she fits the mold of a Hollywood Hopeful just a little too well.”

  His phone dings. Idris pulls the device from his pocket and rolls his eyes.

  “Let me guess…Nicole.”

  “Yeah. Another party. Tonight.”

  “Tell her you’re sick. Or that the muse has claimed you and you’re madly composing.”

  “Maybe I could tell her Cadi’s coming out, and I’ll be tied up. You think that’d put her off?”

  “It might work.”

  “Okay, here goes.” He types a message. “I told her Cadi’ll be here, and I’m gonna be tied up. That should buy me some space, at least.”

  His phone dings again.

  He reads the screen and sighs. “Nicole wants to know when Cadi’s coming because she’s dying to meet her.”

  I laugh-groan. “I bet she is.”

  “I’ll tell her at the weekend. That’ll give me a few days to put her off. Somehow.” He types back and waits. “Crap. She says there’s a party Friday night, and wants me to bring Cadi. I’ll tell her Cadi’s coming in on Saturday.” He types rapidly. “Man, she just doesn’t get it. She said she’ll see me at Shelby’s on Friday then.” He starts typing again.

  “Idris, stop.” I chuckle. “Don’t answer her. And don’t show up at Shelby’s on Friday. You’ve got to give her the cold shoulder and stop saying yes to everything she asks of you.”

  His phone dings once again.

  His eyes are wide when he looks up. “Not her. It’s Malcolm.” He scans the message. “Says he enjoyed our lunch together and hopes I can join him at a friend’s place…” He stares at me, eyes bright. “On Friday.”

  I nod, a smile curving my lips. “Then I guess you’ve got your excuse to turn Nicole down.”

  21

  Connell

  I’m standing outside the stone-arched entry into a gated community. The housing development is surrounded by a massive wall on three sides, while its fourth overlooks the Pacific Ocean.

  Early morning light turns the black iron gate at the entrance
golden. I’m waiting, along with a dozen other photogs, for Chad Guthrie—the next hot actor on the action movie scene—to appear.

  My phone buzzes. Azera.

  I tap my earbud. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Where were you when you took those pictures at the Performing Arts Center?” There’s an accusing edge to her voice.

  I hesitate for a microsecond. “In a tree.”

  “Ryker said he didn’t see you on location.”

  My jaw tightens at the mention of that asshole, and I don’t miss her growing condemnation either. “Since when do you take his word as gospel?”

  Another paparazzo glances my way.

  I turn my back on him and stride far enough away to prevent eavesdropping. “Like I said,” I continue, voice much lower, “I was in a tree.”

  She growls. “Would that be a tree visible to the surrounding security cameras that might confirm your presence?”

  “Not sure,” I hedge.

  “You know what I’m asking, Connie. Were you visible?”

  “That depends how you define visible.”

  Rowan saw me. Maybe she’d vouch for me. Then again, I wouldn’t drag her into this crap. Not to mention, she doesn’t know what I do for a living. She probably figured I was looking for her, not freeze-framing celebs for money.

  “Connell?” Azera’s voice has dropped, making me wonder who might be nearby. Where is she, anyway?

  The airport, maybe. There was at least one celeb leaving town today, though I don’t recall who or when.

  “Taking pictures while out of sight is too dangerous,” she says. “What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t in the air, Az. Seriously, I was perched in a tree on public property.”

  “Perched?” she mutters. “Well, doesn’t that tell me everything I need to know? And I take it the tree had no leaves?”

  “That would be an accurate assumption.” It’s the dead of winter, after all.

  An angry sigh rushes from the phone. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I wince. “There’s no crime committed whether I was visible or not. I was in a legal location taking legal photographs. I could have been operating the camera remotely, using the tree as my tripod. Let them prove something different.”

  “Well, you’d better get your story straight, whatever it is, because there’s been a complaint. Someone’s jumping at the chance to discredit you. And if they screw you, they screw us both because I sold those photos.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Az, but I did nothing wrong. Do you know of any law that states it’s not legal to take photographs while invisible?”

  She huffs. “I get it, okay? But I kinda assumed you didn’t want the whole world to know you can turn invisible and fly. If I’m wrong, fill me in. Meanwhile, we’ve got to tell the Independent exactly where you were, so the agency can confirm you were on public property.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell them. But I don’t have to prove anything. Innocent until proven guilty, remember? That’s the law.”

  “Yeah,” she answers, with a disappointed sigh.

  Five hours later, the front gate slides open and Chad Guthrie rolls through in his cherry-red Tesla Roadster.

  Most of the guys have taken off, no doubt for other gigs with more promise, leaving me and two others.

  Given the unseasonable warmth of this December day, I took a risk and climbed to the top of a rise close to the stone wall, while the other photogs stuck to the driver’s side, expecting to have to point their cameras through a window.

  I score.

  Guthrie has the top down, and from my vantage point, I have a clear shot of the actor’s profile as the vehicle passes. I zoom in for the perfect shot and press the shutter just as an elbow jams into my upper arm, directly into the radial nerve.

  I yelp and the camera lens tilts skyward. Something solid shoves me between the shoulder blades. I lose my footing and tumble down the incline, landing on my back at its base cradling my camera.

  I’m lucky I didn’t smash the lens, but all I really care about is getting my hands on the asshole who pushed me.

  I curl back onto my feet and catch a flash of red as Guthrie’s Roadster disappears around a corner, then I swing full circle to spot the guy who shoved me and return the favor.

  No one’s around. What the hell?

  He must’ve made a run for it.

  A dark vehicle peels out from beneath a row of evergreens fifty yards away, leaving a cloud of coppery dust in its wake.

  The temptation to find cover, transform and take off after that jerk almost overcomes me, then I remember Azera’s disappointment earlier. I can’t take another risk like that or she’ll kill me.

  I climb into the Taurus and thump the steering wheel, shaking my head over the wasted morning.

  After a few minutes of moping, I text Rowan.

  She agrees to meet me at Java Brew at eight this evening.

  Maybe my crappy day can be salvaged.

  22

  Idris

  I’m welcomed into the home of Jason Faltron by his wife Julianna. Faltron is an amazing jazz pianist who made his name in Hollywood producing the musical score for a gangster flick a couple of decades back. Won an Oscar and everything.

  Julianna’s a quiet lady with a beautiful smile. I think she must’ve been a model—maybe she still is—because she walks down the hall ahead of me with a liquid sway in her hips that shows off the sleek lines of her toned figure.

  The Faltron house is huge and airy, lots of steel and glass, but the bright colors in the modern art on the walls, and the textures and curves of overstuffed furnishings provide a perfect balance to the cooler industrial look of the architecture.

  Guests mill around with glasses of champagne and tiny hors d’oeuvres, while soft jazz fills the open space, producing an intimate and relaxed mood.

  I take a few slow breaths and absorb the soothing music as I follow Julianna past the main group gathered in the living room. A wall of windows overlooks the city lights.

  What would it be like to live in a place like this? Would it be possible to grow so accustomed to that incredible view you stop noticing it?

  Nah, no way.

  Julianna opens a silvery brushed-steel door and ushers me into the room beyond, which is Jason’s study, she tells me. The room is wide open with a view of the backyard, which includes a blue-lit swimming pool.

  Lots of glass, but this room has textured walls and feels cozier, more comfortable. My eyes latch onto the black grand piano on a raised quarter circle in the corner of the room. A Steinway. And she’s a beauty.

  My fingers itch to touch her keys.

  “Ah, Idris, you’re here.”

  Malcolm’s voice tugs my attention to the opposite corner of the room, where the man relaxes in a black-leather club chair, his hands resting over the front of its padded arms.

  Another man strides toward me. Jason Faltron. Tall and elegant, like his wife. I take in his cheerful features, cheeks rounded by his early years of jazz trumpet playing. But it’s his skill on the piano that sets him apart. He offers a lean hand with the long fingers you’d expect of a pianist.

  Smiling back, I try to hide how overwhelmed I feel being in the same room with these musical giants. My fast-talking brain splutters and I become tongue-tied.

  Finally, I come back with, “It’s amazing to meet you.”

  Jason’s smile widens, like he gets my disconcertion. Like he was young and green once, too, and blown away by his own versions of Malcolm Emmanuel and Jason Faltron. “Malcolm says you’ve got talent. Ready to show us?”

  I lick parched lips. “Um, well…sure.”

  He gestures to the Steinway.

  I flex and bunch my tingling fingers. Flex and bunch. Flex and bunch.

  My attraction to the glossy grand is downright sensual. Playing an instrument like that is as close as it gets to sexual pleasure without sex.

  I let go of my discomfort and self-consciousness. Playing instrume
nts and making music is what my body—my whole being—was meant to do.

  Sound is my superpower, after all.

  Brushing my palms down my blue jeans, I make for the dais, jog up the three steps and slide onto the piano bench.

  “Play for us, Idris,” Malcolm’s scratchy voice calls. I can hear its smile.

  I lift the fallboard and stare at the keys. Wow. They gleam, smooth and beautiful. I run my fingers down their lengths, fingertips itching, brain longing to hear the perfect notes I know will rise from this marvel of musical technology the second I engage my hands.

  Slowly, softly, I begin, getting to know the instrument under my fingers. Then I focus. Limbs becoming fluid as they loose the notes flowing through my head. Sleek moves. Sexy rhythms. Steely chords. All brought together into a living piece of music.

  My voice joins in, cool and low. Even I’m impressed. Not a hint of nerves. Not a single quiver. I am one with the piano, like a first-class rider is one with his horse. The keys, hammers, strings become part of me, extensions of my soul. Pure. Bliss.

  As the last tones fade, I pause, fingers still in contact with the instrument, unwilling to break this magical connection.

  With a soft sigh, I slide fingertips lovingly over the lengths of those perfect white keys and drop my hands onto my thighs.

  Then I turn to my audience.

  The two men clap and nod, eyes twinkling with approval.

  Jason settles back in his seat, head rocking up and down. “Keep playing, Idris. I want to get your vibe. Make me fall in love with your music.”

  I stare at the ceiling, deep in thought, then grin and bring my fingers back to the keys. And I play.

  Hanging out, jamming, shooting the shit with these guys is amazing, awe inspiring and humbling, all at once. Like I’m hanging out with a couple of gods on Mount Olympus. These guys are my kind of deities, men I could aspire to be like, even though I haven’t a hope of reaching their level.

  This evening is a dream come true. I don’t want it to end, but all dreams must, sooner or later.