Siren Song (The Chameleon Effect Book 3)

by Alex Hayes

  I drown myself in them.

  A breathless half hour later, the chill of the night can no longer be ignored.

  “You wanna go home?” I ask, but I sure as hell don’t.

  Maybe I could drive her up to San Luis Obispo. There’s this little hotel on the edge of the water…

  Her head tilts forward to rest against my chest. “No. Yes. Maybe.” At least she can maintain a sense of humor.

  Which means I need to preserve mine, while I try to get to the bottom of this feminine emotional mystery, this confluence of divergent sentiment, this oxymoron that defines the female psyche.

  Really, what is it that I’m missing?

  As we drive back to LA, Rowan withdraws into a pensive silence, and I wish I could read her mind, not just her feelings.

  But then she’d be able to read mine, and… Yeah, I have no desire to go there.

  I try small talk, which she responds to with one syllable answers.

  “You’re very quiet.” A final prod. We’ve a few minutes left before we reach the apartment where she’s staying.

  “I’m sorry.”

  My eyes swing up to the car roof and down again. “That wasn’t a criticism. Did I say something wrong? Do something—”

  “No. Nothing. I have things on my mind, that’s all.”

  That’s all?

  “What kind of things?” I venture, because I really think she needs to talk about it. Whatever it is.

  She sighs, eyes glued to the road ahead. “Life stuff. I wish I knew where I was going.” Her voice chokes off, and she clears her throat. “You seem to have it all together. A job, a home, a fa…friends.” The billowing cloud of emotions coming off her suddenly contracts into a tight ball. “I need to find those things too.”

  “I thought you had…friends.” I wonder what she really meant to say.

  A job, a home, a fa…

  Family. Shit.

  She feels alone, and she thought finding me would change that.

  Why shouldn’t it? She’s here. I’m here.

  “I…I do have friends,” she says, and I almost hear the It’s just that… “This is new to me. I’ve been on my own a while, and reconnecting…with you. I wish it were simpler. Like we hadn’t been separated for years. Like things could go back to the way they were before.” Her head turns in my direction. Headlights glimmer in her glossy eyes. “But I know they can’t.”

  I reach out, find her hand in the darkness and squeeze. “Life is rarely simple, but the things worth having are worth the complications, right?”

  She nods. “But our childhood, our connection has been lost.”

  “We could start over.”

  “I don’t know what I expected when I found you…” She hesitates. “No, that’s not true. What I imagined was that you’d be drifting like me, looking for a port to come home to. But you’re not. You have a life.”

  I’m not sure how true that is. Especially lately, given Azera’s discontent and the whole Ryker thing.

  Yeah, I have an apartment. Azera and I, we’ve got each other. I have a profession I’m good at, but that doesn’t mean I’ve found the right port.

  We arrive outside Rowan’s place.

  I park and get out of the car, opening her door while she searches around, extracts her phone from her coat pocket and puts it back again.

  Guess she’s not planning to leave that behind again.

  She climbs out and faces me. “Thank you. That drive was perfect. The moon, the sea, the stars…all beautiful.”

  I reach for her, touch her arm. “Then you were in good company.”

  I lean in and kiss her, sense her hesitance and then surrender. Rowan’s body arches into mine as I wrap my arms around her waist. Her sweet perfume, a scent I can’t quite identify, flowers or fruit. Maybe both.

  She’s intoxicating.

  Her soft lips are honey-edged, promising the sweetness of so much more. I could lose myself in them. Fall so hard I’d never be able to get up again.

  That knowledge should signal danger, but like a sailor drawn to the rocks, I steer willingly toward them, eyes wide open, a smile on my face.

  24

  Rowan

  As Con’s car pulls away from the curb, I close the front door with a soft click and slump against its cool surface.

  I am the biggest loser.

  Being with him. His electric touch. His intoxicating kisses. They’re beyond anything I imagined. He is so amazing, so perfect.

  Is it any wonder he’s already taken?

  At the café, he said he was fine, but I sensed his guilt. Just remembered something I should have done. At home.

  Something? Or someone?

  His earlier words ring through my mind. Words that cut so deep they could never be forgotten. I’ve someone close who knows what I can do. And yeah…I’d trust her with my life.

  And if that someone finds out he spent the evening kissing me, she’s more likely to want to put an end to Con’s life herself.

  I wish I knew what to do. Maybe Idris would have some idea.

  “Idris?”

  No answer. He’s probably asleep.

  I glance out the front window and realize the Beemer isn’t there. How did I miss that when I came in?

  I check my phone. Two-thirty in the morning. That’s late, even for him.

  No texts. He was meeting Malcolm, who didn’t strike me as a late night kind of guy. Surely Idris should be home by now.

  I check for any texts, then flip to Instagram, and my jaw almost unhinges. Idris has pictures posted. He’s shirtless, curled up in a bed with Nicole.

  Fury surges like a firestorm. He slept with that bitch and goes ahead and tells the whole freaking world.

  As if Cadi doesn’t have enough to deal with. Is he trying to make her miscarry? Because this kind of garbage is the perfect way to do it.

  I scroll through the images. Nicole pouts at the camera, boobs practically falling out of her bright pink bra.

  Disgusting.

  And then I realize something.

  Idris is asleep in every single picture. Which means Nicole took them, and I’ll bet she posted them, too. His phone uses fingerprint authentication to unlock, easy enough to figure out, even for a vacuous bitch like her.

  He told Nicole that Cadi was coming to LA tomorrow—meaning today.

  I nod. Yeah, so she thought she’d drop an axe between them.

  Does that stupid witch really think Idris would forgive her for pulling a stunt like that?

  My phone hums. An unknown caller at this hour? I almost ignore it, then pick up.

  “Rowan?”

  Anger explodes from my mouth. “What the hell is going on, Idris?”

  “Shit, Rowan. I need your help.” He coughs. “Nicole slipped something into my drink last night. I passed out, and…” His voice breaks off and I hear the throat-gagging sound of vomiting.

  What was he doing out with Nicole in the first place? He was supposed to be staying away from that world-class bitch.

  “Rowan?” His voice is hoarse. “I’m at Shelby’s place. Can you come over? I’ve gotta get out of here.”

  “Is Nicole there?” So I can kill her.

  His voice crackles. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Shelby woke me up. Guess I’m in his bed. Jesus… What did she do to me?”

  I hold back the desire to tell him exactly what Nicole has done because it won’t help, and he sounds at his wits’ end already.

  “I’m coming,” I say, instead. “Do you know where your phone is?”

  “Nah. Couldn’t find it. I borrowed Shelby’s.”

  So Nicole either hid the phone or stole it. If I ever see her face again, it’ll be getting intimate with my fist.

  He groans. “I need to get this straightened out before Cadi wakes up. If she picks up that things aren’t okay with me, she’ll start stressing. I don’t want her worrying… Ah, shit…” The sound of more vomiting.

  I scream into the phone, “Shelby!
”

  Seconds later, “Yeah, Rowan. Shelby, here. Calm down. He’s going to be okay.”

  Keeping calm is almost impossible. “What happened?”

  “Nicole slipped a shot of vodka into his soda water.”

  “Why?” I shout. A single shot of anything that strong could’ve killed him.

  “You think I have a clue?” He sounds more than a little perturbed. Guess I’m not the only one ready to string Nicole up by her tits. “Probably wanted to get him into bed with her.”

  “Well, she succeeded. I guess killing him in the process wasn’t a worry when all she cares about is posting his naked chest and her boobs all over Instagram.”

  “Are you serious?” Shelby manages to sound shocked and exhausted at the same time.

  “Give me your address. I’m heading over.”

  He reels it off.

  I hang up and call for an Uber.

  Shelby’s house is lit up like a Christmas tree on steroids. The front door is open, so I waltz right in.

  The place yawns like an empty airplane hangar. “Shelby?” I shout from the foyer up the staircase.

  He slams into the banister on the landing like he’s just been fired out of a rocket launcher. “Rowan, get up here. Idris won’t stop throwing up, and he looks like shit. Should I call an ambulance?”

  “Let me see him.” I run up the stairs and push past the boy-faced man dressed in pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt.

  Shelby wasn’t kidding. Idris is curled up in a shivering ball.

  I squat beside the bed and touch his shoulder. “Idris? Tell me how you’re feeling.”

  He lifts his head about an inch to look at me. “Like shit.”

  The dark rings under his eyes tell me he’s dehydrated. An empty water bottle lies on the bed.

  “You need to drink something.” I study his gray features, frown deepening.

  His head shifts in a weary shake. “Tried. Can’t keep anything down.” His eyes roll up and his body goes limp as he passes out.

  I’m about to ask Shelby to call for an ambulance when the doorbell rings.

  My head bounces up and I press a hand to my chest. I was so wrapped up in this mess I didn’t even notice.

  Maybe that ambulance can wait.

  25

  Connell

  I haven’t made it halfway home when I sense anger. The emotion jets from my crystal, making me jerk upright in my seat.

  Rowan’s upset.

  Hoping the feeling will fade, I keep driving, but the anger rises to near-blinding fury. Rage mixed with fear.

  Something’s wrong, and I can’t pretend it isn’t. That’s damned clear about the connection we share. My compulsion to respond to Rowan’s needs is as vital as the instinct to defend myself.

  The tug of her crystal seems stronger than ever too, like the more time I spend with her, the tighter our link becomes.

  I’m thankful for the near-empty streets and the traffic lights that turn green as I approach.

  The directional pull of her crystal doesn’t take me back to the apartment where she’s staying. It draws me across town through middle-class neighborhoods with uniform lawns edged with orange trees and neatly trimmed box hedges.

  What is she doing out here at three in the morning?

  My internal compass leads me to a house with every light turned on. Rowan’s anger has evaporated, replaced by near panic.

  When ringing the doorbell doesn’t bring an instant response, I pound the wood paneling with my fist.

  A shadow flickers behind frosted glass sidelights. The door opens.

  Pushing my way into the entry hall, I almost knock over the guy who answered. He’s dressed for bed. This should not surprise me, given the time, but it doesn’t fit with the fact that Rowan is inside this house.

  I grab him by the front of his T-shirt. “Where’s Rowan? What have you done to her?”

  The guy looks like he’s about to pee in his pants.

  “Con, I’m up here.” Rowan stands at the top of the sweeping staircase still wearing her black coat.

  I bound up the hardwood steps, two at a time.

  Before I can ask what’s wrong, she grabs my hand and hauls me down a buttercup-walled corridor.

  Her grip on my fingers tightens as her anger spikes. “That bitch poisoned him.”

  “Poisoned?”

  We enter a bedroom. The place is a mess of bedding and filled with the stench of vomit. A guy lies wrapped in a comforter on a king-sized bed that swallows him.

  I recognize his blond-tipped dark curls and tan skin. Idris Williams.

  “Poisoned with what?” I ask.

  Rowan leads me to the bedside. “Alcohol.”

  I purse my lips. “How much?” It’s tough to imagine a guy ingesting that much alcohol without realizing.

  The guy who let me in appears and leans against the doorjamb. His brow twists. “Couldn’t have been more than a shot.”

  “Of what?” I demand.

  His nose wrinkles. “Vodka, judging by the smell of his vomit.”

  A jolt of worry jumps off Rowan. I meet her gaze and sense her reluctance to speak.

  I need to get rid of this guy so I can talk to her openly. “We’ll need plenty of water. A couple of liters, at least.”

  The guy nods and disappears.

  I swing to face Rowan. “He’s one of us, isn’t he?”

  She nods. “He can’t tolerate alcohol, at all.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Can you fix him, Con?” Her eyes plead.

  For those aquamarine eyes, I’d do anything, even if she’s in love with this idiot. She’s certainly terrified enough.

  “Yeah, but we’ve got to get him drinking water.” I look Idris Williams over. “He’ll die of dehydration before anything else.”

  “How do we get him to drink?” she asks. “He’s unconscious.”

  “We wake him up.” I lay my hand on his shoulder, focus on calming his autoimmune system and boosting cellular cleansing, then trigger a burst of adrenaline.

  Rowan’s soon-to-be-famous recording artist stirs.

  She squeezes his hand. “Idris, wake up.”

  His eyes flutter and he groans. “Why do I feel so…”

  Pajama Guy appears with a plastic cup and a two-liter bottle of Poland Springs.

  I take them and pour a measure. “Here, drink this.” I offer Williams the cup.

  He waves it away. “I’ll throw up again. I’m so tired of throwing up.”

  “Not this time. Your stomach’s in repair mode. Drink up.” I push the cup at him.

  He takes it and slurps. Thirst kicks in, and he chugs the rest. “More?”

  I take the cup away. “Wait five minutes. Let what you drank get absorbed.”

  He flops back onto the pillow.

  Relief washes over my crystal, from Rowan.

  I glance at her. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine. I-I had no idea what to do. Thank you for coming.” Questions gather in her eyes.

  “You were upset. I could tell something was wrong. You don’t think I could ignore that, do you?”

  A soft smile lifts her lips. “I suppose not.”

  A throat being cleared pulls my attention to the bedroom door. Pajama Guy lifts an eyebrow. “Do you think he’ll need an ambulance?”

  I shake my head. “He’ll be fine.” I look around the room. “Is this yours?”

  He smirks. “Yeah, but I don’t think I’ll be sleeping here until it airs out. Does he need to stay the night? You guys are welcome, but I need to get some shut-eye. I’ve a therapy session in the morning, and if I go looking like I’ve been up all night, I’ll hear no end of it.”

  Rowan rises from the edge of the bed. “Go to sleep, Shelby. Don’t worry about us. I’ll make sure the front door is locked when we leave.”

  “Alrighty then. I’ll catch you later.” He bobs his head and swings the door closed behind him.

  Rowan sits again. “I need to get him
home.”

  “It’ll be a couple of hours before he’s well enough to travel.” I tap Idris on the shoulder. “Time for another drink.”

  He pulls himself onto one elbow and downs the half cup I offer. “So you’re Conithar, huh?” he says, handing back the container.

  “How’d you guess?” A rhetorical question because I recognize a distinctive pull coming from him, much fainter than Rowan’s. I assume it’s his crystal communing with mine.

  Idris offers a weary smirk in answer.

  I cross my arms. “So what happened? Some chick slipped you a drink you couldn’t handle?”

  Rowan’s anger rises again.

  I glance at her, but her eyes are on Idris.

  Her jaw clenches and unclenches. “I thought you were going to stay away from that…”

  Idris groans. “I was headed home when she called.”

  “With another amazing contact you absolutely had to meet?” Her voice is angry, but I sense her concern and affection for this guy.

  A short laugh escapes him. “And I totally saw through her this time.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Apparently, too late.”

  “Yeah, something in the tonic water. Didn’t notice until…” He rolls his eyes, then glances at Rowan. “Did you take my clothes off?”

  Horror radiates off her. “Oh, Idris. Do you remember anything about what happened?”

  His face tightens with worry.

  Awkwardness hums off her. “Nicole must’ve undressed you. She…” Rowan takes a breath. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

  The guy’s eyes stretch wide. “Rowan, what the hell happened to me?”

  I can’t sense Idris’s emotions. Not the way I can pick up Rowan’s. There’s a difference.

  “She took pictures.” Her lips pinch together and her pain is palpable. “Of you and her wearing…very little. She posted them on Instagram using your phone.”

  His mouth gapes. “Cadi will see them. She’ll think… She’ll think… Is it possible I did…did anything with Nicole?” His voice rises with his distress.

  Idris slams his palms over his face and collapses into the bed. “No, this cannot be happening.” He turns onto his side, his voice muffling into the bedding.