The Siren

by Katherine St. John

  The camera and set design departments were recognizable by their tans, having been on the island with Jackson for preproduction nearly a month already, but everyone else had arrived today, and were making the most of the picturesque beach before being swept into six weeks of minimum twelve-hour days. Out in the bright bay, four guys attempted to race paddleboards, while the soccer game I’d been part of earlier had morphed into a boisterous game of football; the next umbrella over, someone was singing “No Woman, No Cry,” strumming a guitar. Not an ideal working environment.

  I closed the script and gathered my bag and towel. I’d have to corner Cole alone later.

  “You taking off?” Stella asked, less than disappointed.

  “Yeah. It’s a little hot for me.”

  “Don’t forget to pay that bar tab,” Cole said.

  “Already took care of it.” I shouldered my bag as I stood. “See you guys later.”

  Intending to go for a dip in the pool, I strode toward the shaded path that led up the hill from the beach to the restaurant and infinity pool, but stopped when I spied Madison, our nanny actress, posing against a palm tree. She wore a red bikini that accentuated her curves, her long dark hair swept over one shoulder while making bedroom eyes at her phone, which was strapped to the branch of a nearby flowering bush with a GorillaPod. The GorillaPod slipped before the timer on the phone camera went off, and she cursed and reset it. I froze and quickly ducked behind a screen of dense leaves and white blossoms. I really didn’t feel like getting conscripted into taking photos of Madison right now.

  A YouTube star with only one season of a television show and a horror film under her belt, Madison had been a last-minute addition to the cast when the girl we’d originally chosen had unexpectedly dropped out a week ago. Madison was no one’s first or even second choice, but she was the only actress on the short list available for the immediate start date and pitiful salary we were offering, so here she was, bringing her 1.1 million followers along for the ride. Fun fact about Madison: she’d been briefly involved with my father while she was on the television show—which was under the umbrella of the studio he ran—but as far as I knew, she was unaware of my knowledge of this, and I planned to keep it that way. Their affair had not ended well, and I knew my hiring her would irritate him, which in its own sick way made me happy.

  Before I could slip away, Felicity sauntered up the path from the beach with a straw bag slung over her shoulder. She spotted me haphazardly hidden among the palms and gave me a quizzical look but thankfully didn’t say anything. I pressed my finger to my lips, then pointed in the direction of Madison. She caught sight of Madison and took a step back, but it was too late: Madison had already seen her.

  “Oh my God,” Madison exclaimed, rushing over to Felicity. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m sorry,” Felicity returned with a friendly smile. “I don’t think we’ve met. Were you on the plane from LA?”

  “No, no, I flew in from New York. I’m Madison. From the Actor’s Toolbox?” Madison prompted. “We were in Lawrence’s class together, like, two years ago. You’re Nikki Nimes.”

  Felicity shook her head. “No. I’m Felicity Fox.”

  Madison peered at her suspiciously. “You’re messing with me, right? You came over to my condo to rehearse. We did a scene together, from”—she snapped her fingers, trying to recall—“Nine to Five! With Belle—Isabelle Carter. Tall, southern brunette? But it was right around the time I booked Dallas Divas, so I had to drop out before we could perform it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Felicity repeated. “I’m not an actress, and I only moved to LA a few months ago. I’m Stella Rivers’s assistant.”

  “Huh.” Madison tilted her head. “That’s so weird. You look just like her. I mean, she had long blond hair, but like, I think I had blond hair then too, so…You have a sister or a cousin or something?”

  “No. I’ve been told I have a familiar face,” Felicity said. “People are always thinking I’m someone else. Sorry I’m not your friend.”

  “Oh, we weren’t, like, friends. She was kinda weird, actually. She never hung out with any of us after class, like she thought she was better or something. And you know, I think she was meaner-looking than you. Maybe it’s the nose. Yeah, you have a better nose for sure. Still. Pretty crazy. I’ll have to find her on social to show you. Hey, speaking of, can you take a picture of me? I was trying to get one for my Insta, but the camera kept slipping.”

  Odd. Madison had seemed so sure she was someone else, it was unsettling. I hadn’t processed Felicity’s paperwork, but I felt like I would have at least been alerted if the name she was using didn’t match her passport. I’d have to ask Francisco to check. I had pegged her for an actress immediately when I laid eyes on her. Perhaps she’d done an acting class under a different name and was now denying it? But why? Or maybe, more likely, it was simply a case of mistaken identity.

  I took their distraction with the phone as an opportunity to slink off toward the beach, away from the crowd. I made my way across the downy sand to the shore, past the outcropping of rocks where I’d first spotted Felicity tanning, toward the end of the island, where a dock jutted into the sea. This was my first trip to the Caribbean, and I couldn’t get over how bright the water was. I was used to the sapphire blue of the Pacific, but this was an aquamarine so brilliant it seemed lit from within, dappled with red patches of seaweed that looked purple beneath the waves and sprawling beds of coral that turned the sea above a light green.

  And the sand! I’d never felt sand so soft, tinted the lightest pink with finely crumbled conch shells. Sure, I might not be a beach person, but I could admit the place had its perks.

  Safely out of sight of my compatriots, I dropped my bag, stripped down to my swimsuit, and sprinted into the ocean with abandon. The water was what some might describe as too warm, but I’ve never been a fan of cold water, and it was enough cooler than the air to be refreshing. Little fish flitted between my legs; I could see my gunmetal-gray-shellacked toes as clearly as if I’d been in a pool. It was perfect.

  I dove under. Light flickered across my closed eyelids as I glided through the water. Feeling reborn, I arose and floated on my back, shielding my eyes from the dazzling sun with a raised hand. Two white birds with black heads and red beaks circled overhead, periodically diving into the water to feed.

  Admittedly, this moment of Zen was rare for me; I normally never relaxed at all during production. I’d come straight home from set and work until I fell asleep, sometimes upright, then wake up and do it all over again the next day. Days off were for stressing about the week ahead. I’d spent months shooting in places everyone told me were amazing and never left my room except to walk to the passenger van that couriered us to set. It was better this way; I stayed focused.

  But perhaps this time would be different. I could imagine falling under the spell of this island, swimming here in this bay every chance I got, tasting the salt water on my lips. I’d make my therapist proud. Ha! She’d have a field day knowing that at this very moment, basking in the Caribbean sun on a tranquil sea, I could still hear my father’s voice in my head loud and clear, reminding me that I would only ever be average, and if I wanted to get ahead, I’d have to work harder than everyone. A glimmer of guilt smoldered at the base of my skull for all the time I was squandering right now, floating around like a rich girl on holiday. I wasn’t rich, and this wasn’t a holiday. I had far too much riding on this film to fuck it up.

  Who was I kidding? I’d already fucked up, and we hadn’t even begun shooting yet.

  Cole and I had arrived via chartered jet two days prior, our assistants and his personal trainer in tow. The assistant director and camera department were already on the island prepping with Jackson (as I should have been, if not for the budgetary crisis), but the rest of the cast and crew wouldn’t show up until the following evening. Cole was early by design. He had a tradition of taking the camera crew to a rowdy dinner the night before everyone
else arrived on set, ostensibly to thank them for all their preproduction work, but also to ensure he’d be liked well enough to be shot in the most flattering light. He’d do the same thing with the editors before postproduction commenced. No one ever said he wasn’t smart.

  I’d worked the entire flight and was so tired when we arrived that all I wanted was to lie on the cool glass floor of my bungalow and watch the fish in the ocean below, but Cole had other ideas.

  First up was a tour of the verdant grounds conducted by smiling staff in a souped-up golf cart. Cole rode shotgun while I sat in back, wedged between our assistants. I adored my assistant. Francisco was the one good thing about my job. A twenty-five-year-old Mexican American with a small frame and a big smile, he’d become my confidant over the past three months; it always lightened my mood to gossip with him, trading stories about our terrible past boyfriends and nonexistent current dating lives. He was smart and hardworking, and even better, snarky, well dressed, and teaching me Spanish. He also had a mad crush on Cole’s perennial cool-guy assistant Ben, though neither of us was entirely sure which team Ben was hitting for. Perhaps both, or neither. We’d come to the conclusion that it was likely even Ben wasn’t sure.

  We tooled around the small, roughly angelfish-shaped island, dazed by its surreal beauty; the Genesius Resort covered the head end, with the main road running the half mile down the center to the town and port at the tail end. The rocks where I first spied Felicity would be the mouth, and the pool and restaurant area the eye. On the back side where the dorsal fin might be was the golf course, and in place of the ventral fin on the belly side were the beach and over-water bungalows, with the dock on the crown side of the head. Lush greenery climbed up the hill from the beach to the shaded teakwood deck and infinity pool that looked out over the bay, presided over by a giant stone Buddha, behind which sat the spa. The restaurant, bar, and lobby were in an adjoining airy building with a view of the sea.

  The setting was beyond gorgeous and all very serene, until Cole commandeered the golf cart and promptly wrecked it into a sand dune. But he owned the resort—the reason we’d been able to reserve it for the duration of our shoot—so I guess he was allowed to wreck things.

  After the golf cart tour was a sunset cruise on the resort’s sportfishing yacht, Cole’s jocularity greater with every cup of rum. I don’t generally drink when I’m working, but I was stressed enough by the full day behind us, I acquiesced to his pleas and downed a fruity cocktail with him as we sped past dolphins into the tangerine sky. I could tell the captain, a fit Black guy about my age, was less than impressed by my boss’s antics, his relaxed smile growing a little tighter every time Cole slapped him on the back and tried for the wheel, shouting, “Let’s see how fast this thing can go!” But Cole himself was none the wiser, slinging an arm around the guy’s shoulders and reminiscing about their past fishing trips like a commander recalling battles of long ago.

  When we returned, Francisco and Ben were allowed to retreat to their rooms, but Cole insisted I join him for a chef’s choice dinner on the porch of the charming restaurant, complete with some bottle of wine he insisted was too expensive for me not to at least sample.

  This is where it got hazy.

  I didn’t remember leaving the restaurant but had the faint recollection of being carried somewhere—by him, I supposed—though I couldn’t imagine how I could’ve let that happen. It must’ve been the alcohol, but all I could count were the rum drink on the boat and a glass of wine at dinner. Granted, the cocktail was stronger than I would have made myself, and my tolerance had likely plummeted in recent weeks. I’d had so much on my plate with preproduction that my social life was nonexistent, and at home I mostly abstained in favor of an early-morning workout.

  At any rate, I remembered nothing from dinner until the following morning—when I awoke naked in my bed, covered in sand.

  I was alone, thank God. Sun filtered through the slits in the wide wooden shutters, and I could hear the sea lapping at the pillars that held the bungalow above the water. The wood and glass floor was clean, the rattan chair empty; a dark-green T-shirt was crumpled on the bedside table. I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I recognized it as the shirt Cole had been wearing the previous evening. The clothes I’d worn last night were nowhere in sight.

  I surveyed the platform bed. Pillowcase streaked with mascara, comforter pushed back, all the pillows rumpled. I wanted to think I’d slept alone, but evidence pointed to the contrary. I was alone now though, so that was something. Perhaps I’d just been so drunk, I’d slept wildly last night. The sheets were soiled and damp in spots; I put my nose to the bed and sniffed. Detergent, salt water, and sweat, I thought—though I couldn’t rule out other bodily fluids.

  I shuddered. I couldn’t believe I’d let this happen. I hadn’t blacked out since…I wasn’t sure I’d ever blacked out. There were hazy moments in the back of cabs after long nights during college, but nothing like the dark hole that stretched from dinner until dawn. Try as I might, I could shed no light on how many times my wineglass might have been refilled or how the evening had ended. I could only assume stress had driven me to drink more than I remembered. I cringed to think what I might have said…or done.

  A prickle in the back of my brain. If this had happened in a bar, I’d assume I’d been roofied. But here? The staff would never in a million years, and I couldn’t imagine why Cole would roofie me. With a crook of his finger, he could bed anyone he wanted, at any time. I was hardly a prize catch.

  I got up and showered, studying my alabaster body while lathering the suds as though I might be able to coax what happened from my thighs, but they were unusually silent, not even a murmur of admonishment about the plate of conch fritters I devoured on the speedboat.

  Why, oh why, is Cole’s shirt on my bedside table?

  Did I have some deep subliminal attraction to Cole that I’d hidden from myself? I pictured his strong jaw, his toned body, imagined his lips on mine.

  Nope, nothing.

  Maybe I’d borrowed Cole’s shirt for some reason. I was cold? Or wet? That could explain everything. I’d gotten drunk and gone swimming (in my clothes, hopefully), which would explain the sand and the slight wetness of the sheets, then borrowed Cole’s dry shirt to wear home. Embarrassing, but not catastrophic.

  Though I still had the nagging feeling I hadn’t slept alone. Perhaps I’d brought home a waiter or a busboy? I scoured my mind for any detail, but it was useless. I just didn’t remember.

  I hadn’t had sex since…wow, New Year’s. Months ago. So I guess it made sense that I might be sexually frustrated. But Cole Power was the exact wrong person to fulfill that need. Some random resort employee would be better, though not by much. Was I sore? Maybe? Then again, maybe not. But I’d never really been one to get sore even when it had been a while, unless I’d had particularly rough sex, so my lack of soreness didn’t mean much.

  What a colossal fuckup, especially taking into account how my last job had ended. I needed to present myself as the consummate professional, not a professional who consummated her working relationships.

  But I was getting ahead of myself. I would have to talk to Cole and find out what exactly had happened. Fun.

  I prepared my speech to him while I towel dried my kinky curls, then wrapped myself in a plush white bathrobe and stepped into the living room. The decor of my bungalow was the same as throughout the resort: modern and minimalist, yet comfortable with a Southeast Asian flair in the form of Buddhas and orchids, carved teakwood, and colorful textile throw pillows to complement the neutral shades of the linens and furniture. There was no doubt the place was beautifully and expensively designed, but what made it so special were the unobstructed ocean views through windows that stretched from the floor to the soaring thatched roof. A ray of sunshine illuminated my open purse atop the dining table, and the black jumpsuit I’d been wearing last night was neatly folded over one of the chairs. Had I folded it, or had housekeeping visite
d while I slept?

  I unpacked my suitcase and dressed, then ventured out into the bright, windy day. As I exited my bungalow, I spotted our bearded lumberjack of a cinematographer, Brian, and the wiry camera op, Adam, walking down the pier toward the sand with beach bags slung over their shoulders, but no one else was around.

  I grabbed an iced latte from the espresso bar in the breezy lobby overlooking the sparkling pool and wandered the manicured grounds in search of Cole. I strolled through the empty restaurant and over to the gym—so air-conditioned the windows had fogged, but also empty. The woman behind the desk in the eucalyptus-scented spa hadn’t seen him and didn’t have any appointments scheduled that day—would I like one?

  I considered; my knotted neck cried out for a massage and my nails were a wreck, but I had too much work to do to spare the time.

  The day was beginning to heat up, the thick fleece of Caribbean humidity only sporadically interrupted by the flicker of a breeze as I trekked to the golf course on the far side of the property. No one had seen him there either.

  Sweat trickling down my back, I descended the hill to the dock, where the fishing boat was just shoving off. I shaded my eyes against the morning sun and spotted Francisco waving wildly to me from the stern. I could make out Cole behind him, fiddling with a fishing line.

  So the asshole was taking the guys fishing for the day and hadn’t invited me.

  I stalked back up the hill straight to the spa and had a ninety-minute Swedish massage followed by a mani-pedi, then spent the rest of the day working from my laptop on a cushioned lounger in the shade of an umbrella by the shimmering pool, uninterrupted. Regardless of my feelings about being left behind, I had to admit it was heaven. I nearly did a happy dance when the concierge who delivered my second strawberry smoothie and shrimp ceviche informed me that storms in Miami meant the rest of the cast and crew wouldn’t arrive until the following morning.

  I made sure to retire to my quarters for the evening before the boat returned. The light on my room phone was blinking with an earlier message from Francisco. “I’ll work all day if you want. Anything not to go out and murder fish,” he pleaded. I felt bad I hadn’t heard the message sooner, but oh well. At least he’d been invited.