Siren Song

by Alex Hayes

  “It’s the same as when you change into your invisible bird creature. You do that shimmery thing, then morph.” Her eyes meet mine. “Can I touch your hand?”

  I hold it out, palm up and remember touching Idris. His skin was silken.

  My mind drifts to Rowan, to seeing her in Livran form. There wasn’t time to study her new look, let alone consider it, but there was definitely something attention-grabbing about her.

  As Azera strokes the smooth scales down my finger, her face breaks into a smile.

  I hold a straight face. “What are you grinning about?”

  Her smile grows wider. “Connie, you’re so cool. When you transformed before, I couldn’t see you. I imagined you hadn’t really changed, except for being invisible. And flying, of course. But this… This is so real.”

  “As if it wasn’t before.”

  “I know, but actually seeing you in another form is… Well, it’s so much cooler.”

  From where I’m looking, whatever form I take is weird, but I might have to explore this coolness factor she’s talking about. Preferably with Rowan around.

  Azera straightens and crosses her arms, suddenly all business. “So, you and the Rowan girl…”

  Did she just read my mind?

  “Obviously you’re into her. I mean, you said she was beautiful and all.”

  There’s the merest hint of disdain in her voice. Or is it jealousy? After what Ryker said, I’m not so certain anymore.

  “Is it her…lizardiness you find pretty?”

  I scratch my scaly chin, then shift back to human because I’m more comfortable talking to her that way. “Uh, no. I hadn’t seen her in the scales until last night. It’s her human form…” that I find irresistible.

  Azera nods.

  “What are you getting at, Az?”

  She forces a smile. “I…” Then she sighs. “I don’t want to lose you, Connie. You’re all I have.”

  I slide out of my chair and circle the island. “You’re not going to lose me.” I hug her tight. “I can’t say things won’t change.” Because I’m certain they will. “But I’ll never take off on you, I promise. We’re a team, right?”

  She lifts her head from my shoulder. “But what kind of team? You don’t want to be a photog anymore.”

  “That doesn’t mean I won’t help you, or that I’m going anywhere.” As she pulls away, I remember Hyun’s message. “Hey, Hyun wanted me to pass something on to you. A fortune…from a cookie.”

  She looks at me expectantly.

  “I stashed the thing someplace, not sure where, but I remember what it said. Your life doesn’t get better by chance, it gets better by change.”

  Azera chews at her lip. “So she’s moving in.”

  Hold on, what? “You mean Rowan?”

  One of her eyebrows arches.

  I want Rowan in my life, that’s a no-brainer, but planning to move in together seems a tad hasty. We still need to talk through the paparazzi thing. Idris seems over it, but Rowan might still be pissed. I haven’t picked up any definitive feelings from her on that front.

  Yeah, she did come here to talk to me. But for all I know, she was planning to tell me where I could go stick my telephoto lens.

  I meet Azera’s gaze. “When we get to discussing anything like that, you’ll be a part of the conversation. Fair enough?”

  She nods, then her eyes flip down to the countertop. “You know, I’ve been thinking… Since Ryker and Danvers are out of the picture, there’s a team of photogs roaming around with no boss.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, prompting her to keep talking.

  “Well, maybe it’s time to take our business to the next level. Talk to these guys. Feel them out. See who I might be able to work with…”

  “Like your friend, Justin?”

  “Yeah.” She smiles. “Exactly like Justin.”

  While Azera mulls over her plans for the future, I find my phone and text Rowan. Hey. How are you doing?

  Ten minutes later, she hasn’t answered. I tune into her emotional vibe. She’s in good humor, but a blanket of doubt seems to have wrapped itself around her.

  The lo mein takeout box swan-dives into the trash. “I’m taking a shower.”

  Then I’ll head out to meet Rowan, whenever she gets around to answering my text.

  Once clean, I send her another message. Was hoping to catch up. Will you be around tonight?

  Twenty minutes later, she still hasn’t replied.

  41

  Rowan

  I stare at my ringing phone.

  A half dozen texts, and now, Con is calling me.

  Idris glances across the Beemer as we head home. “Maybe you should pick up and talk to him.” There’s a sigh in his voice.

  “I can’t… I’m…” What am I? Confused. Depressed. Lost. “I’m not ready.”

  And now isn’t the time to get into my problems with Idris either. He’s been stressing over this cocktail party ever since he got the call from Max.

  While shopping, he was worse than Cadi at choosing an outfit, though what we settled on was worth the hours spent searching. Idris looked sharp in his new gray slacks and designer waistcoat. And for me, we found an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress of rich burgundy brocade. I agreed to wear it more to humor him than anything, though the color matches my hair and my favorite shade of lipstick, while ebony stockings and glossy black pumps finish the sexy-but-tasteful look.

  The only thing missing is the right pair of eyes filled with admiration.

  There I go dreaming again. I can’t see how things can work between Con and me. I’m not exactly a ménage à trois kind of girl. At least, I don’t think I am.

  My phone rings again. I sigh inwardly and silence it.

  What would I say if I answered?

  Our crystals might make us compatible, but our lives reside on opposite poles. In a few months, I’ll head back to Upstate New York.

  Con has a good life. He has a gir…whatever. He’d never leave the West Coast.

  Idris rubs his chest and clears his throat.

  “What’s up? Not getting nervous are you?” I tease.

  He grins. “Nah, just got this sensation.” He rubs his chest again. “A tug from Cadi’s crystal, like she’s close, which makes no sense.”

  I hesitate. Unless it does make sense.

  Cadi said she couldn’t talk. I got a couple of one-word answers from her while Idris and I were out shopping. Is it possible she found a way to stay human for an extended period and caught a flight?

  But why wouldn’t she tell at least one of us she was coming?

  “You think she really is close, like about to land at LAX or something?”

  Idris shrugs. “Don’t know what to make of it. It’s a lot harder to sense distance than direction. My crystal’s been picking her up from the same direction for weeks. Nothing could have changed that much.”

  “Unless she found a way to fly here.”

  “Maybe.” He glances at me. “But then she would’ve told us she was coming.”

  “She’s got to be concerned about the photos, Idris. And you still haven’t talked to her.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He glances my way. “But we were pretty distracted last night.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t pick up on what went down—”

  “That’s because I kept my cool. I had the extra incentive to not freak her out any more than I already have.”

  I pat his forearm. “She’ll forgive you. You know that, right?”

  His expression turns sad. “But will she ever trust me again?”

  “Well, I’ll vouch for you.”

  My fingers tingle as my phone vibrates a notification. Biting my lip, I look down at the message. But this one’s not from Con; it’s from Cadi.

  42

  Idris

  As Rowan and I head toward Hollywood Heights for the evening’s event, another tug at my chest reminds me of Cadi. Her direction has shifted. If she were in New York, I’d hardly
notice her movements, unless she drove as far as another state. Not likely, given she can’t stay human for long.

  But the growing pull tells me something’s changed; she seems much closer than she was.

  She sent Rowan a text to say hi and that she couldn’t talk privately.

  Privately? What does that mean? She could only be with the Jacobsens.

  God, I miss her. It’s been two days since we spoke, and we usually talk twice a day. I haven’t dared call since Nicole stole my phone.

  Frustration and anger boil inside me when I think of that bitch. Frustration because I’m powerless to undo the damage she’s done, and anger because I stupidly trusted her in the first place.

  She could have killed me, and why the hell did she pull that stunt in the first place? That kind of behavior won’t win her any friends. The girl has to be demented.

  I pull up at a gated entry. A guard steps out of the security booth, holding a clipboard. He checks my name and waves us through.

  The place is impressive. Tastefully lit flower beds and bright green lawns spread outward from the driveway, an avenue edged by palm trees so large they feather the night sky.

  A black-suited valet with a red bow tie steps from the shadows as I pull up under an equally magnificent covered driveway supported by Grecian columns with decorative top scrolls.

  “Welcome to the Robertson residence, Mr. Williams.” The valet trades my keys for a claim tag as I step from the car.

  I’m still not used to this level of pomp and grandeur.

  The valet opens the passenger door to let Rowan out. With a tilt of the head, I offer her my arm. Her responding smirk makes me chuckle as she hooks my elbow.

  A doorman in a top hat lets us through a huge oak door carved with a geometric pattern I recognize. Again, Greek-style. The key, I think. We studied all that stuff back in sophomore year. Two years ago.

  Man, a lot has changed since I was a kid in high school. Now I’m a kid trying to fake it as an adult in LA.

  What am I doing at a party like this? Do these guys seriously want me to sing my song?

  A woman with straight black hair and a cream-colored sheath dress clacks across the parquet-floored foyer in her high heels.

  “Idris?” She holds out her hand. “I’m Maggie DeBoise.”

  I introduce Rowan over the soft jazz playing in the background. Maggie leads us through a spacious living room crowded with elegant people. The room opens onto a long terrace overlooking the grounds and an Olympic-sized swimming pool that glows blue-green through the darkness.

  Maggie rattles off names and positions in the movie space as I shake hands with mogul after mogul. Some look the part with their gray suits and alma mater pinky rings, others are dressed in one-of-a-kind designer outfits.

  “And this is our host,” Maggie says, bringing us to a stop in front of a guy in his early fifties, wearing a tux with a silver tie that accentuates the platinum shade of his hair. Distinguished is the word for this guy. “Harvey Robertson. Harvey, this is Idris.”

  Wait, I know that name. Harvey Robertson. Holy shit. As in Nicole’s father? This cannot be happening.

  I’m not sure how I hold it together because my heart is ready to blow a gasket.

  “So nice to meet you, Idris.” Mr. Robertson’s tenor voice is smooth and relaxed. “We’re looking forward to your performance tonight.” He holds out a hand.

  Does he know who I am? Will he ask me about those pictures? Does he have a handy closet I can crawl into?

  Running on autopilot, I shake the proffered hand.

  His smile isn’t dagger-edged, nor are his eyes. Their friendliness seems genuine. Maybe he doesn’t know anything about the Nicole kerfuffle. Not all older people are into social media. He could have missed it. Couldn’t he?

  Shit, how likely is it that no one brought those pictures to his attention before I deleted them?

  Unless Nicole did what she did because she knew she could get away with it. Or is this guy going to think I’m her next hot topic?

  Rowan doesn’t seem to have made the connection. She looks calm, all smiles and pleasant greetings. Until a swirl of ice blue blows in.

  Freaking hell. Nicole.

  I freeze, like she’s a nor’easter and I’m the Atlantic Coastline.

  Before I can react further, Rowan’s arm snakes around mine and squeezes warmth back into my frigid extremities. Literally. I feel the gentle flow of heat from her hand sinking into my bicep.

  The fingers of my opposite hand wrap around Rowan’s forearm, like she’s my anchor.

  Maggie seems to have picked up on the change in air pressure and sidles away to speak to a guest in a dapper red suit.

  Harvey Robertson’s smile doesn’t falter, but I detect a rim of hoarfrost around his light gray eyes. “Ah, Nicole.” His smile brightens, but there’s an edge to the way he says her name.

  Though it pains me to turn my attention to that bitch, my eyes plod through the thickened air to meet hers. She stands, hips rocking, in a royal blue satin dress, her hands clasped behind her back, like a freaking Shirley Temple swaying to the tune of “The Good Ship Lollipop.”

  The dress brings out the icy blue in her eyes and a cold conceit I never noticed before. She’s gloating, hoping to see me squirm.

  Am I squirming?

  I shouldn’t be. She’s the one who tried to screw me over. Shit, and I still don’t know whether she succeeded.

  A low hum in my chest and that rubber band tug brings Cadi, my perfect girl, to mind. Love blossoms in my chest. Even though I feel undeserving, her love echoes back, its warmth strengthening me.

  I narrow my eyes at Nicole like an MMA fighter sizing up the competition.

  “I believe you have something to return.” Harvey Robertson’s low voice resonates with command.

  Is he talking to me?

  Apparently not because his eyes are laser-beam focused on his daughter.

  Nicole huffs. Her arms swing from behind her back, revealing a phone. My phone. She holds it out. “You forgot this at Shelby’s place.”

  My fingers tremble. I squeeze them into fists, then snatch the phone from her.

  Rowan’s grip tightens around my elbow, reminding me I’m standing in Harvey Robertson’s living room. It also reminds me that my second chance to sell “Won’t You Come Home to Me?” to this movie company, with my voice singing it, could vanish like a magician’s trick.

  “Nicole has a rare skill for sniffing out talent.” Mr. Robertson’s eyes swing to his daughter’s snooty mug. “But she took things too far.” His face drops its Academy-Award-winner smile, and icy looks are exchanged between their blue and gray eyes.

  “Sorry,” Nicole says, without looking at me.

  Is it any wonder LA has a reputation for chewing people up and spitting them out, when girls like her cruise the Hollywood scene looking for victims to sink their teeth into?

  I’m tempted to walk away, step across the threshold of this movie mogul’s mansion and go home. But I don’t. Because if I do, people like Nicole win, and I refuse to let that bitch destroy everything I’ve worked for.

  What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Not sure where I first heard that trite quote, but it’s true. She came pretty close to killing me, but hell if I’m going to play dead.

  A rare skill for sniffing out talent, her dad said.

  Give me a break. From what I’ve heard, she doesn’t have any talent of her own, so what does she do? She tries to capitalize on other people’s.

  And for what? Attention?

  Rowan drops her hand from my elbow and searches through her clutch until she finds her phone. Frowning, she types a message.

  Meanwhile, Harvey Robertson’s gaze is throwing daggers at his daughter. Apparently, he isn’t any more impressed by her apology than I am.

  Nicole takes a step toward me, arms outstretched.

  I step away.

  Her eyelids flutter and her face tenses. “Seriously, Idris. Can’t we star
t over? I mean, you’re fine. Nothing happened.”

  I’m fine? Nothing happened?

  The aftermath of the pictures she posted using my account still awaits. Nicole almost killed me, and Cadi has every reason to want to finish the job.

  “Um, excuse me.” Rowan steps from our huddle and beelines for the front door.

  “Nothing happened?” I fume. “Other than the fact that I could’ve died, that you stole my phone and impersonated me on Instagram, that you made me look like a total ass and hurt my fiancée in the process.”

  Nicole laughs, an eruption that makes her nostril’s flare and her blue eyes three shades colder. “Your fiancée who’s on the other side of the country. Your fiancée who doesn’t show up on any of your social media. Oh, come on, Idris, your fiancée is a figment of your imagination.”

  A sharp ping in my chest pulls me, physically, in the direction of the front door. A flash of burgundy and another of gold.

  My eyes lock onto the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Long curls of blonde hair fall around a pale face and pour over a low-cut neckline that exposes the sexiest hint of cleavage that I can’t help ogling. Her body is squeezed into a form-fitting dress of gold sequins. She’s tall and slender, but with the most luscious curvy hips and a very pronounced bump on her belly.

  My jaw drops.

  She’s here. She’s human. And she’s frigging drop-dead bombshell gorgeous.

  “Who is that?” Nicole’s voice squawks at my eardrum like a caged parakeet.

  “I don’t know,” answers her father. “But I’d surely like to find out.”

  Yeah, I bet there isn’t a man in this place impervious to that woman’s grace. Damn if she wouldn’t give Marilyn Monroe a run for her money if the iconic actress were still around.

  And that beauty is mine.

  My body drives me toward her, then stops. Another figure takes shape, sliding between burgundy and gold in a black cuff-collared cocktail dress.

  Mom?

  As total shock stops me in my tracks, my mother slips her arms through Rowan’s and Cadi’s and leads the duo in my direction.

  “Who are they?” Nicole’s question buzzes in my ear like a mosquito.