by Logan Ryles
The guitar intensified over the speakers, and the girl swayed and smiled, alight with passion and excitement. Slowly, she leaned forward and whispered into the mic.
“How we doing tonight, guys?”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Her voice was soft but sharp, ringing with confidence, fun, and hint of a Southern accent. Reed swallowed his whiskey. Sirena leaned back on the stool and finger-picked a few more chords, flooding the small room with a crescendo of melody. She grinned, then leaned forward and abruptly stopped playing. With her lips millimeters from the mic, she began to sing softly.
“He was a vagrant and I a gypsy. I lost my way when he first kissed me.”
Reed’s world stopped spinning. Her voice was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was soft, strong, and full of depth and charm and mystery. And so much beauty. She picked the guitar again, her voice rising with each chord change. When she broke into the chorus, and after each pass over the strings, she slapped the guitar with the palm of her hand, creating an overwhelming blend of rhythm and melody. She stood up from the stool and leaned toward the mic as she broke into the bridge. The crowd sang with her, swaying back and forth under the dim lights.
The song ended, and the bartender spoke over the applause. “She’s from Decatur. She’s been playing here for a few weeks and sings at a few bars around town. Getting kind of popular.”
Reed slid his glass back down the counter for a refill, still watching the girl as she began her next song. The crowd talked amongst themselves, ordering drinks, and relaxing to the music. The girl played for another half hour, occasionally swapping the guitar for a keyboard. Her vocal talent ranged from pop to country to eighties rock-and-roll, and every song brought a new round of applause from the half-drunk audience. Still leaning against the bar at the back of the crowd, Reed joined in the show of appreciation.
When Sirena finished her final song, she waived to the audience and blew a kiss, then left through a door backstage. An overwhelming urge to follow came over him, and he dropped another fifty on the counter. He almost started toward the stage, but the thumping club music and flashing strobe lights returned. He blinked in the blaze and shook his head.
I’m drunk, and this is ridiculous. It’s time to go home.
As he pushed through the crowd, he saw her again. She stood at the far end of the bar, leaning on the counter and laughing at a pair of gushing drunks. She offered them each a hug and then signed their cocktail napkins before they grinned and bumbled off. Sirena turned toward the bar, shouting something at the bartender over the blare of the music.
Reed shoved a couple drunks out of the way until he made his way to her. Sirena shuffled through her clutch, peeling out a wad of one dollar bills and a handful of change. The bartender walked toward them with a cream-colored daiquiri and fresh napkin.
Reed sat down on the stool beside her and reached into his pocket.
“May I?”
The girl squinted through the lights at his broad frame. Reed shifted on the stool, leaning down, trying to make himself look less like a killer.
She smiled. “Oh, you’re sweet. But us Southern girls can buy our own drinks.”
He could definitely hear the accent. It must have been masked on stage because it rang clear and clean now. Alabama, for sure. Or maybe Mississippi. The South never sounded so good.
Reed shook his head. “No. I insist. It was a hell of a show.”
He pulled a twenty from his wallet and passed it to the bartender. “Another, please.”
Jen lifted one eyebrow. “A daiquiri?”
“Yeah . . . sure.” Reed leaned on the counter and stared at Sirena as she took a deep sip of the drink then winked at him. The gesture was unexpected, and maybe it was meant to be sly, but it just looked cute.
“Where you from, sailor boy?”
Reed cleared his throat. “I live here.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Born and raised?”
“I grew up out west. And you?”
Sirena took another long sip of the drink. “Mississippi. A little town you wouldn’t have heard of.”
Mississippi. He knew it. Damn, he loved Mississippi. “Rebels fan?”
Sirena grinned. “Hell yeah! Damn right.”
Reed felt the cold touch of glass in his hand and took a sip of the tangy drink. It was sweeter than he expected. “So what brings a Mississippi Rebel to the big city?”
Sirena finished the drink. “Fortune and fame, bitch. What else?”
She set the glass down and pulled a tube of lipstick from her clutch. With practiced ease, she applied it to her lips then rubbed them together. Her every move was intoxicating. Graceful.
Sirena dropped the lipstick back into the clutch, then laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks, Jen. I’ll see you next week.”
Reed’s heart skipped again. “I’ve got the drink. Wanna stay for another?”
Sirena laughed and winked at him. “Oh no, sailor boy. I know how that game is played. This girl buys her own drinks. Thanks anyway. You’re a champ.” She smacked him on the arm and then stepped into the crowd.
He hesitated and then stood up. “Wait. I like you.”
Sirena stopped. Reed froze. What the hell did he just say? His throat was suddenly dry, and he cursed under his breath.
Idiot.
Sirena turned back toward him, and a smirk played at the corners of her mouth. He thought she might jack slap him, but she instead broke into a soft laugh. “Well, okay, then. Straight to the point. You ain’t from around here.”
His muscles relaxed, and he straightened, adopting a persona of confidence. “Isn’t the mystery irritable?”
She laughed again. “Intriguing . . . with just a hint of desperation. So, what then? I’m not drinking anymore.”
Reed hesitated, his mind bogged down by indecision. He cleared his throat and motioned toward the stage. “Um . . . wanna dance?”
This time her laugh sounded genuinely amused. “This ain’t that kind of club. I’ve got a better idea.”
Four
Reed followed Sirena through the tight crowd. She ducked and slipped between the sweaty bodies, occasionally pausing to return a high five or accept a drunken compliment. She moved with the grace and ease of an urban angel, her hips rocking with the beat of the music overhead. Her whole body seemed consumed by the music. Even as she walked, it was still in her step. Every beat. Every riff.
The crisp air outside the club was a refreshing relief to the muggy confines of the cramped interior. Reed drew in a long breath and put his hands in his pockets. The glow of the skyline obscured most of the stars, but a bright smile illuminated Sirena’s stunning features as she stared at the sky.
Again, the breath stuck in his throat. Dear God. Nobody should be that beautiful.
“I love the stars.” Her comment seemed sudden and conclusive, as though she didn’t expect or really want a response.
Reed didn’t break the moment. Instead, he looked back up at the sky and suddenly wished he could extinguish the city lights. Let the heavens take over.
He’d never wished for something like that before.
Sirena started for the parking lot.
“Let’s take a ride.”
Reed shifted on his feet, subconsciously adjusting the Glock 32 where it hung in a shoulder holster under his left arm. She beckoned him on.
“Come on, cowboy. Don’t get cold feet on me now. I wanna show you something.”
Reed pulled his car keys from his pocket and turned toward the Camaro, but Sirena shook her head and walked in the other direction.
“Nope. I don’t get into cars with strange men. We’re taking mine.”
Reed followed her down the line of parked SUVs, sedans, and pickup trucks. It looked like a used car lot.
“What if I don’t get into cars with strange women?”
“Well, you’re in luck. I’m not strange. Crazy, but not strange. Here. Hop in.”
<
br /> Sirena stepped around the corner of a truck. Reed followed her around the pickup and saw a yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked on the other side. It was old. Mid-seventies, at least, with hints of rust around the wheel wells and one missing hubcap. The roof featured a rusted luggage rack, tilted awkwardly toward the driver’s side. Mud clung to the tires, and the headlights were misted over with age and erosion.
“This?” Reed couldn’t hide his surprise.
“What? You don’t like my wheels?” Sirena unlocked the door and shrugged. “You can walk, I guess.”
Reed hurried to the passenger side and piled in, cramming his six-foot-three frame into the confines of the vintage economy car. Sirena landed beside him with a plop and poked the keys into the ignition. She depressed the clutch and tapped the gas pedal a couple times, then twisted the key. A dull clicking sound emanated from the rear of the car.
Sirena rolled her eyes.
“Shit. Hold on.”
She pushed past him and dug around in the back seat. The sound of paper crumbling was followed by metal clanking on metal. Sirena emerged with a hammer and retreated to the rear of the car. She banged around under the hood, then returned to the driver’s seat and tossed the hammer into the back.
“Sorry. He does that sometimes.”
“He?”
“Oscar. My car. He’s old and crusty. But he loves me, so it’s okay.”
She twisted the key, the motor coughed, and the engine roared to life. The little car vibrated as though it were about to fly apart, but it rolled forward with surprising grace and agility.
“I’m Banks, by the way.”
Reed twisted in the narrow seat and frowned. “I thought your name was Sirena Wilder.”
She laughed. “Hell no. That’s just a stage name. You know . . . to keep the crazies away. Real name is Banks Morccelli.”
Reed wanted to point out that her real name sounded a great deal more contrived than her stage name, but somehow the comment didn’t seem safe or welcome. Besides, something was charming about the unusual name. He kind of liked it.
“Chris,” he said. “Chris Thomas.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Chris.” Banks shifted into third gear and turned the Beetle onto the highway. “I kind of like sailor boy better though. Fits your persona better.”
“My persona?”
“Yeah, you know. Leaning up on the bar with all that swagger and condescension, judging the whole universe while you sip on a Jack and Coke and hit on the bartender. Sailor boy.”
He shot her a sideways look, wondering if she had randomly guessed his drink of choice or had observed him consuming it. Maybe Jen mentioned it.
“I’m not judging anyone,” he said. A tinge of defensiveness rang in his voice, and he winced. He should have let it go.
Banks laughed. “Relax, dude. You’re too serious. Roll your window down. It’s stuffy in here. Oscar doesn’t have A/C.”
He turned the crank on the door panel and lowered the tiny window. Banks followed suit, and the crisp fall air whistled through the little car. It felt amazing on his neck and bare forearms. Through the window, he watched the busy streets of south Atlanta pass by in a blur. Banks drove with aggression and very little grace, grinding each gear and swerving in and out of traffic. The small car would occasionally groan, and Banks would reach forward and pat the dash, poking her bottom lip out and talking to the vehicle directly.
A depressed gut instinct warned Reed that the behavior should alarm him, but he couldn’t help finding it endearing. Banks seemed utterly lost in her little world—her windblown hair snapping back behind her ears as she careened around each turn. They pulled up next to a low-slung Monte Carlo at a red light, and the heavy beat of a rap track echoed across the intersection. Reed was surprised to see Banks turn toward the car and offer a “hang loose” gesture at its occupants before she broke out into an enthusiastic attempt at rapping along with the song.
It was terrible. Stifling a smile, Reed looked ahead as the Beetle groaned and bounced forward again, clearing another hill and winding into a residential section of the city.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Banks shook her head. “Don’t ask questions. Just enjoy the ride.”
It was difficult to enjoy the ride when his head was continually slamming into the roof of the small car, but there was something enchanting about her careless flamboyance. He wondered how old she was. When he saw her on stage, he assumed she was in her early or mid-twenties, but now he wondered if she might still be a teenager.
Oscar bounced around another corner then slid to a stop in a small parking lot. A MARTA sign stood beside the road. Oakland City Station.
Banks jerked the parking brake, then hopped out of the car. “Come on, sailor boy!”
Reed pried himself out of the cabin and waited as Banks dug through the front trunk of the car. She emerged a few seconds later with a small case on backpack straps. She slung it over her shoulder, and they jogged across the street to the station. Reed bought a MARTA card while Banks leaned against the wall, humming and gazing up at the stars.
The train arrived a few minutes later, and Banks hopped on board. Reed hurried to follow, sliding in as the doors smacked shut behind him. The computerized voice of the prerecorded MARTA announcer rang through the car.
“This train is bound for the Doraville Station.”
The train started forward with a rush, and Reed began to sit down, but Banks grinned and shook her head.
“No. Here, stand in the middle. Now press your feet together. All the way. Yeah, like that. Now bend with the train.”
As the momentum of the car climbed, Reed struggled to keep his balance. Banks giggled and swayed with the building g-force, her sneakers remaining planted on the dirty grey floor.
“Come on, Chris. Find your sea legs!”
Reed couldn’t resist a laugh. He stumbled backward and grabbed at the overhead rail. The trained stopped at the next station, and Banks urged him to try again. Once more the car launched forward, and once more Reed stood in the middle of the floor with his feet planted together. As the momentum built, he leaned back and focused on maintaining his balance. Lights flashed past the windows, and the wheels clicked on the track underneath. Reed slipped and landed on his ass in the middle of the car.
Banks laughed and leaned against the wall.
“Damn, son. You’ve got the balance of a rolling stone.”
Reed shrugged and grinned. His face was hot, and he grabbed the overhead rail. Why did his legs feel so stiff and awkward? He watched Banks as she slouched into a seat and pulled out her phone. Stations flashed past as her fingers clicked on the screen. The light from the phone reflected in her eyes, making her whole face glow. Kicked back in the dingy mass-transit seat, she looked as content with life as anyone he had ever met.
The announcer rang overhead. “The next station is Lindbergh Center.”
Banks jumped up and shoved the phone into her pocket. The train screeched to a halt. As the door slid open, her soft fingers slipped between his. He hesitated and looked down. Her fingers were so delicate, intertwined between his, but her grip was stronger than he anticipated.
She pulled his arm, laughing again. “Come on. This is it!”
They ducked through the door and onto the platform. Banks’ laugh sounded like the delighted giggle of a child. Free. Alive. Completely at home with herself.
Reed stumbled to catch up, and she led him across the street toward a five-story parking deck. Reed hesitated. A distant voice in the back of his head nagged him not to wander into a dark parking garage with a stranger. What could Banks possibly want to show him? Was this a setup? Had he misread everything about the pretty blonde?
He gritted his teeth and silenced the voice. He hated feeling cynical and seeing the devil around every corner. This moment was perfect, and he wouldn’t ruin that with his practiced paranoia.
Banks pulled him into the garage. “Come on. Trust me.”
&
nbsp; She slipped past the ticket booth at the entrance of the first level and walked to the elevator. Punching the top floor button, she slumped against the wall and winked at him again.
“I don’t get it,” Reed said with a chuckle.
“Wait for it.”
The elevator stopped at the top floor, and the doors rolled open. Reed stepped out onto the broad, open-air level, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Banks bounced past him and walked to the far side of the garage. He followed her, drinking in deep breaths of the cold air as he watched her hips sway with each step. Even though the only sound in the sharp night air was the squeak of the departing train, Banks still walked as though she was in the middle of a thundering concert.
“Here. Look.”
Banks stopped at the chest-high wall of the garage.
Spread out before them, the Atlanta skyline shone beneath the clear black horizon. Each building stood in independent majesty, towering over the sleepy city, glowing champions of the night. The twin peaks of 191 Peachtree Tower glowed in amber glory from the powerful beacon lights nestled at its top. A few blocks away, the cylindrical glass mass of the Westin Peachtree Plaza rose eight hundred feet above street level, glimmering in the light of the other towers as guests slept quietly within its darkened rooms.
The soft glow of the skyline calmed Reed’s nerves. He slid his hands into his pockets and wondered why he’d never taken time to enjoy the view before. It was both majestic and tranquil.
Banks grabbed his shoulder and threw her leg over the wall.
Reed stumbled back and grabbed her arm.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Relax, doofus.” She laughed and smacked his arm. “If I were gonna jump, it wouldn’t be off a five-story parking garage.”
Banks pried his hand free and slung her leg over the wall, plopping down with her feet swinging in midair over the quiet street sixty feet below. She slapped the concrete beside her.
“Come on, sailor boy. Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, Reed slung his legs over the wall and sat down beside her. With a grin on her face, Banks unzipped her case and pulled out a ukulele strung with four plastic strings. It was just big enough to look comical.
