The Siren, KATHERINE JOHN [positive books to read .txt] 📗

“Was being a shitty father one of the plotlines?”

He obviously means it as a rhetorical question, but I thumb through the file of his films I keep in my mind, snapping my fingers when it comes to me. “Bad Boy. His father bribed him to keep quiet about company secrets he’d discovered by giving him a large stake in the company. He played the son, but he’s become the father. So yes, even that.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I see the pattern, but what are you getting at?”

“I found Stella’s shoe in the lobby.” I hold it up, and his gaze immediately lands on the drop of blood. “Did Cole say anything about her?”

“Only that she was somewhere safe, and he would deal with her after the storm passed.”

“Anything else? Anything specific? Think.”

He closes his eyes, thinking. “Something about her choosing her ship?”

I recognize the line. “To sail into a storm of her own making?”

He nods, eyeing me strangely.

“It’s a line,” I say. “In the third Gentleman Gangster movie, he says it before killing a man aboard a boat, then sending it sailing into a storm while he escapes on a Jet Ski. He’s playing a character. Or a lot of them. Everything he’s doing is something he’s done in a film.”

Jackson’s countenance hardens. “We’ve gotta get to his yacht.”

Stella

The oblivion of unconsciousness morphed to thick darkness and violent lurching, underscored by the deafening roar of the sea and wind. Water sloshed around me; my throat stung with salt and thirst. One of my ankles throbbed with an unknown injury, and my hands were tied with rough rope around something solid above my head. The stabbing pain that split my skull pulsed with every plunge and toss, as though I’d been thrown into a washing machine in hell.

Confusion turned to panic as I realized where I must be. I remembered everything leading up to the moment the gun came down on my temple—the same gun Bad Billy had used to brain Wildman Sam, if Cole’s story was to be believed—and then he must have tied me up out here on his boat in the middle of a hurricane. The only good news, if there was any, was that the boat seemed to still be tied to the dock. I felt a dull, jarring thunk every time a wave slammed it into the rubber bumpers.

I’d been a fool to think I could lie to him. I’d been a fool to get involved with him at all. I knew better, goddammit. Biggest mistake of my life, marrying him. And I’d made a lot of mistakes in my life. If only I’d stayed away from him, Felicity would still have a mother; I’d have a career. But that line of thought was useless now. I wouldn’t let the heavy brick of regret drag me to the bottom of the sea. I had to fight.

My arms were sore and nearly numb from being trussed over my head; I wiggled my wrists against the rope and found they were already rubbed raw. I stretched my fingers, reaching for the tie, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get them to even touch it, let alone unfasten the knots. A thorny coat of terror wrapped tight around my throat. Thinking I could use my teeth if I could get them close enough, I attempted to pull my feet in, only to find they were firmly tied to something else, too far away to give me enough leverage to reach my mouth anywhere near my wrist bindings. Please, universe, give me some shred of hope to hold on to.

I was still alive. Cole could easily have shot me, but he had only pistol-whipped me, which meant he must prefer me breathing, a positive sign to be sure. All I had to do was survive this horror carnival ride for the duration of the storm, then surely someone would come. But how long would that be? Cole must have gone to look for Felicity and Jackson. I had to believe he wouldn’t find them; the alternative wasn’t acceptable. I implored the universe to take Cole’s life instead of theirs—instead of mine.

If I made it out of here alive, I swore to the heavens I was going to be healthy again inside and out, whatever it took. I’d give up drinking and pills for real this time, take responsibility for myself and my addiction. I’d sell my jewelry and fix the roof, like Felicity had suggested—live within my means. Hell, maybe I’d sell the house. I’d give back, actually do something positive for the world instead of pretending. I could take one of the acting teacher jobs that were sometimes offered, mentor young hopefuls as they reached for their dreams.

A powerful wave slammed into the boat, violently jerking my body away from the wall as the boat keened.

If I make it out of here alive.

Ever since Iris died I’d thought that my life was over, but as I pitched and tossed in the darkness at death’s doorstep, I finally understood it was in fact quite full of possibility, and I wanted to live. Maybe my psychic’s prediction that I’d be okay once I was true to myself had less to do with being a star and more about accepting myself for who I was, unphotoshopped. I didn’t want to hide anymore. I wouldn’t be a victim any longer. I could be better. I swore I could. Please, universe, let me live.

The door suddenly banged open, and a glaring light nailed me in the face. I recoiled and squeezed my eyes shut until I felt the beam leave my field of vision, then stole a glance around. I was in the waterlogged living room of Cole’s new yacht, tied to a handrail next to a couch. Cole’s dark bulk filled the doorway, his flashlight veering haphazardly as the vessel pitched in the surf, leaning steeply toward the side where the pier seemed to be.

Dread tightened my chest.