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

terrible luck or a talented fixer. Regardless, I didn’t need celebrity antics throwing a wrench in our already tight schedule.

“We’ll see,” he retorted, tipping his beer to me. “I’m not the only one who doesn’t need any more bad press.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Touché.” But he was right. Though the public didn’t know me, I was without a doubt persona non grata in the industry currently, thanks to my father’s lies in retaliation for my refusal to smear Madison after their dalliance ended badly. He had everyone believing I’d been skimming off the top while having an affair with my coworker, when the truth of the matter was, I’d had no idea the guy had reconciled with his wife, let alone that he was actively embezzling thousands of dollars from the company while we were together. My only true crime was playing the fool, a crime for which I was still serving my sentence.

“See you tomorrow, bright and early,” I said as I turned to leave.

“Six a.m.,” he confirmed.

I beelined for the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it slammed behind me. I couldn’t imagine how I’d been drunk enough not only to skinny-dip, but to throw myself at my boss. And now I was stuck on an island with him for six weeks, not to mention the three-year contract I’d signed only a few months ago.

I should never have taken this job. But my back was against the wall, I rationalized for the millionth time. I was at the end of my savings with no prospects when the interview with Cole came in; I’d thought the opportunity a godsend. Up until now I’d willfully ignored the second thoughts I’d had from my first day in the office, but I’d almost died this afternoon. Perhaps it was time to start heeding red flags. Ha! Literally.

If the movie did well, I would break contract and leave. The success of the project would prove my worth and improve my optics; I’d no longer be radioactive. I’d cite creative differences and be done with Cole Fucking Power, get a job somewhere else. Maybe I’d even move to New York like I’d been talking about doing for years. Or New Orleans or New Haven…or anywhere new, really. Anywhere I could work. I did love my job. I’d just had the bad luck of being employed by toxic men. There were plenty of people in the film industry who weren’t toxic though, and surely not all of them believed the lies about me—surely I could find some of them to work with. If the movie did well. That was a big if.

I pushed open the door to my tranquil bungalow and walked straight to the slate and teakwood bathroom, where I stripped off my wet swimsuit and stood beneath the cascade of the rainfall showerhead, staring out at the endless horizon. If only the warm water could wash away the deep disappointment I felt in myself.

Felicity

Thirteen Years Ago

All the way home from school, I grip my report card in my fist as the bus bumps through the rain slower than a snail. I can’t wait to show my mom I got all fours, the highest you can get. She promised if I did this good, she’d take me to see the new Cole Power movie even though it’s rated R.

But when I let myself in, the apartment is dark, the curtains closed against the storm. I figure Iris has forgotten to pay the electric bill again, but when I try the switch, the overhead light works fine. On the coffee table I notice a copy of Celeb magazine, open to a page showing Cole Power on set, dressed as a cop. I drop my heavy backpack on the couch and pick it up.

In Bloodhound, Cole Power plays a cop on a mission to find a serial killer who’s been murdering prostitutes and covering his tracks by making it look like the women overdosed by their own hand. Power says the role has been challenging because the idea of violence toward women sickens him, but that’s why he knew he had to take the role…

I toss the magazine back to the table and quietly knock on the closed bedroom door, my report card clenched in my hand. “Iris?”

Nothing but the sound of rain on the roof.

I open the door. The room is pitch black and freezing cold. All the covers are thrown off the bed, and my mom is sprawled across it, naked. I turn off the chugging window unit and sit next to her, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Her blond hair is dark with sweat, her cheeks flushed. I gently shake her shoulder. “I got fours on my report card,” I say, setting it on the crowded bedside table.

Her eyes flutter, but she continues to doze. Worried she’s sick, I shake her again. She moans and changes position, one of her arms flopping into my lap.

I trace the tattoo on her forearm with my fingers: a winged woman rising from flames. My mom loves the magical phoenix so much she named me for it. She sketched the one on her arm herself. She’s an incredible artist. Or, she was. I haven’t seen her draw in forever.

I fumble beneath the scarlet scarf draped over the bedside lamp, finally locating the switch. A rosy glow dimly lights the room. “Iris,” I say softly.

She doesn’t move.

I’m not sure what time she got home from Cole’s last night, but I know it was late because she didn’t budge when I got up and showered this morning. There was nothing in the house I could take for lunch and not a dime of cash in her purse, even though I know Cole’s been giving her lots of money. I’ve seen her put it in the safe I’m not allowed to know the code for. Anyway, it’s almost four now, and I’m starving.

“Mom.” I squeeze her damp hand.

It’s then that I notice the bruises.