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

silly. Like something out of a spy novel. Who do I think I am, a Red Sparrow? Am I going to escort him out of the club to the flashing of the paparazzi, march right past the security guards and cameras at his luxury high-rise condo, and kill him?

I don’t have my gun on me, but I do have sleeping pills in my purse; I could crush them up and put them in his drink. It would be easy enough to slit his throat once he was asleep.

The thought makes me queasy. If I knew for sure he was responsible for my mother’s death, I could probably do it. I killed a deer once, hunting with Fred. He was so proud, he marked my cheeks with its blood and told all his friends how brave I was. I acted cool, but every time we ate venison that winter, I thought of the light fading from the buck’s eyes as he gasped for breath before Fred shot him in the back of the skull, spattering my camouflage pants with warm blood.

If I killed Cole, I’d not only carry that weight the rest of my incarcerated life, but I’d never find out what happened to my mother. And what of Stella? She’s likely more to blame for Iris’s death than Cole.

It’s too haphazard, too wasteful.

I follow the busboy to Cole’s table, where a couple of hot girls have taken up residence between the other actor and Cole. Cole pays them no attention, never taking his eyes off me as I pour two tumblers of Scotch neat, then pop the cork on the champagne and hand each of the girls a flute.

“Here.” Cole pours a glass of champagne and holds it out to me. “Sit.” He pats the leather banquette beside him.

I take the glass and sit next to him, suddenly realizing that any interaction I have with him infringes on my future ability to get close to him. I have a role in his life now, albeit a walk-on one, as the waitress at the Ninth Circle. I clink my glass to his, desperately trying to figure out how to extricate myself from the situation.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Nikki,” I say. “What’s yours?”

He laughs that throaty chuckle I’ve heard so many times on-screen. “Cole. Are you an actress, Nikki?” He leans toward me, his hair falling in his eyes. His breath is whiskey and smoke. “Or a model?”

“Neither.” It’s plenty dark, and he’s drunk enough maybe he won’t remember me at all. Surely I’m but a drop in the bucket of beautiful girls thrown at him every day.

“You should be.” He places his hand on my thigh, his fingers creeping beneath my skirt. “You have the face for it.”

I lay my hand on his. “Not here.” He meets my gaze, and a flicker of recognition passes over his face. He shakes his head as if to rid himself of the thought. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s just…” He furrows his brow. “You remind me of someone.”

My breath grows shallow; the noise of the room subsides. “Who?”

“Just a girl I knew a long time ago. No one famous. But she was beautiful, like you.”

“Was she important to you?” I ask, acutely aware that at the moment my hair is long and blond like my mother’s once was, my eyes their natural blue.

For a split second his attention drifts, as though lost in memory; then he’s back. “No.”

I swallow the urge to strangle him, doing my best to hold my voice steady. “What happened to her?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s not important.” He downs his drink. “Let’s get out of here.”

I force a smile but can’t quite meet his eye. “Give me ten.”

I rise and shimmy across the dance floor to the computer, where I find Lacey typing away at her phone. I grab her hand and tug her through the door marked “Employees Only.”

“Need your help escaping,” I say, flinging open the door to my locker.

“Cole?”

I nod, pulling on my jacket. “He wants me to go home with him, but that’s not happening. I’m gonna get out of here before it turns into a thing. Can you close out my other tables? Keep the tips. Tell Marty I’m sorry.”

She nods. “No problem. We can split the tips.”

I shoulder my bag and give her a hug. “Not necessary.”

“See you tomorrow,” she calls as I push open the door to the alley.

But she won’t. I’m not coming in tomorrow, or next week, or the week after that. The Ninth Circle has served its purpose. Nikki Nimes is burned. It’s time for me to move on.

Stella

Friday, June 28

I awoke to searing pain and murky blue darkness. An indigo trellis of liquid reflection wavered on the ceiling above me, in sync with the hollow sound of water swashing against something solid. I tried to sit up, but the burning sword through my brain held me in place. I heard my voice cry out—strangled, weak.

A hand on my arm. A bolt of fear shot through me as I turned to face my assailant in the dark, my voice stolen by the breathtaking pain of movement. Her profile was outlined by the flickering electric blue, her eyes two pricks of light in the gloaming, but I’d know her anywhere. My blood froze in my veins.

Iris.

Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing the same aquamarine dress as when I last saw her thirteen years ago, looking not a day older. Was she here to torture me from beyond the grave? I tried to call out, but her name stuck in my throat. Surely I must be dreaming. But the pain…

She rolled away from me to turn on the bedside lamp, and the room flooded with light. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

I was in my bed, next to Felicity. She was wearing a turquoise nightgown, her hair gathered into a short ponytail, and the eerie blue glow had been the effect of the light beneath the bungalow on the water