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

intentionally making this harder than it had to be in order not to follow through? Surely poor Stella wouldn’t be too difficult to get close to, and if her substance abuse problem was a fraction of what it used to be, it shouldn’t be too hard to pry her secrets loose. I decided to make her my target.

A star map purchased on Hollywood Boulevard easily led me to her address, a crumbling Tudor home in Nichols Canyon. I began following her, studying her routines. Inspection of her recycling bin revealed she’d leaped off the wagon, deep into a fondness for gin and chardonnay—at least a bottle of wine per night. Many days she didn’t leave her house except to take her little Chihuahua around the block, but I quickly learned her favorite coffee shop and dog park.

Then, a week after I started following her, she was suddenly gone. The dog had disappeared with her, the house closed up with timers on the lights that went on at seven and off again at ten. I tried to find evidence of where she’d gone, but there was none. No production reports containing her name, no travel itineraries in the trash. Finally a new credit popped up under her name on the Internet Movie Database, and I realized she must be off shooting what appeared to be a movie about a dog for the Hallmark Channel, not big enough to have been mentioned in any of the trades.

Two weeks went by. Three. I grew anxious. Her name was listed way down the cast list, which meant her role couldn’t be large. How long could it possibly take? One evening I wandered down to the Blue Cat, my favorite hole-in-the-wall on the east end of Sunset Boulevard, in hopes of finding someone to take my mind off my failure to even begin to avenge my mother’s death. The place was nearly empty, but I was already there, so I sat at the dimly lit bar and nursed a mezcal cocktail while watching the Mexican league soccer game play silently on the television above the bartender’s head. He was cute—an actor, I was sure—and I’d considered taking him home with me a number of times, but had always stopped myself, valuing my ability to return to the bar above whatever brief thrills he might give me in bed.

I’d just paid my bill when Jackson walked in. He was with a guy and a girl I recognized from his Instagram account as a couple in his film school class. I’d been stalking him so long I felt as if I knew him, and not being a regular drinker, I was buzzed enough after a heavy cocktail that I nearly called out to him when his eyes grazed mine. I couldn’t help but return the half smile he gave me, then ripped my gaze away, staring into the melting ice in my glass as I tried to still my wildly beating heart.

I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him; I’d started coming to the Blue Cat after he tagged it in a post a year ago, but I found I liked it and kept coming back even after he failed to ever turn up. Finally, here he was, the grown version of the boy I’d met on that fateful night thirteen years ago. He was thin, but taller than I thought he’d be. He still had unruly dark hair with his mother’s wide olive eyes, and his jawline had filled out to become an echo of his father’s. He was unassumingly good-looking in fitted gray jeans and a faded black hoodie—exactly the type of guy I’d be into if he wasn’t who he was. But he was…who he was.

I wrestled with myself over whether to chance talking to him as he and his friends seated themselves at a booth behind me. It would be so easy. There had been interest in his eyes when they’d grazed mine. It wasn’t what I’d planned, but the opportunity was there, so tangible.

What would I say? Lying was the obvious answer—I knew enough about him that it wouldn’t be difficult to pose as his perfect girl. I could be on a date with him in a matter of days. I could probably sleep with him tonight if I wanted. But then what? It would have to end at some point. He’d never volunteer the information I needed unprompted, and as soon as I started asking questions, he’d become suspicious. But if I told him the truth from the start, I’d scare him off.

“You follow Mexican soccer?” I spun to see him suddenly beside me, his hair falling into his eyes, the shadow of a dimple as his lips curled into a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He laughed.

I gaped at him, my mind spinning through the options so quickly I felt dizzy. “You startled me,” I managed.

“Let’s start over,” he said easily. “I’m Jackson.”

I didn’t take his extended hand. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered, gathering my purse and jacket. “I have a boyfriend. I have to go.”

I dove off the barstool and hastened to the door without a backward glance. When I was safely outside, I sprinted all the way up the hill to my apartment, impervious to the blisters forming on my heels from my impractical shoes. Finding I no longer felt the warm buzz of the mezcal, I poured myself straight tequila—the only liquor I had in the house—and sat on the couch, beating myself up.

Why was I so shaken? I was a terrible spy. First I botched the encounter with Cole, now Jackson. Luckily, it was dark and he’d seen my face for only about ten seconds, so I was sure he’d forget me in a matter of days. But I should have been cool. I should have been prepared. Now what? I opened my phone and stared at his Instagram account, willing him to post something. It would be so easy to slide into his DMs