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

of Cole’s oversize bungalow reflecting in the still choppy sea below as we approached. Had the water risen? It looked higher beneath the wooden boards than usual, but in the dark I couldn’t be sure. Price rapped on Cole’s door. “You do the talking first,” I whispered to him. “He’s most likely to listen to you.”

I could hear faint music coming from within, but nothing else. After a minute, I rang the doorbell. Nothing. Price knocked again. “Call him,” I said. “Don’t say we’re with you.”

Price took out his phone and raised it to his ear. “Hey, man,” he said into the phone. “I need to talk to you about the schedule.” We held our breath while he listened. “No. It’s time sensitive. I’m at your door.” He gave us the thumbs-up as he listened. “Okay.”

He hung up the phone and the door swung in, revealing Cole wet and shirtless in board shorts, a longneck beer dangling from his hand. The slightest displeasure flashed across his face when he saw Jackson and me flanking Price, but he covered it quickly. “What’s up?” Cole prowled into the living room, leaving a trail of water on the floor.

It was the first time I’d laid eyes on him since discovering he’d raped me, and it was all I could do not to grab the heavy Buddha statue that anchored the entry table and smash it over his head. But that would make me no better than him.

“There’s a tropical storm—Celia, it’s called—a few hundred miles east of here,” Price said. Cole wandered out the open sliding glass door onto the deck, and we followed. “They think it may turn into a hurricane in the next day or so.”

The jets on the Jacuzzi were firing at full tilt, the water changing from red to blue to purple and back again in time with the reggae blasting over the outdoor speakers. Cole took a slug of the beer. “What’s that have to do with me?”

Price raised his voice over the noise. “It’s likely headed this way. We need to come up with an evacuation plan.”

Cole stepped into the hot tub and sank beneath the water. Jackson, Price, and I exchanged a weighted glance as we waited for him to emerge. When he did, he shook the water from his hair like a dog, splattering all of us with tiny droplets. “Saint Genesius is safe,” he said.

“Not hurricane-safe,” I protested.

“Yeah it is, up to a category five,” Cole returned.

“You’re trying to tell me these over-water bungalows can weather a category five?” I asked, incredulous. “That’s insane.”

He shrugged. “So everybody can come up to the lobby. It’s made of concrete block.”

“With tons of windows and surrounded by giant trees that could fall on it,” I argued. “At the very least, we need to get people to shelters on Saint Ann, though I’d rather fly them out while we still can.”

Cole laughed. “For a little tropical storm that may or may not hit us?”

I glared at him. “For once in your life, could you try not to be an asshole?” I snapped.

A small smile played around Cole’s lips as he ignored me. I balled my hands into fists and bit my tongue so hard I tasted metal. Maybe murdering him was the right choice after all.

“Dad,” Jackson said evenly. The word never sounded quite right when it came out of his mouth. “It’s going to hit us. The storm surge alone will put most of the island underwater. Villagers are already evacuating. We need to get everyone to higher ground.”

“So send them to Saint Ann.” Cole shrugged. “I’m not spending fifty grand on plane tickets.”

“You should at least give them the option,” I said through my teeth.

“They have the option—to buy their own plane tickets if they’re pussies that can’t handle a little storm. But I’m not coddling them.”

I shifted tactics. “It won’t look good on you or the production company if any of them talks to the press.”

He laughed. “They can’t talk to the press. They all signed NDAs.”

“I don’t know that NDAs cover reckless endangerment,” Price pointed out. “It’s a crime.”

“Only if someone gets hurt, and no one’s going to get hurt. You said yourself the path of the supposed storm isn’t even determined yet.”

“The bungalows could flood in the storm surge, and we’d be sued for lost or damaged possessions,” I pointed out.

“It would take a fifteen-foot swell to flood these bungalows.” He laughed as though the idea were absurd. “But they can bring their shit up to the lobby if they’re worried.” He beckoned to someone behind us, and we turned to see Madison, wrapped in a bathrobe, her long hair in a plait over her shoulder. So their tryst was confirmed. “Let’s talk in the morning.”

Madison lifted the lid from one of the many room service meals strewn across the dining table and popped a grape in her mouth, then sauntered over to the hot tub with a smug smile.

After the door had shut behind us, Jackson stood on the pier with crossed arms, his eyes blazing. “I’ll fucking pay for it if he won’t. I’m not letting him put my crew in danger.”

“Can you afford that?” I asked.

“Not as easily as he can, but I’ll make it work.”

“Call a team meeting for the morning,” I instructed Price. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”

When this was all over, I would quit. To hell with the repercussions. I didn’t care anymore whether I ever worked in Hollywood again. I’d rather sell the condo for pennies on the dollar and flip burgers at McDonald’s than be in the employ of Cole Fucking Power. The very idea of being free of him made me want to jump for joy.

Part V:Storm Surge

Felicity

Saturday, June 29

The day is still and clear, not a sign of the monster storm marching across the sea to destroy us. I shake the sand from a pair of cutoffs over the edge of the deck into the teal sea and grab my favorite beige