Page 8 of Siren

I didn’t say a word. Because yeah. Of course I did.

What man in his right mind didn’t?

But it wasn’t just that. Her beauty didn’t smack you in the face—itlingered. Stayed in the corners of your memory, soft and unbothered, like the last note of a chord that still vibrated through your chest.

And that voice? It wasn’t just her gift—it was the way she looked when she sang, like something holy passed through her.

So yeah, I’d struggle not to look at her. But I wasn’t here for that.

Still… I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t already pictured what it’d be like to hear her voice live, close enough to feel it in my bones.

Later that night,I was in my apartment with the lights off—except for the soft glow under the kitchen cabinets. The city buzzed through the windows in pulses—distant sirens, the roll of tires on wet asphalt, someone’s laugh breaking the stillness, then fading.

I sat at the edge of the bed, laptop balanced on my thigh, scrolling through old clips of Sienna.

One caught me.

A stripped-down set from six, maybe seven years ago. Small venue. Tight frame. Just her, a mic, and a stool.

She wore all black—fitted pants that hugged the curve of her hips, a cropped knit top that clung to a body slender butthick in the right places. Not overdone. Natural. Like she was carved from honey and heat.

Her curls fell around her face in loose, full spirals, brushing her collarbone, gold hoops catching the low light as she moved.

And her eyes...

Closed at first, like she had to shut the world out to pull the truth from wherever she kept it.

Her voice was raw. Gut-deep.

Not pretty for pretty’s sake—butpowerful.Like she bled with elegance. Like the pain had been distilled into song.

But then…

Then she opened her eyes.

And it wrecked me.

Dark, milk chocolate—rich and endless, framed by thick lashes and soft smoky eyeshadow. She didn’t look at the camera. Didn’t have to. But something in the way shesawthe room—how still she was in those final notes—landed deep in my chest.

I felt my dick harden before I even noticed the tension in my shoulders. Had to shift in my seat. Had to shut the laptop fast like it hadn’t just baptized me in want.

I dropped back on the bed, one arm over my forehead, her voice still curling in my ears like smoke from a fire I hadn’t meant to start.

She was too much. Tooreal. Too damn good. And I was supposed to meet her tomorrow.

Couldn’t walk into that gallery stiff and fully affected.

So I laid there in the dark, trying to get my heart and body to calm down. That didn’t work. Her voice stayed with me.

So did her mouth. And that body. And those eyes.

THREE

The city was just waking up when I stepped out the house—hoodie half-zipped, pockets full of cash I didn’t need to flex, headphones slung around my neck. No team with me. No stylist. Just me. On foot. That’s how I liked it.

First stop was the old corner bakery in Larimer. They barely made itthrough the pandemic—same handwritten signs, same old-school heat trays—but they still served the best sweet rolls in the city. I bought two dozen, dropped a fifty in the jar, and nodded at the wide-eyed teen behind the counter. Didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to. Some things didn’t need to be explained.

Next up was a street vendor off Penn Avenue. She had shea butter in mason jars and bracelets threaded with copper wire and love. I picked out three and dropped two bills. “Keep the change,” I said. Her smile said thank you. Her eyes said she knew. Still, she didn’t name me. And that made me like her even more.

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