Page 50 of Bewitched By the Siren
Words escape me, so I just nod. He releases me with a smile, and I stare at him for several long beats before coming to my senses, clearing my throat, croaking out another goodbye, and leaving.
“Jesus, Hali,” I mumble to myself once I’m outside.
I must’ve looked like a bumbling idiot in there. I’ve never been so…flustered by a man before.
“He doesn’t live here,” I whisper as I trot up the steps to my porch. “He doesn’t live here, he’s going home soon, and he doesn’t know what you really are. Get it together, woman. Nothing can happen here. It’s a fling. That’s it.”
Steeling my spine, I push through my front door. I close it behind me softly, letting the clicking of the mechanism reverberate in my bones. Just like this door, I need to close off any ideas I might have about a future with the man next door.
It’s not going to happen. It can’t.
It’s fucking impossible.
The house is packed tonight, as it usually is, but for some reason, my excitement is ramped up several notches higher than usual. If I’m being honest with myself, the reason I’m extra giddy is a certain blue-eyed brunet who I know is waiting for me to head out on stage.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve admonished myself for thinking of him today, I can’t seem to stop. He just keeps popping into my head and refusing to leave like a bad song from the nineties.
As soon as I walk out on stage, my gaze links with Brendan’s. Like a blazing lighthouse on a dark coastline, I have no trouble finding him in the large crowd, and we share a secret smile before I expand my focus to the rest of the crowd and give them a wave.
“Thanks for coming to our show, everyone,” I say after lifting the microphone in my hand to my lips. “We’ve got a great one for you, tonight. Let’s put those phones away so we can get started. There’s no recording allowed atMemaw’s.”
Just like every performance, I watch as dozens of people’s expressions relax, their eyes going a bit blank as they put their phones away. My gaze finds Brendan again, perched on his stool with his arms crossed over his chest and a wide grin pulling at his lips.
It hits me that he didn’t even tryto record me, and my throat tightens. I know his boss probably wants proof of my talent. Hell, he probably demanded it, and Brendan will be in big trouble if he doesn’t deliver. My siren song would’ve stopped him from getting the footage, sure, but he didn’t eventry.
That has to mean something.
Dropping the microphone to my side so I can clear the emotion from my throat, I turn and nod toward the band. My drummer strikes his sticks together to count off the beats, then the rest of the musicians join in, starting a popular tune that makes the crowd go wild. As I cover the pop song, my eyes meet Brendan’s again and again, and his joyful expression makes my pulse skyrocket. The rest of the crowd fades away every time we lock gazes, and I feel like I’m singing just for him.
Something red catches my eye to his left, and when I glance toward it, my words cut off abruptly. The band continues to play for a few more beats, but when they realize I’m not singing anymore, they fall silent, too.
I stare with wide eyes as a man with the same clothes and build as the photographer from the beach watches me through the lens of a small, handheld video camera. He’s not wearing a ski mask this time, and I can see his black hair and thick eyebrows barely obscured by even thicker glasses. The red dot that caught my eye is the indicator light that indicates the device is recording.
“Please stop recording,” I say into the microphone, but the man ignores my words.
A screeching sound echoes through the now-silent bar, and I glance over to see Brendan’s stool wobbling before teetering over to clang against the floor. The man, himself, is pushing through the crowd, headed straight for the man with the camera.
Before Brendan can reach him, the man points to the pair of fancy, noise-canceling headphones covering his ears and shouts, “Your magic doesn’t stand a chance against these, Siren. I’ve got you, now! I’ll show the world!”
Panic freezes the blood in my veins at the word “Siren,” and I watch with wide, horrified eyes as Brendan reaches the man and snatches the camera from his grasp. With his free hand, he takes him by the arm and starts to drag him toward the exit, but the man resists, shouting at the top of his lungs so everyone in the bar can hear him.
“Give that back! It’s mine! It’s my proof that sirens exist!”
When Brendan jerks his arm harder, the man yelps and meets my gaze as he’s being dragged away. His fear and anger at being manhandled is quickly overrun by determination as he starts to yell again about sirens, magic, and music.
His voice trails off as Brendan shoves him through the exit. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m off the stage and rushing through the crowd to follow them. When I step outside, the man is demanding Brendan give him his camera back. I watch with wide, terrified eyes as Brendan heaves it toward the ground, breaking it into dozens of pieces.
“No,” the man wails, dropping to his knees to see if he can salvage his property.
“Get out of here, and don’t come back. And if I ever see you near Hali again…”
Brendan lets the words trail off in an obvious threat, and the man slowly climbs back to his feet. His dark eyes find me, intensely magnified by his glasses, and an ugly smile spreads across his face as he lifts a finger to point in my direction.
“I know you’re a mermaid, Hali Weston. And I’m going to prove it! I’ll show everyone I’m not crazy!”
With that, he takes off, running down the street before disappearing into the shadows. I’m close to hyperventilating when Brendan turns to me with wide eyes and a shake of his head.
“That was crazy,” he says, then snaps to attention before stepping closer and taking my hands. “Are you okay?”
