Page 2 of Bewitched By the Siren (The Bewitching Hour #1)
CHAPTER TWO
Hali
I spotted the stranger Taylor called me about the second I walked out onto the stage.
Even if he wasn’t the only person pointing a camera at me––the locals know better––I’d have noticed him immediately.
He screams “city slicker” with his designer clothes and artfully styled hair.
He looks like he’s ready for a meeting in a board room, not a night out at a local dive bar.
I’d thanked Taylor for calling earlier, assuring her I’d dash the stranger’s hopes and send him on his way right out of town.
She and I aren’t friends, not really, but I’ve asked several citizens of Circe Key to keep an eye out for any strangers asking about me, and everyone who lives here is so nice, they eagerly comply.
Of course, they don’t really have a choice. But I don’t like to think about that.
My eyes keep finding the man while I perform my set. He looks a bit stunned. Enthralled, even, but I’m used to that look from people in the crowd.
It’s not real. It never is.
But something about seeing that look on this stranger’s face makes my heart beat off-kilter. I force my eyes to stay away from him as I finish up. I need to focus. Keep my metaphorical eyes on the prize. The reason I do this. The reason I do everything.
As I finish my last song, I hold up a fist and wait for the cheers to die down. Once I’m sure the crowd will be able to hear me, I lift the microphone back to my lips.
“Thank you so much. You guys are the best! Don’t forget to tip your servers and bartenders. They’ve been working hard tonight.”
I inject a little melody into those last two sentences, then hop off the stage and rush through the door beside it. I never ask for tips for myself, though I desperately need them. But, of course, I don’t need to ask. The treasure chest I leave on the stage fills up after every performance.
And every time, I ignore the sick feeling in my gut as I count it at the end of the night.
I head straight for my small dressing room at the back of the storage space I’ve entered.
It used to be a closet for cleaning supplies, but Memaw cleared it out and let me have it as a place to change when my shows started filling the bar to capacity every Friday and Saturday night.
I closet myself inside and grab my necklace from where I left it on the narrow table.
Clasping it around my neck, I close my fist around the shell-shaped pendant and take a few deep breaths.
I’m tired. I need to get home and take a sea salt bath.
I pull off my dress and change back into my street clothes before cleaning the makeup off my face. I pull my long hair up into a loose topknot, then slide my feet into my flip-flops.
I’m relieved to be done, heaving a sigh as I swing open the door and step out. But I immediately freeze and gasp when I come face to face with Mr. Fancy Pants.
“Customers aren’t allowed back here,” I say, waving my hands to encompass the storage room.
He grins. “I couldn’t miss the chance to meet you. I’m Brendan Howser.”
He hands me a business card with those words, and I glance at it briefly before trying to hand it back. I don’t need to read it. Taylor already filled me in on who Brendan Howser is and why he’s here.
“Not interested.”
When he refuses to take the card back, I sigh and shove it into my back pocket. I’ll just throw it away when I get home. I try to walk away, but I can feel him behind me as I go.
“I just want a chance to talk to you about your future. You have an amazing voice.”
“Thank you,” I grit out, my face heating.
Of course, he thinks I have an amazing voice. It’s the nature of the beast inside me.
“Hali, please,” he says, hurrying to block my path as soon as I step back out into the main area of the bar.
“This guy bothering you, Hali?”
We both turn toward the burly, bald bouncer stepping toward us. When I look back at Brendan, he looks a little green around the gills. And for some reason, I take pity in him.
“I’m fine, Drew. He’s harmless.”
Drew mad dogs Brendan for a couple of more beats, then nods once before spinning and stalking away. After watching him go, the man beside me turns to meet my gaze.
“Thank you. That guy could crush me with his pinky finger.”
“He could,” I say, then blow out a long breath. “Listen, I appreciate you stopping by and watching my show, but I’m not interested in signing with an agent. I’m happy here. I neither need nor want to make it big.”
I use air quotes around those last three words, then give him my back. Walking toward the stage, I nod to myself when I see the tips in my treasure chest. Flipping the lid closed, I pick it up and turn to find Brendan behind me.
Ignoring him, I head to the bar and say goodbye to the staff before heading for the exit. Memaw has already gone home. She rarely stays late anymore, now that she’s in her seventies. When I step out into the cool, briny air, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
God, I’m exhausted. I need that bath. Stat.
“The Bray Agency can make your career. You’d have a sold-out stadium tour inside two years. I’m sure of it. You’re just that good.”
Oh, God. He’s still following me.
This is so frustrating. It happens every few months.
Despite my no video or audio recording rule, social media is a powerful thing.
People post about how much they love my performances, and record producers catch wind of it and send their agents down to Circe Key to check me out and try to recruit me.
This isn’t even the first time one of them has tried to follow me home.
I can hear his footsteps shuffling behind me, and when he inhales deeply––preparing for another attempt to persuade me, no doubt––I stop walking and spin around to confront him.
A squeak pops out of me as his big body bumps into mine.
I teeter backward, but his hands shoot out to grab my upper arms, steadying me instantly.
A shock powers through me at his touch, making me gasp.
Brendan Howser releases me, jerking back as if I’d burned him.
Did he feel it, too? Or did he just interpret my gasp as one of outrage that he’d put his hands on me without my permission?
By his shocked expression, I’d say it was the former, but that’s just crazy, isn’t it?
Shit like that only happens in sappy movies and romance books.
“Listen, Mr. Howser. I appreciate your determination, but this,” I say, motioning between us, “isn’t going to happen. I don’t want an agent. I don’t want to be famous. I don’t want any of it.”
With that, I spin around and pick up the pace. Hopefully Mr. Doesn’t Know When to Give Up takes the hint and leaves me alone. I don’t hear his footsteps behind me anymore, but I resist the urge to look over my shoulder to confirm he’s gone his own way. I don’t want to do anything to encourage him.
And I need to get home and into the bath. As soon as possible.