Page 2 of Sirens
Two vodka sodas with lime—thank God, something relatively easy.
One gin and tonic also with lime—her raw cuticles already hated her, but whatever.
One Raven Creek stout—she might just live through her first day yet.
And…a Ramos Gin Fizz?
The fuck was that even?
Maggie covertly slipped her phone from her apron pocket and consulted the search engine. Her eyes got as far as thesecond ingredient when she slapped the ticket on the margarita-salt-confettied counter and whipped through the other five drinks while she ignored the sixth on principle.
The very idea of egg whites in a beverage that didn’t also contain wheatgrass and/or protein powder… Who the hell had decided that egg whites had any placeneara cocktail?
Probably the French.
“Will my RGF be arriving any time before the heat death of the universe, Mads?”
Acronym-happyandan unsolicited nicknamer.
Oh, they were just going to be the very best of friends.
You’re not here to make friends.
The thought appeared spontaneously in her head in a voice that made her heart give a painful little lurch.
Mark Kelly. Her best friend.
The one whose idea it had been for her to haul her ass all the way across the country to Townsend Harbor in the first place.
The one whose younger brother, Gabe, had called in several favors to get her this job.
That she was obviously spectacularly unqualified for.
Which proved just how well Mark Kelly knew her.
Ever since Gabe had bounced from Boston and landed smack in the middle of a friggin’ Hallmark movie, Mark had been convinced that Maggie ought to follow suit.
She’d mostly blown him off until the clever bastard had to go and drop a trump card on her.
Madame Katz.
Townsend Harbor’s very own Victorian villainess. Rumored to have had a hand—among other body parts—in the disappearance of thirty plus men.
Basically, perfect podcast fodder wrapped up in a homicidal bow.
Despite her swan dive down a research rabbit hole, she could find surprisingly little about either Madam Katz or the sailors she’d supposedly seduced into her brothel then conveniently vanished.
Which was when Mark’s suggestion that she do some on-site research in Townsend Harbor started to sound a lot more seductive.
Because if there was one thing Maggie couldn’t resist, it was a mystery.
Even if it meant subjecting herself to the low-grade torture of slinging drinks in the hopes of unraveling it. Because booze made people more likely to talk, and after the feverish research she’d done online, Maggie knew she needed a certain person to do a lot of talking about a certain topic.
But that certain person had yet to show as Gabe promised he would, so instead, Maggie had to keep pumping everyone’s face holes with one of the last legal toxins and listen to the mostly meaningless bullshit flooding out of them.
Which wouldn’t have bothered her, per se. God knew she had an impressive collection of name tags under her belt already. But her ineptitude reflecting on the Kelly brothers after the mess they’d already helped her clean up in Boston? That bothered the shit right out of her.
“Coming right up!”
