Page 42 of Sirens
Their journey ended abruptly at a large iron door, rusted with age, yet still formidable. An image of a mermaid, now reduced to a faint outline of a tail, decorated its surface—a silent sentinel guarding whatever was on the other side.
Maggie tried the latch, and it turned, but something on the other side barred their entry. She glanced to him with a silent plea for help.
With a concerted effort, Trent pressed against the barrier. His muscles strained until, with a groan of protest, the door yielded to reveal a dark room beyond.
“Looks like we’ve hit the jackpot,” Maggie said, her excitement palpable as they stepped into the dank space.
“Or…the Sirens storage room,” Trent observed dryly, noting the muffled sound of music and voices from the lunch crowd on Sirens’ restaurant balcony. “Which means we’ve tunneled under Water Street from one basement to another. Could this just be a way to move things across a busy thoroughfare when this was an active international port town?”
“Could be. But my instincts tell me there’s more to this. Think Mayor Stewart knows about the tunnel?” Maggiepondered aloud, scanning the room. “This could be a gold mine for the history of the Palace Hotel when he reopens it.”
“Good luck getting him to sit down for an interview,” Trent replied with a chuckle. “He’s more slippery than an eel in an oil spill.”
“No lies detected.”
Trent traced the faded tail on the now-open door. “Clever using the same symbol to mark the secret entrances. Not that many people would have recognized it for what it was.”
“Exactly.” She turned to face him, soft features a mask of excitement. “So why put it there if it’s not meaningful? I’m going to ask Mayor Stewart at the first available opportunity. He’s the kind of guy whose favorite book isWhere’s Waldo?—He won’t be tough to outmatch in a game of wits.”
“Well, if anyone can crack him, it’s you.” Trent gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. “You’re nothing if not persistent. Just…don’t give him a reason to call me, yeah?”
He didn’t miss the fact that she made no such promises herself as she turned to investigate the carcasses of kegs of weekends past, a defunct deep freezer, several boxes of seasonal restaurant décor, the Valentine’s Day box noticeably missing from its spot.
“At least it’s organized chaos.” She spread her arms. “Let’s look for more symbols of mermaids or sirens. My gut says that’s where the answers lie.”
Trent nodded his agreement. “What else is your gut telling you?”
She stopped for a second as if listening. “That I’m having the chicken pesto on ciabatta and sweet potato fries with sriracha mayo for lunch after this.”
Chuckling, he batted aside a few cobwebs hanging from old iron shelves, checking the wall behind for a siren guarding secrets. Trent couldn’t help but think of the dual nature of sucha place: a potential safe haven or a prison, depending on which side of history you stood. “Places like these… They could’ve been sanctuaries,” he mused, touching the rough wall. “But with those heavy doors and solid earth? Feels more like a cage.”
“I know what you mean… Were the doors built to keep people out? Or to trap people inside?”
Maggie efficiently started searching the other side of the room, lifting tarps and checking behind boxes. As she searched, bending over, squatting, and leaning into corners, Trent couldn’t help but watch her movements. He grew more aroused by the second, cursing his body’s reaction to her unintentional provocativeness. She was so engrossed in her search, oblivious to the effect she had on him—a siren unaware of her own song.
“Wouldn’t it be hysterical if there was a body in this deep freeze?” she said, testing to see if the lock was engaged.
“If by hysterical, you mean horrifying, then yeah.” Trent drifted over, waking a little differently to compensate for what was going on in his pants. “If you find a body in there, give me time to beat feet, because that’s paperwork I don’t want to do on my day off.”
She’d opened the lid like a treasure chest to look down inside by the time he reached her.
Empty.
“It’s not even plugged in.” She pouted, then brightened. “Maybe it’s here to hide something behind it.”
Trent’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think?—”
Bending over at the hips, she bent across the freezer to peek at the scant inches between it and the wall. “I need your flashlight,” she called.
Need.
It slammed into him with all the invisible force of a hurricane. His vital oxygen swirled into a tornado of lust in his lungs.
The charged air seemed to crackle around them, the musty scent of earth and the faint sound of muffled voices from above forming a backdrop to the tension that stretched as taut as the zipper over his cock.
As he watched her wiggle and lean yet a little further, the way her back arched and her skirt hugged her form?—
“Maggie.” Trent’s voice was husky, barely a whisper over the hum of his own racing pulse. “I swear you’re doing this on purpose.”
