Siren's Call

AL

ked on their face like they're the last chocolate chip cookie in the jar, heart pounding like it's trying to escape your chest, and you doing all sorts of wacky things – like ditching that sweet

ers practically every damn day for the past 365 days. When Maeve and I, both broke as jokes, launched 'Siren's Call,' our very own loyalty-testing agency a year ago, we never imagined we'd be drowni

t night pondering this same thing, especially after some knucklehead lover stomped all over your heart. "Why can't they stick t

appen. But one thing they've all got in common is their sweet talk. They'll make you feel like you're the star of the show when you're feeling like yesterda

s, which I was desperately trying to hold onto. Ugh, I hate it... I absolutely loathe it when t

sts painfully in my chest. 1... 2... 3... I silently count, reminding myself of the hundred damn reasons why I have to put up with this. But it's no

e slurred, leaning in closer like he thought he was being s

mes to men, they've got a history of bad choices

y mom's lasagna, if you were into me, I'd get my eyes laminated. So that, I wouldn't even think about checking out anyone else but you," he lic

ng sick as his hands started wandering. 'It's all for Maeve's sake.' I cha

s fingers in his chubby cheeks, trying to look adorable. "Kill him, his w

e barked too much, just like you" I quipped, unabl

But, I'm telling you, I'm a freaking expert at flirting game. Check out my track record – I'

n, we have a contender here who clearly left his self-respect at home, all in the hope

what I've got? I bet you'll be impressed..." His spiel got cut off by his wife's ear-splitting voice,

ring out the same dirty skivvies for a month? This freeloader's been mooching off me fo

stie Maeve chimed in. This gi

m packing. We'll stash this motherfucker in the backyard cemetery; nobody will ba

oof of your heartbreak, not to bust your hubby's skull." Maeve and Mrs. 147 are both lurki

ce, clearly annoyed by the fact that I've just ignored his proposa

care. So I tagged along quietly, praying I get the dirt I need ASAP, so I could crawl bac

*

trying to grope my legs, hands, waist, hairs – heck, he even made a play f

down: to pull off a "baby girl," you've gotta be either Massimo-level hot daddy or Christian Grey-grade charmer, and sadly, he's rocking neither the Italian stallion vibe nor the billionaire all

t need a GPS just to navigate your way to the front door. The façade screams "I've made it" with its grandiose columns and a front porch spacious en

Julia, made sure that none of the staff was at home when we came here. She's with Maeve a few blocks away, waiting for us to go inside, so how the heck did the door just magically open? Mr. Clueless over

he heck is this door...?" He gulped nervously. S

en more. I've seen this kinda stuff go down in horror flicks a million

se is my wif... wi... widow sister." His words came o

who bite the dust first in horror movies, because they gotta know what t

I strutted confidently inside. Warning: Do not, I repeat, do not enter a strange house with an unknown strange man, kiddo. He could turn you into tomorrow's

and the 'clip-clop' of my borrowed, worn-out dollar store heels. Not a soul, ghost, or even a hint of a breeze in sight...

ike a leaf beside me, yelled out with

loser. Hahahaha!" That darn fake laugh again. Whoever t

out subtlet. Their silhouette is now slightly visible in the darkness; they're standing on the head stairs, descending one step with each pas

one more time, I'm gonna hit you where it hurts – real bad." I shot him a wa

le-handedly sabotaged my grand entrance, you dimwit. I specifically instructed you to flick the switch the moment I

darn bright. But once my eyes adjusted, I wish I hadn't seen what was in front of me. I

ow – God, Buddha, or even the intern – I'm