Free Siren Song by Stephanie Draven

CHAPTER ONE
    They wanted her.
    As Chloe sang, the funky bass line pounded through her body and sexual energy sparked through the Annapolis night club. She was hot. She was on fire. She was killing it. The crowd picked up the rhythm, sweating bodies twisting and moving. Her voice soared, a crescendo of music, pulsing beats with the wicked thrashing of guitar strings sending the crowd into a frenzy.
    She had the audience in her thrall, and it felt so damned good. Under the flash of pink-and-green lights, she gyrated against the mic stand, exposing her fishnet stockings all the way to the top of her thigh; a midshipman’s mouth parted in a silent gasp, as if she were putting on a private show just for him. Someone spilled a beer. Someone else cried out her name. Her magic wove its way through the crowd into the dark grain of the timber support beams, even seeping into the old cracked mortar between the bricks. And when she whipped her long dark hair to the drumbeat, exposing a shock of dyed pink hair beneath, she knew there was nothing, nothing they wouldn’t do to have her and that no one could resist her.
    No one but him .
    For the past few nights, far away from the stage, one of the naval officers had watched her. It wasn’t hard to spot them—even when they weren’t in uniform—and for no good reason, he was. Navy guys were pretty much all the same, lonely and jacked up on testosterone. Easy lays. But this one was different. Solitary. Never ordering more than the two-drink minimum. Never tapping his foot to the music. Never applauding when the song was over… Just watching, as if he were immune to her spell. But was that even possible?
    She hit the high notes of the song’s finale, staring right at him, trying to break through whatever bulwark he’d thrown up against her charm. Trying to get him up out of his seat because he was standing between her and complete power, pure bliss. Want me, damn it, she thought. But he didn’t react.
    Her song ended with throaty cries—an exorcism of all her personal demons. Then Chloe eased up a little bit. No need to drive the rest of the men too wild. There’d been a fight a few weeks before and she wasn’t looking for a repeat performance.
    “Thank you!” Chloe cried into the microphone, and applause thundered through the Ram’s Head venue, shaking the building. The audience erupted in shouts and calls for an encore.
    Chloe’s drummer was up off his stool, ready to fend off the surge of guys that rushed the stage. “You’re a sick singer, girl,” someone said. “You’re gonna be a superstar!”
    A man wearing a denim shirt and work boots rushed forward to buy her a drink, offering her the flower off his table. “Hey, why don’t you give that to your waitress?” Chloe asked. “And tip her well. She’s been on her feet all night.”
    Flower Guy had a dark mesmerized look as he threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table, seeming not to know or care how much he spent. He’d do anything she told him. He’d set fire to downtown Annapolis if she wanted him to. But what Chloe really wanted was to get a record contract.
    As the next band got ready to take the stage, everyone was still cheering Chloe’s performance. Everyone, that is, but the khaki-clad naval officer in the back. Who wore a uniform to a rock show? What was his deal? And why did she care? So one guy out of a hundred didn’t swoon when she crooned. It shouldn’t bother her. But it did. Maybe bother was the wrong word. More like, intrigued her.
    With her Sex Pistols T-shirt plastered to her back and perspiration slipping over her belly ring into the waistband of her skirt, she caught him staring and felt an answering heat between her thighs. Maybe it was just the adrenaline. Putting on a performance like that would make any girl a little wild and wanton. Hell, to celebrate, tonight she wanted to go home with someone. With him.
    Chloe’s roommate shoved through the crowd with a towel and water. “Chloe,