At First Light
Page 1
I squirmed in my seat. It had been five long years since he’d taken the job overseas and yet sometimes it still felt like yesterday. And while I could turn off the TV, turning off the memories had proven a lot more difficult. Memories of those large strong hands of his, touching me in all the right places. His warm body moving over mine. The way those piercing blue eyes would lock onto me—making me feel, for one brief moment—that I was the center of the universe. His universe.
Of course that had not actually been the case. I hadn’t been the center of his universe at all. Turned out, I wasn’t even a distant star. But he remained the sun—his brilliance and passion and confidence radiating from halfway across the world. While I had been reduced to a black hole of misery, perfect for sucking in solar systems of hurt. (Or pints of Ben and Jerry’s, as the case might be.)
“Oh my god. Sarah, are you even kidding me right now?”
I looked up, my face reddening as my neighbor, Stephanie, walked into my beach cottage without bothering to knock, catching me in the shameful act of spying on my ex on TV. I cringed. I was so busted.
Berkley Sensation Titles by Mari Madison
JUST THIS NIGHT
BREAK OF DAY
AT FIRST LIGHT
BERKLEY SENSATION
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Marianne Mancusi Beach
Excerpt from Just This Night by Mari Madison copyright © 2017 by Marianne Mancusi Beach
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and BERKLEY SENSATION are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9780698408814
First Edition: March 2017
Cover photo of couple embracing on beach © Flying Colours/Getty Images
Cover design by Alana Colucci
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
contents
Berkley Sensation Titles by Mari Madison
Title Page
Copyright
one: SARAH MARTIN
two: TROY YOUNG
three: SARAH
four: TROY
five: SARAH
six: TROY
seven: SARAH
eight: TROY
nine: SARAH
ten: SARAH
eleven: TROY
twelve: TROY
thirteen: SARAH
fourteen: SARAH
fifteen: TROY
sixteen: TROY
seventeen: SARAH
eighteen: SARAH
nineteen: TROY
twenty: SARAH
twenty-one: TROY
twenty-two: SARAH
twenty-three: TROY
twenty-four: SARAH
twenty-five: TROY
twenty-six: SARAH
twenty-seven: TROY
twenty-eight: SARAH
twenty-nine: TROY
thirty: SARAH
thirty-one: TROY
thirty-two: SARAH
thirty-three: TROY
thirty-four: TROY
thirty-five: SARAH
thirty-six: TROY
thirty-seven: SARAH
thirty-eight: TROY
thirty-nine: SARAH
forty: TROY
forty-one: TROY
forty-two: TROY
forty-three: SARAH
forty-four: TROY
forty-five: SARAH
forty-six: TROY
forty-seven: SARAH
Excerpt from Just this Night
About the Author
one
SARAH MARTIN
In a perfect world, once you broke up with someone, you would no longer be required to see them on a daily basis. You could move out of their apartment, block them on Facebook, pick a different Starbucks so you don’t end up waiting in line together for your Triple Venti Skinny Vanilla Lattes (you) and Grande Java Chip Frappuccinos (yes, I’m that confident in my masculinity [and metabolism]—him).
Sure, once in a while you might find yourself at the same wedding (no one ever scores the perfect friendship split in these sorts of things) but no bride in her right mind would sit the two of you at the same table. And hey, if you got drunk enough you wouldn’t care if she did.
In a perfect world, once you broke up with someone, they slipped away from your life like rain down a gutter—exactly where they belonged—and you never had to deal with them again.
Unless, that was, that someone happened to have a job on network TV.
“I’m Troy Young, reporting live from Damascus. . . .”
Seriously, it was enough to turn a girl to Netflix. Every time I turned on my television and flipped the channel, Troy Young, ex-boyfriend extraordinaire and former love of my life, reentered my living room once more with feeling. Usually looking annoyingly hot in the process with his clipped, sandy brown hair and piercing eyes that were so blue they caused my TV settings to look over saturated. Add in a deep, baritone voice that made even the driest of politics sound absurdly sexy and you could start to see why the guy was responsible for launching a thousand fan girl tweets.
And don’t even get me started on his wardrobe. As always, Troy seemed to be allergic to the traditional shirt-and-tie motif of most respectable reporters, choosing instead to wear completely inappropriate short-sleeve T-shirts that emphasized his broad shoulders and chiseled chest, paired with dark-rinse jeans that hung low on his narrow hips. Emphasizing, well, other things.
Forget Netflix. It was enough to drive a girl to drink. And I’m not talking Triple Venti Skinny Vanilla Lattes, either.
And yes, I am completely aware I had the power to change the channel. Skip the news, go on a reality TV show binge or start a House Hunters marathon. Or hell, maybe even turn off the TV entirely and go to the beach or something. One single click of a button and Troy Young could be blasted into oblivion, banished from my living room forever.
But sometimes, for some reason, that seemed the hardest thing to do—even if it was the smartest. And instead I found myself stupidly lingering on the broadcast, finger hovering over the remote as I tried to will myself to keep up with some Kardashians instead of Kuwait. In fact, on really bad days, I sometimes surrendered to my pathetic nature entirely, curling up in my recliner, closing my eyes and letting that sweet honeyed voice of his roll over me like a wave. Remembering how husky it would get when he used to lean in and whisper naughty things in my ear. (Oh, Twitter, you have no idea!)
I squirmed in my seat. It had been five long years since he’d gone overseas and yet sometimes it still felt like yesterday. And while I could turn off the TV, turning off the memories had proven a lot more difficult. Memories of those large strong hands of his, touching me in all the right places. His warm b
ody moving over mine. The way those piercing blue eyes would lock onto me—making me feel, for one brief moment—that I was the center of the universe. His universe.
Of course that had not actually been the case. I hadn’t been the center of his universe at all. Turned out, I wasn’t even a distant star. But he remained the sun—his brilliance and passion and confidence radiating from halfway across the world. While I had been reduced to a black hole of misery, perfect for sucking in solar systems of hurt. (Or pints of Ben and Jerry’s, as the case might be.)
“Oh my god. Sarah, are you even kidding me right now?”
I looked up, my face reddening as my neighbor Stephanie walked into my beach cottage without bothering to knock, catching me in the shameful act of spying on my ex on TV. I cringed. I was so busted. Stephanie shook her head in disapproval, as I could have predicted she would.
“Seriously, if you looked up glutton for punishment on the Internet, I’m positive the Wiki would have your picture.” She pushed a glass of champagne into my hand, still holding the open bottle in her own. “Now, down the hatch, girl,” she commanded. “And stay focused. We’ve got major celebrating to take care of tonight and I refuse to accept anything less than full-blown party-pony-level enthusiasm from my bestie.”
I straightened up in my seat and did as I was told, tipping back the glass and swallowing down the sparkling wine in one long gulp. A moment later, my stomach warmed, already feeling a little better as I prepared to party-pony up as best I could.
We were celebrating Stephanie’s triumphant return to News 9 tonight, and I didn’t need to rain on her parade. It had taken her over a year to get back in the game after being wrongfully accused of sabotaging another reporter’s career, and she’d been slaving away as a waitress ever since.
But now she was back—like a heart attack (her words)—and we were about to head to Rain, one of our favorite nightclubs, to mark the occasion—Tinder apps locked and loaded and ready to go.
I had to admit, the two of us looked pretty swipe-rightable tonight, too. Stephanie stunning in her short sequined dress and stiletto heels. Me in my cute cropped top and red maxi skirt ensemble, a color Stephanie had insisted perfectly accented my blue eyes and long blond hair. No doubt we’d at least be attracting a few of the society photographers tonight, if not any hot men. Which, to be honest, would be fine by me. I didn’t really need a hookup. It was just . . . something I did sometimes, to pass the time. And it pissed off my dad, too, as an added bonus. Somehow he had it in his head that twenty-seven was a ripe old age to settle down and start popping out grandbabies. Future voters of America and all that.
For a while my dad had really pinned his hopes on this guy Asher who used to do the weather for News 9, where I now worked as an entertainment reporter. Asher was fun. He was super hot, too. And for a brief moment I actually had entertained the idea of getting serious with him. After all, on paper it was a match made in society heaven. Asher’s mother was the owner of News 9. And my dad was the new mayor of San Diego—and one of News 9’s biggest advertisers.
But Asher wasn’t in love with me. He was in love with his producer. Some girl from the wrong side of the proverbial tracks who was completely wrong for him—yet somehow completely right. Which I understood—truly. After all, hadn’t that been the way with Troy and me, back when we were in college? My dad had hated Troy and his outspoken left-wing ideals and save-the-world causes. At one point I think he was convinced Troy would turn me into a socialist. Which wouldn’t have jived very well with his Campaign O’ Hate and Misogyny™ he’d been preparing to unleash on the world. (Troy’s description of my dad’s politics at the time, which had made me laugh for days.)
My eyes drifted back to the TV. Troy’s story had ended and he was back on camera, wrapping things up. I watched, my stomach squirming a little, as it always did when I saw him this close up. It was this weird juxtaposition of him appearing so near—while being halfway across the world.
I scowled. What was I doing? I was more than a glutton for punishment—I was a complete masochist. And all over a guy who didn’t deserve a second of my thoughts, especially after how he’d left me. On that day five years ago—the day that should have been our greatest victory—which turned into a nightmare. Changing my life forever.
But what did Troy care about that? He’d been using me from the start.
Feeling a lump in my throat, I reached for the remote again, this time ready to zap him out of my life for good. But just as I was about to hit the off button, something caught my eye at the back of the screen. I squinted: Was someone coming up behind him? Some kind of man, dressed in black?
I scooted to the edge of my seat, the hairs standing up on my arms, though I wasn’t exactly sure why. It was probably nothing, after all, just a random guy, out for a stroll . . .
. . . with something that looked a lot like a gun in his hand.
“Stephanie,” I called out. She had gone over to the kitchen to open a new bottle of champagne. “Do you see that?” I asked as she poked her head back in the living room. I pointed at the screen.
“Sarah . . .” She started to lecture, then stopped. Her eyes widened. “Wait. Is that—”
“Troy!” A voice offscreen suddenly broke through the broadcast, sounding tense and worried. His cameraman? His producer? “Troy—I think we need to—”
The sound of gunshots burst through my speakers, popping through the air in quick, sharp bursts. I watched, heart in my throat, as Troy jumped back, his face stark white as he seemed to realize the danger he was in for the first time. Before he could do anything, the man behind him leapt into action, grabbing him and shoving a black hood over his head.
“Oh my god!” I cried.
I watched, paralyzed with shock, as Troy tried to wrestle free and for one brief second I thought he might escape. But then the man placed a gun up against his temple and yelled something unintelligible at him. Troy stopped moving, his shoulders slumping.
“Troy . . .” I gasped. “Oh my God, Troy!”
I wanted to crawl into the TV. To rescue him myself, against all odds. Instead, I could only sit there, helpless and horrified, watching the scene unfold. Stephanie stood behind me, her hand squeezing down on my shoulder so hard it would have hurt had I not been completely numb.
The man turned to the camera. He was wearing a mask, but it didn’t hide the ugly smirk on his face.
“We have your journalist, America,” he spit out in a halting accent. “Tomorrow morning, unless you comply with our demands, he will be beheaded.”
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I rose to my feet, my knees buckling out from under me. Stephanie grabbed me, holding me close, tears falling down her face.
But I couldn’t cry. I could only stare blankly at the screen as the feed cut back to the newsroom. Back to where the anchors were sitting safe and sound behind their desk, their faces mirroring the fear and horror on my own.
For a moment, no one said anything. And the silence stretched out, sharp as razor wire. Then, finally, after what seemed an eternity, the female anchor opened her mouth to speak.
“We’re not sure what just happened,” she said in a shaky voice. “We have lost contract with the crew. We will continue to update you as we learn more about this . . . situation.”
Her voice broke. The station cut to commercial. A small cry escaped my lips and I staggered, black spots swimming before my eyes. Stephanie caught me before I collapsed, pulling me back down to the couch and holding me close.
“He’ll be okay,” she whispered in my ear. “I know it looks bad, but . . . You know Troy.” She attempted a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He can get out of anything.”
It was true. Or it had been true, at least, once upon a time. Troy was a master of escaping tight situations—that was part of the reason he was so good at his job.
But this time . . . Th
is time . . .
I swallowed hard, trying to come to terms with the truth. That suddenly the one man I’d wanted so desperately to exorcise from my life was now the one man I needed to see again—more than anyone else in the world.
The one man I wasn’t sure that I would.
two
TROY YOUNG
four months later . . .
Let me go! Let me go, goddamn it!”
Rough hands grab me by the back of the neck, slamming my face down onto the cold stone floor. My vision spins, but I force myself to keep conscious, though half of me isn’t sure why I bother. After all, if I pass out, the pain will end, right? Or at least I won’t be feeling it.
But no. Fuck that. I’m not letting these bastards win. I’m not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me willingly retreat into oblivion.
“Go to hell,” I growl, wondering if my sudden defiance surprises them. After all, I’ve been a good little boy for the most part these last months. Mostly because until recently I’d held on to this inane hope of some miraculous rescue. Of a sliver of light cracking through the darkness, voices speaking English ringing through my prison cell.
But that hope has long since been shredded. And now I just want it all to end. They’ve won. They’ve broken me. I’m a shell of my former self. I wonder now: If I piss them off enough can I make them finish me? Quick, easy, no regrets.
Okay, so I have one regret. With long blond hair and wide blue eyes. The girl I walked away from five years ago—choosing this nightmare world over a paradise with her.
Where would I be now if I had made the other choice? If I had agreed to run away with her, instead of taking this job? Would we be married, have kids? Would we be living a simple life in a run-down cottage on the shores of a Mexican beach as she’d described, towheaded little boys and girls running barefoot and wild up and down the sands?
It sounded like hell at the time. A tiny life. Wasted in selfish pursuit of happiness instead of the greater good. I had wanted to make a difference. To save the world.