At First Light

by Mari Madison

  Before the manager could answer, Troy was back. His face was grave. His forehead sweaty from running. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to catch up with him, but he was too quick. He must have had a car waiting for him outside.”

  I collapsed against a nearby wall, trying to still my racing heart. My breath came in short gasps and I struggled to wrestle it under control. Someone had tried to hurt me. Maybe kill me. Dad’s warning echoed through my ears—suddenly not seeming as silly as it had back in his office.

  Troy’s eyes locked on me. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at me for a moment, then grabbed me, pulling me into a strong embrace.

  And suddenly I was in his arms again—for the first time in five years.

  My heart beat wildly in my chest and for a moment I panicked, wondering if I should try to break free. But his grip was so strong and so warm and so clear in its intention to not let me go. And so, in the end, I forced myself to relax into him, to absorb his strength as if it were my own. To collapse into this body that was so familiar, yet so foreign all at the same time. And as he ran his hands up and down my back, whispering soothing noises in my ear, I could feel the tears slip down my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered, feeling lame and pathetic and useless, all at the same time.

  He pulled away, just enough to reach up to cup my chin in his hands. He tilted my face until I met his eyes with my own. “Why are you apologizing?” he demanded.

  I laughed weakly. “I don’t know. I just—I mean, I can’t believe . . . If I hadn’t moved when I did . . .”

  He pulled me back into him and I could feel his heart also racing in his chest, like mine. It had scared him, too. But he’d gone after the guy, just the same. My hero.

  “Well,” I said with a sigh, shaking my head. “I guess my dad will now get to say his favorite words. I told you so.”

  Troy pulled away from our hug again. He looked at me with confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh. He called me in a couple days ago, to say he’d been receiving some strange threats—maybe having to do with me. He wanted me to lay low, maybe leave the country for a while.”

  “Wait. You think the rock was meant for you?” Troy looked surprised.

  I frowned. “Of course. Who else?”

  He shrugged. “What about me?” he asked. “After all, you may have noticed I’m a bit of a persona non grata around here these days.” He said it lightly, but I could hear the pain in his voice all the same. I gave him a rueful look.

  “Anyone who thinks that is an idiot.”

  “I’m not sure about that, actually,” he muttered. Then he shook his head. “Anyway, in either case we need to file a police report. Get it all on record in case this guy strikes again—no matter who he’s targeted.” He pointed outside the theater where two cruisers had just pulled up. “It won’t take long, I’m sure.”

  It did, actually, take pretty long. Especially once the reporters came. They were practically salivating when they realized who had been the target of this “terrorism.” (Their words not mine.) The beautiful mayor’s daughter and the celebrity ex-hostage. It was a match made in front-page heaven.

  “I know I should be understanding when it comes to these guys,” Troy grumbled as we made our way past the line of reporters, yelling no comment as we went. “I mean, technically we’re just like them, right?”

  “We’re not like them,” I assured him. “These guys would sell out their own mothers for some sleazy story. You were out there, trying to better the world.”

  “Lot of good that did the world . . .”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “Look, I’m guessing you don’t want go back in there, right?”

  “I think I’ve had enough real-life noir for one day, thank you very much.”

  “Agreed. So how about I take you home?”

  My heart stuttered in my chest. “There’s no need. I can call an Uber . . .”

  “I’m so not letting you go home in an Uber.”

  I sighed. “Troy, I’m fine. Really. The whole thing just startled me. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself home.”

  “I’m sure you are,” he said. “I’m also sure you have some great noir films of your own in your video library, yes?”

  “Well, sure . . . But I don’t see—”

  He held up a hand. “You promised me a film festival, Miss Martin,” he said with a small smile. “And I plan to collect on that promise.”

  fifteen

  TROY

  Okay, Troy. What the actual hell?

  Did I just say that? Did that line actually just come from my mouth? Here I’d been trying to put her out of my head and suddenly I was inviting myself over to her house.

  I opened my mouth, to take it back, to tell her I was just kidding, ha-ha, have a good day and I’ll talk to you in the morning. But before I could utter the words, she looked at me—just looked at me—with those wide blue eyes of hers, filled with a mixture of hope and fear and evidently liquid kryptonite and all at once I was a goner.

  “I would like that,” she said. And even though I knew I should not like that—not like that one bit—I was only human after all.

  And so I put an arm around her shoulder. I led her to my car. I opened the door as if I was some gentleman and allowed her to slip inside, while trying and failing not to notice the way her skirt slipped up her thighs as she sat down.

  Five years ago, I would have climbed in after her. Pushed the seat back as far as it could go. At the time I’d taken that privilege for granted. What I wouldn’t have given to have it granted again.

  Slamming the door shut, I walked around to the other side of the car, my whole body practically vibrating from the memories. Of how I used to climb on top of her, spreading her thighs open to me. Slipping between those thighs, anchoring her to me, locking my hands on her hips. Mouth on mouth, skin on skin. It was never enough—and yet oh so much.

  But that was in the past. And unlike in the movies there were no real-life do-overs. Now, I should have considered myself lucky to have even been invited to her house.

  As I slipped into the driver’s seat, she looked at me, catching my expression. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Hunky-freaking-dory.” I turned on the ignition. Then paused. “I guess I should ask where you live.”

  The fact that I didn’t know crushed me a little. A brutal reminder that she’d lived this entire life lived without me while I was away. Which, of course, should have been obvious. She hadn’t been frozen in time. She’d had five years to live and change and grow as a person. From the awkward little college girl who’d been out to save the world—to the poised, polished woman she was today.

  A woman who didn’t need someone like me in her life.

  • • •

  She lived on the beach now; of course she did. In a cute little cottage that could have been pulled straight from a lifestyle magazine, meticulously decorated in shabby chic, hipster décor. I felt a bit like a giant ogre as I stepped into the overly feminine space. As if my mere presence was going to cause priceless artifacts to fall off the shelves. I thought back to her old college dorm. Its cheerful messiness and patchwork style. Her dad was always offering to send over his decorator to help her out, and she would laugh and assure him she liked it how it was. That there was order to her chaos.

  Now there was only order.

  “Do you want a drink?” she asked, going straight for the kitchen. “I think I need like ten of them myself at this point.”

  “Sure,” I said, forcing myself to sit down on the couch. “That sounds great.”

  She bustled around the kitchen for a moment, surprising me by returning with a tumbler of Scotch with one single ice cube, exactly how I used to drink it when we were together. My mouth saliva
ted as the warm, robust scent rose to my nose. I hadn’t had a good Scotch since I’d left. Overseas I drank whatever swill was being served at the local dive bars—if it got me drunk it was good enough for me.

  I took the glass from her now, trying not to notice how soft her hands were as they connected with mine. I pulled the drink to my lips, breathing it in before taking a sip. I could feel her eyes on me as she slipped down next to me on the couch, glass of wine in her own hands, and I tipped the glass, savoring the tingle and burn on my lips. Goddamn.

  “What is this?” I asked, after swallowing. I swirled the liquid in my glass. An amateur move—real Scotch drinkers didn’t agitate the spirit. But I couldn’t help it.

  “Just a Macallan,” she said. Then she gave me a mischievous grin. “1964.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “No way.”

  “Yes way. One of my dad’s little lobbyists gave him the bottle last Christmas to help grease the wheels of his newest Screw the Poor People campaign. I swiped it on principle, of course.”

  “And you don’t even like Scotch.”

  “Nope. But I do like screwing over rich bastards who think they can buy my dad’s support.”

  “Fair enough.” I glanced back to the kitchen, noting the bottle was half-empty. Clearly I wasn’t the only man she’d served it to.

  The thought made me sober. What the hell was I doing here? Sitting in her living room, drinking her alcohol. As if we were still friends. As if we were more than just friends. Of course back in the old days I wouldn’t be content to just be drinking Scotch. I’d be dragging her caveman-style to the bedroom—to satisfy a much different thirst.

  I cleared my throat. Come on, Troy. Keep it together.

  “So do you really think someone might have been targeting you?” I asked, trying to switch my focus to safer territory.

  She sighed. “Maybe,” she said. “My dad did get that warning, though we don’t know who it was from. I mean, he has a ton of enemies. Your guess is as good as mine as to who he pissed off this time.”

  “But that has nothing to do with you.”

  “I’ve made it my life’s mission not to,” she agreed. “After, well, you know.”

  I winced a little. I knew all right. After the whole Water World fiasco, dozens of her father’s people—mostly in the IT department—had lost their jobs for failing to stop what Sarah had set into motion. I knew how bad she felt about that at the time. That her well-meaning actions to save the whales had ended up ruining so many other people’s lives.

  She gave a brittle laugh, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. The pain on her face made something inside of me ache, and for a moment I had to fight the urge to move closer. To put my arms around her again and tell her everything would be okay.

  But who the hell was I to make such an assurance? I thought everything would be okay when I went overseas. But it very nearly wasn’t. And who was I to tell her I would do everything in my power to keep her safe? When I couldn’t even keep myself safe in the end?

  As if on cue, my mind flashed back to the darkness. Blacks spots swimming before my eyes. Angry voices echoing through my head.

  If you do not comply with our demands, he will be beheaded.

  Beheaded.

  We will chop off his head.

  If you do not comply . . .

  My breath caught in my throat. My heart slammed so hard against my chest I was half-afraid it would crack a rib. I tried to take another sip of Scotch, but it went down the wrong pipe and I choked, spitting it out onto her beautiful, pristine white rug.

  “Shit!” I growled, looking around, desperate for a napkin, all the while feeling as if I was going to throw up. My heart was beating faster now, ice seeming to swim through my veins. Sarah was looking at me with worry in her eyes—which only made it worse. I rose to my feet to try to make it to the kitchen, but my legs only buckled out from under me and I was forced to sit back down.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “The rug . . .”

  “The rug is fine. What about you?” She grabbed my jaw and turned me to face her, to stare into those huge, endless blue eyes of hers. I sucked in a breath, forcing myself to focus all my attention on those eyes—to lose myself in the dilated pupils, as I desperately worked overtime to quell the irrational fear swarming inside of me.

  This was the worst thing. When these attacks came out of nowhere. The ones that had purpose—when I was in danger or threatened or whatever—those made sense. These random ones? They made me feel like I was going fucking crazy.

  “Troy . . .” she whispered, her lips parting in a way that was suddenly so damn erotic and, before I knew what I was doing, I had reached up to touch them, desperate to feel something real. Something solid. I traced a finger along her lower lip, concentrating on the soft plumpness of her skin. The way her lipstick stained my finger red. She gasped, letting out a small sound—a sound that suddenly brought me back to life.

  I jerked my finger away. “I’m sorry,” I said. I swallowed down the huge lump that had formed in my throat. My stomach was still churning and my heart was still racing, but I was back on earth.

  She gave me a look that pretty much melted me where I sat. “It’s okay,” she said. “Where were you just now?”

  I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to talk to about it. I didn’t want her to know how bad it had been. I wanted her to see me as someone strong and in control. Someone able to protect her when things went wrong. I didn’t want her to know what I had been like down in that hole. Broken, sobbing, begging for my life like a fucking coward.

  I jerked to my feet. “I need to go.”

  She frowned. “You just got here. I thought we were going to watch a movie.”

  “Turns out I’m not in the mood.”

  She sighed. “Then we won’t watch a movie. We’ll hang out. Talk.”

  “I’m not in the mood to talk, either.” I scowled, knowing I was being as petulant as a child. But what else could I do? The walls were closing in on me, and I needed to get out. Before I was smothered by pity and understanding and all the other emotions I didn’t deserve.

  Especially not from her.

  She rose to her feet. Took a step toward me. My breath caught in my throat.

  “Then we won’t talk,” she said, reaching up and making a motion to zip her lips with her finger. My heart wrenched at the familiar gesture. The one I remembered all too well. From my Sarah. My beautiful Sarah.

  I turned away, pacing the room like a caged tiger, my steps eating up the distance between walls. Why had I come here? I knew it would be hard. I hadn’t realized it would be this hard.

  “Don’t you see?” I wanted to scream at her. “You should want me to leave. After what I did to you? How I tricked you? How I ran away? The last thing you should want is me back in your life.”

  I suddenly realized I’d taken a step toward her. The tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. I tried to turn away, but instead I took another step forward. Then another until suddenly I was close enough to touch her. I looked down at her, realizing she was trembling.

  “You shouldn’t want me to stay,” I whispered.

  I could see her swallow hard. “I know,” she replied.

  “You should tell me to leave. Now. And not come back.”

  “I know,” she agreed, her voice wobbling on the words.

  I reached out, the air crackling between us as I traced a finger down her jawline. She shivered, but her skin was flush, boiling hot to my touch.

  “Tell me to walk out that door. Tell me to not come back.”

  “I . . . can’t.”

  I grabbed her, pulling her to me, until she was flush against my body, soft and pliant in my hands. I could feel her heart beating fast as a bird’s against my chest as she clung to me, her hands gripping my sides. She was so small
. So thin. I could probably crush her with little effort, and I tried to relax my grip so as not to hurt her.

  Because I didn’t want to hurt her. I wanted to kiss her.

  Which was the worst idea ever.

  And also . . . the best.

  I pulled away, just enough to reach up, tipping her face with my hand, meeting her eyes with my own. In one fluid movement, I leaned down, pressing my lips against hers. She let out a small cry, but thank God not one of protest—just surprise. And as I coaxed her mouth open with my tongue she let me in. And something inside of me soared at the familiar taste of her. Mint gum and sunshine.

  Sarah. My Sarah.

  The memories flooded back to me now, as I hoisted her onto the back of her couch, pushing her thighs open and closing the distance between us. Memories of all those nights in the dark when I couldn’t sleep, not knowing if these were my last hours on earth. I’d thought of her then. Imagining the feel of her hot, wet mouth clinging to my own. The way her tongue would swirl around mine in a feverish dance. I’d thought of her arms reaching around to hook at my lower back while my own hands dipped down to tease her perfect ass.

  It had been a great fantasy.

  But oh my God, reality.

  She moaned against my mouth, her tongue greedily flicking against my own and, encouraged, I increased the pressure of the kiss, smashing my face against hers. Her hands grasped my hips, as if hanging on for dear life and for a moment there was no longer a her and me—only an us—only this lost thing that I never thought I’d find again.

  So many days in the dark hole. So many nights spent fantasizing about something like this. Sometimes the thought of her sweet body pressing against mine like it was now was the only thing that had kept me going. My dream Sarah, rescuing me over and over again.

  And now here was real-life Sarah. In my hands, against my mouth. My groin tightened and I prayed she didn’t mind the feel of my desire, rubbing against her like a desperate caged thing with a life of its own.