At First Light

by Mari Madison

  “Hey, Ben,” I said, holding out my hand. He took it and shook it like a limp fish, his fingers stained with ink. “Where’s Sarah?”

  “Oh, didn’t you hear?” Ben asked, looking happy that he evidently knew something I didn’t. “She called in sick.”

  My gut jerked, though I wasn’t sure whether it was out of disappointment or relief. “Is everything okay?” I asked, trying to remember if she had acted unwell the night before.

  He gave a dismissive shrug. “I’m sure,” he said. “She probably drank too much. Or was out partying too late. Hashtag rich girl problems.”

  I frowned. Firstly because I hated people who used the word hashtag out loud in actual sentences. And second because that didn’t sound like the Sarah I knew. I thought back to the days when we worked together on the Water World campaign. The long hours, the late nights. And still, Sarah never failed to show up with a big smile on her face, bright and early the next day.

  I shook my head. Whatever. It wasn’t my business. Besides, we had been up pretty late. Maybe she just wanted to catch up on sleep. I could use a sick day myself, if we were being honest. But I wasn’t about to call in any favors, being on such thin ice as it was.

  “Okay then. Guess it’s just me and you,” I said to Ben, plopping down in a nearby chair. “What do you have for me to do today?”

  Ben looked down at his notes. “There’s a junket for that new Davis O. Russell vehicle at noon. I’ve put on you on the list. It’s a J. Law, Cooper thing, duh. Amy Adams is a maybe—she has to jet in from the DiCaprio set so we’ll see if she makes it.”

  I choked out a laugh. “Dude. I have no idea what you just said. Was that even English?”

  Ben scowled. He pushed a piece of paper into my hands. “Go here. Read these questions to the actors then pause to let them answer. Oh, and look hot while doing it. Evidently that’s the number one thing they care about in this place.”

  I sighed. “I get the feeling you don’t like me too much, do you, Ben?”

  “I really couldn’t care one way or the other. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go write up tonight’s piece. Sarah’s not here to do it, so you’ll have to front it.” He paused, then added, “That means get in front of the camera and read what I’ve written.”

  “Ben, I’m a multiple Emmy Award–winning reporter. I know how do a live shot. It’s the celebrity thing I’m not as familiar with.”

  “Well, then, you’re lucky you have me.”

  I rose to my feet, looking down at Ben’s questions. Guess this would be easy enough. Sit down, read the question, wait for the answer. A monkey could have done it if he was allowed to use sign language.

  I groaned. Yes, I had gone from illustrious journalist to entertainment monkey. Awesome.

  But it was a job, I scolded myself. One that would allow me to make a paycheck. Keep my apartment, buy groceries, keep the lights on. And it was in my field—sort of. I just had to suck it up and do it the best I could and once this PTSD bullshit was over with I could move on with my life.

  I sat down at my desk, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. I logged into IMDb, checking out each star’s photo so I wouldn’t be confused as to who was who when I got there. I read their bios and then switched over to Deadline.com to see what I could learn about the film itself, as Sarah had shown me how to do. Evidently there had been a major delay when a distribution deal fell through. I made a note to ask the director what that was about and how it had been resolved.

  I also changed a few of Ben’s questions around. Mostly the ones that were completely sexist. Like asking Jennifer Lawrence how she felt having to gain ten pounds for the role. Or if she was ever going to hook up with Bradley Cooper. As if that were any of our business.

  Finally satisfied, I printed out the new questions and my research and headed out the door. I waved to Ben, but he only gave me a dirty look and turned back to his computer. I sighed. He was clearly unhappy with my presence here. I needed to ask Sarah what his deal was the next time I saw her.

  • • •

  The junket went about as well as could be expected. Jennifer Lawrence seemed really pleased when I brought up the new cell phone privacy act that was being introduced. From my research I had discovered it was a subject close to her heart, as a past hack had exposed some naked pictures of her online. She thanked me after the interview, telling me they were the only real questions she’d been asked all day.

  I headed back to the station feeling pretty good about myself. Sure, it was a bullshit job. But I was rocking it like a boss, right? And that was all that mattered.

  Ben met me at the door. He held out his hand. I stared down at it, puzzled. “The hard drive,” he said. “With the video?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Chris is actually uploading it now. When it’s ready I’ll go ahead and log it and write my script.”

  “Oh. You don’t have to do that. That’s my job,” Ben said. “You can just go . . . blow-dry your hair—apply mascara—whatever it is you pretty people do. I’ll call you when the piece is ready to voice.”

  I frowned, feeling suddenly itchy. Was this how things were done around here? I didn’t get to write my own pieces? I had spent all day working on this story. I wasn’t about to just hand it over to Ben now.

  “I don’t wear mascara,” I told him. “I do, however, write my own stories, thank you very much.”

  He stared at me. If looks could kill, I’d probably be a messy puddle on the floor. I waited for him to argue, but he said nothing. Just mumbled something that sounded like, “Hashtag stupid Emmy Award–winning reporters” under his breath as he stormed back to his desk. I sighed. I seriously didn’t need this animosity on top of everything else I was dealing with. I had real enemies, thank you very much.

  It’ll be fine, I told myself. Sarah will be back tomorrow. Everything will be back to normal.

  Normal. I snorted. As if I had a prayer of anything ever being normal again.

  twenty

  SARAH

  My cell phone pinged and I rolled over in bed, reaching to the nightstand to grab it. I was surprised to see it was a text from Troy.

  Turn on your TV, it read.

  I smiled, feeling my heart flutter a little in my chest. I’d felt pretty guilty about bailing on him at work today without letting him know why. But I was worried that if he learned what had happened—about the threat that had been left on my garden wall—he’d want to skip work, too, in some vain knight-in-shining-armor attempt to protect me. And I didn’t need him risking his already precarious position at News 9 on my account.

  Besides, I was safe and sound, having booked myself into my favorite beachside boutique hotel until my dad’s people could check things out. Dad, of course, had wanted me to come to his house, which was, admittedly, protected like Fort Knox. But the thought of spending the day alone with his goons and his housekeepers was far too depressing and, besides, this place had room service. I’d spent half the day sleeping off the night before and the other half watching mindless reality TV—a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in my hand.

  Not a bad way to spend an afternoon in hiding, all in all.

  Still, it was tough to relax completely; not with the threat still emblazoned in my mind in an ugly red scrawl.

  I know where you live.

  I shivered; what the hell was that supposed to mean? And who would have painted it above my wall? The same person who threw the rock in the theater? This unknown threat that my dad had mentioned? It had been easy to dismiss that whole thing while in the comfort of his office. Even the rock could have been considered a prank or a mistake. But this—this was undeniably a threat, directed at me.

  But who would want to threaten me? For the last five years I’d done nothing to piss anyone off as far as I could tell. I’d gone to parties and nightclubs and reported on silly movies. I hadn’t even had any bad breakups to speak of
. Sure, someone could be using me to get to my father, but if so, why? And what did they want from him in return? If anything they were just giving him more ammunition on that Nazi-like crime bill he was trying to get introduced at the legislature.

  I know where you live.

  I shuddered. Suddenly the whole moving idea was sounding a lot more tempting . . .

  Sighing, I clicked the remote and the TV burst to life. Navigating the menu button, I found and flipped to News 9, assuming that’s what Troy was suggesting. They were just finishing up the sports segment—the station had recently hired an ex-NFL player who’d been injured on the job to do their sportscasting, causing Stephanie to suddenly gain a very avid interest in San Diego teams. I had to admit as I watched the broadcast, he was pretty hot. Maybe Stephanie would be able to get out of her slump sooner than she’d thought.

  The sports section ended and anchors Beth White and Logan Learner came back on the screen. The graphic for our entertainment segment flashed behind them as they introduced another newcomer to the station, a man who needed even less introduction . . . Troy Young himself.

  I watched, my pulse kicking up at my wrists as the camera cut to Troy. I suddenly realized this would be his first live shot since the disaster last week out in the field. Would he freak out again when the lights turned on? Did I doom him to failure by calling in sick?

  I turned my thoughts back to the TV.

  “Thanks Beth. Logan,” Troy was saying, beaming with an easy smile. Then he turned to face the camera. “And good evening, San Diego. My partner in entertainment crime, Sarah Martin, is out sick today. So you guys are stuck with me.”

  He winked and I couldn’t help but laugh. His natural charm radiated from the screen. Troy was so great at hard news, it was easy to forget he also had a natural, playful side when he wanted to—something our viewers were sure to eat up with a spoon. I watched carefully, looking for some kind of unease hidden at the edges—the kind of terror he’d exhibited out in the field. But he only looked confident. Relaxed. (Hot, too, but that was beside the point.) My shoulders dropped in relief. Maybe this was a good idea after all.

  I watched as he introduced the film he was profiling before launching into the report itself. Which surprisingly turned out to be a smart, well-thought-out piece rather than the fluffy, vapid Q&A one would expect when it came to this sort of film. Troy’s questions were thoughtful, political, and even a little risky, too. And some of the things he got the actors to say—well, I’d seen far more experienced entertainment journalists return with less. The network was so going to want to pick up this piece to air nationally and I bet it’d get a lot of views online as well. It was just . . . good. A rare unicorn in our line of work.

  I sighed. Hot as hell, smart, brave, talented—and not a bad entertainment reporter to boot. Was there anything this guy couldn’t do?

  The segment ended, and the camera cut back to Troy, who finished the piece by giving the movie’s release date information. Then, before they cut back to the anchors, he turned directly to the camera again. “Feel better, Sarah!” he said with a grin. And at that moment, I definitely did. In fact, I was beaming from ear to ear.

  Okay, Sarah. Relax. It’s not that big of a deal.

  But it kind of was. Not the shout to me, of course—that was just silly. But the fact that he’d done it. He’d gone on live TV, and he hadn’t freaked out. That might not seem like much to some people. But I knew for him it was everything. And a thrill of pride trickled up my back at the thought.

  When the station cut to commercial, I rushed to pick up my phone. Great job! I texted. I couldn’t have done it better myself.

  Thanks! he texted back, adding a smiley emoticon. Not sure your little friend Ben agrees. But I’ll take it.

  Ben can go jerk off to a Tarantino film. I thought it was awesome. And who’s to say I’m wrong?

  I waited for a response, but my cell rang instead. “Did I shock you into text stasis?” I teased as I put the phone to my ear.

  “I spent the last five years alongside the United States military. You’d have a hard time out-texting any of them, sweetheart.”

  I laughed. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “I was actually just wondering how you were feeling. Did I keep you up too late last night?”

  I felt a shiver trip down my back at the suggestive question. Even though all we’d done was sleep. “Something like that,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Sorry to ditch you like that. Won’t happen again.”

  “Not a problem. Actually it was good. Gave me a chance to get over the live shot thing.” I could hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Not that I didn’t miss you.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “I bet you say that to all the reporters.”

  “Sure I do. I also bring them chicken noodle soup when they’re sick. You in the mood? I could pick some up after my shift. Maybe come by in about an hour?”

  I bit my lower lip. “Um, I’m actually not . . . home.”

  “What?” he cried in mock horror. “Do not even tell me you’re not actually sick, either. Did you seriously throw me to the wolves because Neiman’s was having a shoe sale?”

  “I wish that were it.” I sighed. “Look, I’m at the Pacific Terrace Hotel if you want to come by. But no chicken soup. I’m a vegetarian, remember?”

  “Of course. My bad. How do you feel about tomato? GMO free, of course.”

  I smiled. “How about I order us both some room service and save you the trouble? They have amazing food here.”

  “Perfect. You know what I like.”

  Oh, I know, all right. All too well, unfortunately.

  I hung up the phone, setting it down on the nightstand. Then I got up and walked over to the mirror and peered at my reflection. Crap. In my haste to invite him over I’d basically forgotten the fact that I looked like a person who had spent all day in bed. And not a glamorous, lounging-around-in-lingerie-like-a-Playboy-bunny type of day in bed, either. In fact, I was currently modeling a big, fat, attractive splotch of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey across my ratty old T-shirt. To make matters worse, I had left my house so quickly I hadn’t grabbed a change of clothes.

  I picked up my phone again. This time to make an emergency call. Not to 911 of course. But to Stephanie, who was way better than an EMT when it came to a fashion crisis.

  She answered the phone in one ring. “You okay?” she asked. “Did the guy do anything else? I’ve been sitting here worried about you all day!”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. “Are you leaving work soon?”

  “Already have. I’m almost home. DVR locked and loaded and ready to ogle Julian from the comfort of my couch,” she added, referring to the quarterback turned sportscaster. “Did I tell you I passed him in the hall today and almost got him to smile at me?”

  “Clearly you’re a match made in heaven. Do you still have the keys to my apartment?”

  “Duh. How else would I steal all your champagne?”

  “Great. I’m going to text you a list of things I need.” I paused, then added, “If you can tear yourself away from your football love, that is. Troy’s coming over.”

  Stephanie squealed in excitement. “Oh, boy,” she said. “Don’t bother with the list. Leave it to me—you are in good hands.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. I had a shower to take and very little time to dry my hair. “Thanks, girl,” I said.

  “Absolutely. You know I’m always here for you. I will totally hook you up.”

  • • •

  I had to give Stephanie credit; she was quick. In fact, I had barely gotten out of the shower and donned my makeup when she was at my door, new wardrobe in hand. It wasn’t until I started unwrapping the packages that I realized that perhaps I should have been clea
rer on where the night was going. Or not going, as the case might be.

  “What?” she asked, holding up her hands in innocence as I plucked the feather duster from the bag. “I was a Girl Scout. Our motto was ‘Be prepared.’”

  “I hardly think this is what their fearless founders had in mind,” I said, rolling my eyes and tossing the feather duster on the bed.

  “Well then I’m sorry for them. They were clearly missing out.”

  I snorted, reaching into the bag again, this time finding my favorite green silk cocktail dress. A little fancy for room service in a beach hotel, but I had to admit I did like the way it clung to my barely existent curves and accentuated my (also barely existent) cleavage. Plus the color was great at bringing out my eyes.

  “Okay, fine. You did good. Thank you,” I said. “Though I would have been just fine with granny panties,” I added, pulling out the thong she’d grabbed that was so thin it was practically made of paper.

  “Troy has a thing for granny panties?”

  “I have no idea. The point is he’s not going to see them.”

  Stephanie groaned. “You’re so going to waste this opportunity, aren’t you?”

  “Pretty much.” I slipped the dress over my head and let it drape over me. Then I walked over to the mirror and frowned. “Do I look okay?” I asked.

  “Dude, even I would bang you in that,” she said. “And I’m about as hetero as you can get.”

  I sighed, frowning into the mirror. I’d forgotten how short this dress was. And how low cut. Was Troy going to think I was dressing sexy for him on purpose? That I wanted something beyond tomato soup? Maybe I should go down to the gift store and see if they had any—

  My phone pinged. Crap. It was Troy. He was already in the lobby and was asking about the room number. Guess the dress would have to do. I shooed Stephanie to the door, stuffing the rest of the lotions and sex toys she’d unnecessarily procured under the bed.

  “Go out the back,” I told her. “I don’t want him to see you and suspect something’s up.”