by Mari Madison
It was unfortunate that Asher’s mother never had a similar change of heart. She continued running News 9 with an iron fist and had managed to keep Mr. Martin’s advertising money in her pocket as he declared his candidacy for mayor. From what I’d heard they even gave Sarah a job at News 9—as some kind of entertainment reporter. But I didn’t tune in to see for myself.
I was too busy working for the enemy—as a news writer for the CW station in town. It was a demotion from my previous position, but I was more than okay with starting my climb up the news ladder over again. Because this time, I had gotten the job on my own.
To save money—since we were both now pretty broke—Asher and I had moved in together. To an unfashionable apartment far from the beach—but much closer to the Holloway House, where I still worked, and his surf school. It was small and a little cramped, but it had an extra bedroom. Perfect for an extra person.
A small, enthusiastic extra person.
Yes, Jayden was now our foster child. The plan was to hopefully adopt him one day once we got married and had enough money saved. In the meantime, we’d already become quite the little family. Away from the Holloway House, Jayden became a whole new kid—blossoming with all the love and attention he got. Sure, he screwed up from time to time and wasn’t always a model citizen. You couldn’t undo years of neglect in a few short months—I knew that firsthand. But he tried hard. And he was fun to have around. He brought light to both our lives.
And that was how life felt these days. Filled with light. And happiness. Even though we’d both given something up to come together, we never felt as if we were lacking a thing. Because we had each other. And we still had our dreams. And now we had both the freedom to pursue them—and the support to make them a reality. And if I did start to get a little crazy—and start obsessing about work too much? Well, let’s just say Asher had a very convincing way to bring me back to shore.
“I’m going out,” Jayden announced. “I can see you two need alone time.” He snorted to tell us exactly what he thought of that.
Asher ruffled his hair. “A couple more years, kid, and you’ll get it. Don’t you worry.”
“No, thank you! I’ll stick to surfing!” Jayden laughed, grabbing his board and dragging it down the beach.
“I’d be okay with him sticking with surfing,” I observed with a smile. “Keep him out of trouble.”
“But trouble is so much fun!” Asher teased, rolling over and clucking me under the chin. His green eyes met mine and he waggled his eyebrows at me. “Don’t you think so, Miss Strong?”
“I suppose it’s okay once in a while,” I said with a small smile. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with work.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to make you work. Very, very hard.”
Asher leaned in to kiss me. I closed my eyes, ready to feel his breath on my face, his mouth against my own. But before our lips met, a splash of cold water surprised me and I practically jumped out of my skin.
“Easy, Red,” Asher said, his mouth quirking.
I laughed. “Not easy,” I corrected. “Never easy.”
His eyes locked on to mine. “But worth it.”
“Definitely worth it.”
Turn the page for a preview of the next Exclusive Romance from Mari Madison
At First Light
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation
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 your stuff 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 they 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 Afghanistan . . .”
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, re-entered 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 oversaturated. 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 Tumblrs.
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 button-down shirts that emphasized his broad shoulders and smooth, tanned 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, 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 patheticism 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 Tumblr fan girls, you have no idea!)
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 on to 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. And now 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, 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 what I was told, tipping back the gl
ass 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, 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 brought out 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-six 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 worked well for his Right Wing Campaign O’ Hate and MisogynyTM he’d been preparing to unleash on the world. (Troy’s description 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 left me. On that day five years ago—the day that should have been our greatest victory—turned into my own personal nightmare. Changing my life forever.
But what did Troy care about that? He hadn’t even cared enough to show up.
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 off-screen 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, cutting him off, 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 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 contact 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 . . . This time . . .
I swallowed hard. Suddenly the one man I’d wanted so desperately to exorcise from my life, was now the one man I wanted to see again—more than anyone in the world.
The one man I wasn’t sure that I would.
Mari Madison is a former multiple Emmy Award–winning television producer and author of novels for adults and teens. She’s worked at television news stations in Boston, San Diego, and Orlando and helped launch the nationally syndicated morning show Better in New York City. Under the name Mari Mancusi, she writes young adult books, including the Blood Coven Vampire novels, most recently Soul Bound and Bad Blood. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her husband and young daughter and their dog, Mesquite. Visit her online at marimadison.com and twitter.com/marimancusi.
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