After Dark (The Night Owl Trilogy #3) by M. Pierce
For Anna, always
Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost.
SARA TEASDALE, “Barter”
Chapter 1
HANNAH
This is my favorite part. The beginning.
The crowd continues to clap and Gail Weider beams at us.
I pull Matt several feet onto the stage and he stops. He stands there woodenly, his expression blank, and then darts a look backstage. “I was contemplating running,” he told me later.
Gail’s smile falters.
My boyfriend and I are live on Denver Buzz, the biggest morning talk show in the city, and this is our chance to spin his fake death in our favor. A reclusive artist driven into hiding. A sensitive personality reacting to harmful circumstances. Stuff like that.
“Welcome,” says Gail. She gestures to the couch. I know where we are supposed to sit, and I have been coached on good posture, eye contact, and affirmative answers. So has Matt.
But Matt is gone. The camera focuses on his stunned face. The applause dwindles.
“Come on,” I whisper, coaxing him forward.
Abruptly, Gail crosses the stage and we flank Matt. The scene becomes comical. She grips his shoulder, I hold his hand, and we maneuver him toward the couch.
“Don’t be shy, Mr. Sky. We’re so excited to have you.” Gail plows off-script like a pro, her confidence undiminished. She exudes authority, and Matt and I look like children on her stage. At last, we get Matt seated. His hand is glued to mine.
This awkwardness is all my fault.
“Marry me,” I’d whispered to Matt just moments before we stepped onstage. Had I sabotaged our TV appearance? The possibility never crossed my mind. In fact, the proposal didn’t cross my mind until it rolled off my tongue. Oops …
“Matthew, Hannah.” Gail nods at us.
“We’re so happy to be here,” I say. I pat Matt’s knee. He remains comatose, and Gail launches into a spiel about how glad she is to see Matt safe, and yet how stunned she and the nation felt after the news of his death in December. She recounts the story. Her eyes sweep from the teleprompters to the crowd and back to us.
A silence follows, during which Matt is supposed to speak.
Even I know his lines.
I’m glad you brought this up, Gail. I’ve been looking forward to this opportunity to explain what happened, and why. First, I need to say that …
Matt glowers at the camera.
“We’re getting married,” he announces.
Dear God, he looks adorable. His bewilderment turns to anger. He glares a challenge at everyone, as if we are already at the altar and someone might object to our union.
The audience gives a collective gasp.
“Wow!” says Gail. A blissful smile breaks out on my face and Matt and I hug. Everyone claps. People get on their feet.
It’s soap opera season finale meets touchdown in the studio. And the crowd goes wild …
*
I paused the video—Denver Buzz, May 14, 2014—and closed my laptop. The bedroom was dark. I padded to the window and watched a thick white cord of lightning reach down from the sky. Thunder followed in a long bass rumble.
I opened the window and tropically warm wind rushed over me. Our curtains streamed through the room. Finally—a storm to break the dry heat of June.
As I waited for the rain, my mind traveled back to that day, almost a month ago, when Matt and I appeared on TV and he announced to the nation that we were getting married.
The remainder of the show had focused on our whirlwind romance, our tumultuous relationship, and Night Owl, Matt’s tell-all novel about us. Somehow, the news of our engagement eclipsed even Matt’s phony death. We excused everything with love. Women in the audience dabbed their eyes—and the cameras ate it up—as Matt described his loneliness at the cabin. He was animated, gorgeous, and powerfully persuasive. “I realized that no amount of freedom was worth a life without Hannah,” he told Gail, and a sigh rippled through the studio.
As Matt wove a tale for our rapt spectators, even I envisioned him storming off the mountain and back into my arms—all for love! We laughed and shared longing glances. I lowered my head when the story darkened. My hand played on his thigh.
After the last segment, Matt had dragged me off the set. My heart kicked into doubletime as we navigated the corridors backstage, stepping over wires and around video equipment. He hauled me into a dressing room. My phone began to ring.
I remembered thinking it was probably my boss and Matt’s agent, Pamela Wing, and she was probably having an aneurysm. Or maybe she was cracking open a bottle of champagne. Impossible to say. Pam had arranged the talk show appearance and prepped Matt and me exhaustively, and we had proceeded to stray from every line in the script.
Matt’s phone had started ringing, too. He ignored it. He slammed the dressing room door shut and pressed me against it. In the dark, I couldn’t make out his expression.
“Hannah, what the hell was that?” His chest touched mine and I felt his wild pulse. “God, you’re going to drive me to an early grave.”
“I’m sorry. Are you angry? I—”
“Angry?” His breath fanned through my hair. His hands roamed down my body.