Instigation

  Instigation

  Copyright © 2015 Tessa Teevan

  Co-creator: Derek Teevan

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editor: Mickey Reed

  Cover Designer: Robin Harper of Wicked by Design

  Formatter: Champagne Formats

  title page

  copyright

  other books

  dedication

  prologue

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  epilogue

  sneak peak of Escalation

  playlist

  acknowledgements

  about the author

  Other Books by Tessa Teevan

  Explosive

  Ignite

  Incinerate

  Inflame

  Intoxicate

  The Wellingtons

  Combust

  Conflagration

  Sweet Southern Sorrow

  To Derek: This book wouldn’t exist without you. Thank you for challenging me to push my boundaries. And for continuing to push them even when I didn’t think I could do it. You are simply the best, and I love you.

  IT’S OFTEN SAID THAT, when you’re on the brink of death, your life flashes before your eyes. How many times has that phrase been uttered over the years? The idea that you relive your fondest memories, see glimpses of your most significant moments and freeze-frames of loved ones you’ll sorely miss. It’s one final reel to show you how beautiful and fulfilling your life was. It’s your final farewell that, while painful, can still give you peace, because even though you’re saying goodbye to many, you’re given a reminder of those who’ve gone before you and you’ll soon be back in their arms. It’s a bittersweet happening. It’s a beautiful ending.

  At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. I wish that were the case. Peace, however, doesn’t come for me. Not even as I take my last breath.

  For me, I see the total opposite. As death rears its ugly head, I do not see my past. Instead, I see my future. The future I’ll never have. The future that’s being stolen from me with no rhyme or reason.

  I see him pressing me up against that kitchen counter for the first time, telling me how much he wants me—how much he needs me.

  I see us sitting on the swing on what would one day be our front porch, sipping iced tea as we listen to the crickets chirp, enjoying the silence as our thighs graze, a slow, easy foreplay for what is soon to come.

  Visions of a swaddled baby nestled in my arms, the love of my life gazing down at us with affection all over his face, flash through my mind like the cruelest tease.

  White picket fences. Yellow nurseries. My favorite lilies adorning the kitchen counter just to brighten my day.

  Sippy cups. Dirty diapers. Messy hair. Exhaustion that, while trying, is still never too consuming for beautiful lovemaking with my gorgeous future husband. I’m happy. I’m content. I’m loved.

  For a split second, I’m living it, my perfect future, and I reach my arms out, trying to hang on for dear life so that all of those moments will come to be. But just like everything good in my life, it’s too far out of my grasp.

  And as the water rushes in, it all washes away, vanishing from my vision. I struggle to cling to those thoughts as I realize I can still have that future. I just need to fight like hell to survive.

  The memory of long-ago swimming lessons and Coach Hamilton’s words come back at the right time, and I close my eyes for a split second, trying to regroup.

  You can do this, Brie. Just relax.

  Exhale.

  Inhale slowly.

  Hold.

  Exhale.

  Inhale slowly.

  Hold.

  Do not panic.

  Whatever you do, do not panic.

  Remain calm.

  Breathe out.

  Breathe in slowly.

  Hold.

  Cough.

  Sputter.

  Gasp.

  Sink.

  Panic.

  People can tell you the steps of how to breathe when you’re under the threat of drowning, but until you’re in that dire situation, you have no idea how easily all rational thought evaporates from even the most logical mind.

  All I know is that the sand in the hourglass signifying my life is quickly emptying and I don’t have much time. Every moment counts. I can’t afford to panic, yet every instinct inside me wants to do just that. Even as the water rises, tormenting and relentless, the desire to take a breath is tantalizing, intensifying with each second I go without air. Spots cloud my vision, my mind dizzy with the crushing need to breathe. Instinct tells me that I must hold on just a little longer, but it’s too late. The overwhelming desire to suck in a breath is irresistible, and even though my brain is sending impulses screaming in warning, my mouth inevitably opens.

  Water rushes in, invading my mouth, a vicious army surging in and ready for war, my body unwilling to fight even the first battle. It’s inevitable. This is really it. That beautiful future will never happen now, and all the fight in me is gone.

  Out of nowhere, light flickers beyond my closed eyelids, and for a moment, I think that it’s the bright one that awaits every death. But it’s different. It has a reddish hue, weaving back and forth, almost like a flashlight. It’s a beacon of hope from beyond the confines of my watery tomb, giving me renewed strength. My eyes burst open, seeking refuge and spotting the last tiny pocket of unsubmerged space yet no longer seeing any sign of light. Did I imagine it? Was that just one last cruel joke before death takes me?

  Struggling, I scramble until my head comes above water, coughing, sputtering, and then ultimately cursing myself for only delaying the inevitable as the water rises all around me. I shouldn’t have bothered with the phantom light. This would’ve been over already. I’d be with my parents, the job finally finished once and for all.

  You weren’t supposed to survive.

  As I take one last gasping breath, water covers me, and I know that the end is near. All of those visions of my future were a fluke. I’ll never live them. I’ll never experience having a family, being a wife or a mother. I’ll never know the truth.

  This is it. This is the end, and I will never have the answers I seek.

  Now, I just have more questions.

  How could I have been so blind?

  How could he have done this to me?

  And most of all, where is my savior now?

  Eight Weeks Earlier

  TODAY IS THE DAY. The day I leave him.

  I say that nearly every day now, and I have been doing so for at least the past six months. Yet here I still am.

  Today is different, however. This time, I actually mean it. I finally found what I’ve been looking for but hoping I n
ever actually would.

  I may have been young and naïve and far too trusting, but he’s changed that. He’s changed me. All the last-minute business trips, the late nights out, and the hushed phone calls point to one thing, but I haven’t had solid proof, and I didn’t want to believe the implications.

  Now, I have no choice.

  This morning, as I finished packing for him for yet another last-minute trip, this one taking him away for weeks, it fell right into my hands. Literally. Apparently, the dry cleaners weren’t as careful as he’d hoped, because as he’s showering, I’m now sitting on our massive king-sized bed, holding a teeny, tiny pair of panties I know isn’t mine. The last part finally registers in my mind, and I throw the small scrap of material onto the floor as if it’s about to burn me.

  Caught cheating thanks to dirty panties? When did my life become such a freaking cliché? All of this time, I’ve had my suspicions, but somewhere, deep down, I’ve made excuses for him. But no longer. Now, I know the truth.

  As I stare at them, I’m numb. My heart should be breaking, yet it’s not. Perhaps it’s shock. Maybe my heart was already hardening towards him after months of aloofness and distance. Or maybe I’m still in denial. He’ll come out of the bathroom, tell me that I’m wrong and he loves me and no one else.

  Wishful thinking. Even I’m not that naïve.

  Sitting here in the room I’ve occupied for nearly two years, listening to the man I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with singing in the shower as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, I wonder where it all went wrong. Everything was so perfect—until it wasn’t.

  Sighing, I mentally sift through our memories, trying to determine how we got to where we are now.

  The day I met Adrian Morningstar, my whole world was altered. I’d been lost, lonely, and he was exactly what I needed to bring me out of my shell, and out of my state of grief. One look, one touch, one beautiful smile was all it took for my knees to go weak, for my heart to race, and for me to know that he was the man I was going to spend my life with. I know that it sounds crazy—love at first sight—but there was just something about him that captivated me and never let go.

  So many things drew me to him on that first encounter when we met at The Daily Grind, a tiny coffee shop near my receptionist job in downtown Philadelphia. It could’ve been his gorgeous olive complexion, the kind that gave him the appearance of a mythological god—one almost too beautiful to look at. It was as if my peon eyes weren’t worthy, but regardless of the consequences, I couldn’t resist a glance, which resulted in spine-tingling pleasure. Tan skin, piercing, green eyes, and a thousand-watt smile that was almost too good to be true. My eyes feasted on him, this beautiful work of art come to life, one that even the most acclaimed of artists would beg to capture for all of eternity. Still, to my utter surprise, there was more to him than his looks. Perhaps it was his charm and innate kindness, or his cool confidence or commanding authority that enraptured me. Whatever it was, I was instantly hooked.

  On that fateful afternoon, as I struggled to balance my piping-hot latte with one hand and my laptop in the other, he rose to his feet with exquisite grace, insisting on helping me. He took my drink, wincing at the sleeveless paper cup as it burned his skin, but then masked the pain with a smile, one that sent immediate shivers down my spine.

  He set it on the nearest table, and I gave my thanks. Disappointment set in as he turned away with only a simple nod. I mentally chastised myself for even thinking he’d sit down. I hadn’t exactly been approachable for the last couple of years, and the permanent scowl on my face wasn’t what one would call inviting. Instead of dwelling on it, I got lost in job advertisements, cursing myself for not having listened to my father when he’d warned me against going down the art history degree path. I could almost hear his booming laugh and feel his pat on my shoulder.

  “What’s good as a hobby doesn’t always make the finest career, Brie.”

  Mom, however, had understood my passion, and just like always, Dad had given in. If only I’d have listened.

  It’d been nearly six months since I’d graduated, and all I had to show for my degree was a piece of paper and a student loan bill that made me queasy when I thought about it.

  I got fed up after a fruitless job search and closed my laptop with a sigh. My eyes fluttered shut, and I rolled my neck, hoping to work some of the stress out. It wasn’t that I minded being a receptionist. I really didn’t. The hours and the pay were decent, but it wasn’t going to make a dent on my student loans, nor was it my passion. Coming to Philadelphia, I was discovering, had been a bad idea. There were no openings for a recent graduate in my field, so I was going to have to expand my job hunt. Not that it mattered. I could go anywhere, do anything. I had no ties. I had nothing to hold me back.

  Except myself.

  Just as I was ready to pack up and leave, a throat cleared, causing me to jump and my eyes to pop open. Looking up, I was surprised to see my savior from earlier. He peered down at me with a delicious smile that warmed me all the way to my toes.

  “Want to get out of here?” he asked, his voice thick and rich like molten lava, pouring over me as it consumed every inch of my skin. It was seductive and enticing, and I didn’t want to say no.

  However, I found I couldn’t respond at all to this stranger’s proposition.

  My eyebrows drew together, and I looked around, unsure if he was really asking me that question. A haughty laugh emitted from his throat, and if I hadn’t already been leaning towards saying yes, that sexy sound would have sealed the deal.

  “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. It’s just . . . You look like you could use something a little stiffer than a latte,” he observed, evidently reading me all too well.

  My cheeks flushed at his provocative tone, and before I could stop myself, I felt my eyes wandering down to his tight jeans, realizing it’d been far too long since I’d had something . . . stiff.

  His laugh drew my attention back up, and he raised his eyebrows in amusement having caught my roving gaze.

  “I . . . I . . .” I stammered like an idiot before sucking my lower lip in between my teeth, urging myself to snap out of it.

  “I’m doing this all wrong,” he said, pulling the chair across from me out and sitting down. “It’s just . . . I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since you walked in, and, well, you look like you could use a friend.”

  As I finally found my tongue, it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “A friend?” I asked, causing him to smirk.

  “For starters,” he admitted, and it warmed me to know that perhaps friendship wasn’t the only thing on the table today. He leaned closer, his eyes softening as he studied me. His scrutiny was unnerving, causing me to squirm in my chair. “You look sad, beautiful girl. I’m a sucker for sad eyes. And beautiful girls. It tells me there’s a story there. As I watched you, I found myself wanting to know yours.”

  “It’s a long one,” I told him, not really wanting to discuss me or my disastrous life with this handsome stranger.

  “Luckily for us, I have all the time in the world,” he informed me. His jaw clenched as he drummed his fingers on the table, but he evidently read my hesitancy and didn’t push the subject. “Now, about that drink?”

  As much as I wanted to jump up and scream, “Yes!” ready to agree to just about anything he wanted, I tried to keep my cool. “Don’t you think it’s a little early?”

  “Ah, it’s never too early to indulge, but perhaps you’d rather meet later.” He stood, and a wave of disappointment set in all over again until he pulled a business card out of his back pocket and quickly wrote an address on the back. Then he handed it to me. “That address. Nine o’clock. Just drinks and dancing, beautiful girl. I want to be the man to wipe the sadness from your eyes. Please, let me be that man for you,” he whispered almost reverently. I believed him instantly.

  With that, he pushed back from the table and strode out the door, not even waiting for my response.
I watched him leave before looking down, finally seeing his name.

  Adrian Morningstar. Morningstar Professional Investments and Procurements.

  Putting a name with his face made it seem so much easier to agree to meet for a drink, and then I realized he hadn’t gotten mine.

  “Wait,” I called after him, even though he’d already gone out the door.

  I jumped up, slid my laptop into my messenger bag, and followed after him. My chest was heaving when I finally reached him. He turned, an amused look on his face, almost as if he’d been expecting me.

  “Don’t you want to know my name, Adrian?” I asked, his name sounding exotic and enticing when it came from my lips.

  He stepped closer and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes. “I look forward to seeing you tonight, Gabriella,” he whispered softly before turning and sliding into a sleek, black town car, leaving me standing there, my eyes wide, wondering just who in the hell Adrian Morningstar was.

  How did he know my name?

  And why was I finding it hard to care?

  I’d like to say I wavered back and forth on whether or not I was going to meet him that night, but the moment he drove away from me, I dashed to my beat-up Honda Civic and hightailed it home so I could get ready for the night. Ready for him. I didn’t have much, but I could work with what I did.

  My heart hammered as I rattled the address off to the cab driver, and for a split second, I wondered what I was doing. I pushed all hesitation out of my mind when I stepped out of the cab and looked up at the nightclub before me. My hands trembled as I walked into Oasis, one of Philadelphia’s most upscale clubs, precisely at nine.

  Even if I’d given in to my nerves and tried to flee, I couldn’t have. Adrian was waiting for me, as if he knew without a shadow of a doubt I’d show up. He was right. There was no question about it. There never had been.

  “You look ravishing, Gabriella. Like a beautiful work of art I want to keep in my home to show off whenever I want,” he whispered in my ear, his warm breath heating me all the way to my toes. Funny. I’d thought the same of him just earlier today.