Tough Enough (10 page)

“Like I had much choice.” Another fuming look thrown at Rogan.

“If I’m imposing, I can come back another time. I don’t want to put you out.”

Finally, the brother looks at me as though he’s seeing
me
for the first time and not some tool Rogan is using to infuriate him. “No, you’re fine.”

For some reason, I feel sorry for this man. I know it would kill him to know this, but I can’t seem to help it. It’s not for his handicap that I pity him, though; it’s for his anger. I know from past experience that anger and bitterness can eat you alive and steal away what life you have left if you let it. It’s best to just let go and move on whenever possible.

It’s with this sense of sorrow that I feel for him that I stick out my hand and put on my biggest smile. “Great, then. I’m Katie. It’s nice to meet you, Rogan’s brother.”

He watches me silently for several long seconds before he looks down at my outstretched hand and then back up to my face.

“Kurt. It’s nice to meet you, Katie,” he replies, a very small smile curving his lips.

I feel gratified to get civility from him
.
“So I hear we’re having stir-fry. Your idea or his?” I tip my head to indicate Rogan, who is standing quietly at my side, watching our interaction. When I glance over at him, I see that it’s now
his
brow that’s creased with a frown. I smile at him and the wrinkles deepen. What is it with these men?

“Mine,” Kurt replies, shooting Rogan a quick grin as he wheels his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees and takes off toward the kitchen, which is separated only by a raised bar in this open floor plan.

“He’s full of shit. I’m the brains in this operation.”

“No, you’re the legs. I’m perfectly capable of doing
everything
else,” Kurt calls from in front of the refrigerator. When he turns back around, he’s holding two covered bowls in his lap and boasting a cocky grin that’s one hundred percent Rogan. “My legs are the
only things
that don’t work right.”

I smile again, sliding my eyes over to
my
Rogan. “He’s
definitely
your brother.”

I don’t know what happened to make him frown back there at the door, but his wink assures me that all is right with the world again.

By order of Rogan, I am confined to a chair during dinner preparations. “How can I impress you with my extensive culinary expertise if you help?” he asks.

“You won’t have to worry about that. She’ll be too dazzled by me to give you a second thought,” Kurt says.

“You haven’t dazzled anybody since Regina Lawson in the second grade.”

“You wouldn’t know dazzling if it exploded right beside your head.”

“I’m the
definition
of dazzling.”

And so the banter goes until the table is set, the wine is poured and dinner is served. Time passes so pleasantly, so humorously, so
effortlessly
that I can’t quite remember how the conversation turned to
Star Wars.
I only know that the guys are hilarious as they debate who would’ve made a better Han Solo.

“I have better reflexes, which would make me the better pilot of the
Millennium Falcon
,” Rogan declares.

“But I’m a better kisser, and where would Han be without Leia?” Kurt argues.

“How the hell could you possibly know that you’re a better kisser?”

“Amy Steadman told me.”

“Amy Steadman? The only reason she kissed you is because you were gettin’ all girly and emotional and shit over that sophomore who broke your heart. What was her name again?”

“You’re a damn liar! Amy kissed me because she was tired of putting up with your cheatin’ ass.”

“I didn’t cheat on her. We weren’t seeing each other when all that happened. Which brings me to my next point. I’d make the best Han Solo because I’m taller. You’d get stuck being Luke.”

“You’re only taller because your legs work. I’m taller sitting down.”

“Bullshit! I’m an inch and three quarters taller than you. Have been since you peaked the year you graduated. Not my fault you stopped growing too early.”

“This is getting us nowhere. Let’s ask our own Leia,” Kurt suggests, turning his slightly less dazzling green eyes to me. “Be honest, who would make the best Han Solo? Kief or me?” Kurt gives me his most winsome smile, winking and nodding and gesturing for me to choose him, all of which makes me laugh.

“You can’t ask me that! You’d both make great Hans.”

“Well, you know the only way to know for sure, don’t you?” Rogan’s brother asks.

Something about his wide grin makes me instantly suspicious. “I’m not sure I
want to
know.”

“You’ll have to kiss us both.”

“What?”

Kurt shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”

Open-mouthed, I turn to look at Rogan. “Are you hearing this?”

His face is relaxed and his lips are curved, but there’s a hardness to his eyes that gives me pause. “I’m hearing it. The only thing that’s keeping me from kicking his ass is sympathy. I know how it feels to want to kiss a beautiful makeup artist.”

“I don’t want to kiss just any beautiful makeup artist. I want to kiss
this one
.”

My face flames under the heat of so much attention. I glance shyly from Kurt to Rogan. Something about his expression tells me that he’s no longer having fun. I wonder if the cause is his brother’s overtly flirtatious commentary. That seems to be the only thing that has changed, and as much as I shouldn’t care whether Rogan is jealous, the prospect that he
might be
sends a little thrill through me.

“Well, unfortunately, you’re both out of luck. I’m a terrible kisser, so it would hardly be fair for me to judge.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Kurt declares.

When I glance at Rogan, his eyes are a dark emerald sparkle in the handsomely tanned landscape of his face. “Liar,” he says softly.

Clearing my throat, I stand and grab my plate to take it into the kitchen, but Kurt stops me. “Leave it!” he barks. I freeze, mid-motion, glancing across the table at him questioningly. His face breaks into a boyish grin. “You’re a guest. You shouldn’t have to clean up.”

“But I—”

“Ah ah ah,” he clucks, shaking his head and wheeling around to my side of the table. “No arguments.”

Kurt takes my plate from my fingers and places it in his lap before he wheels around to collect the rest of the plates from the table. With one aggressive fling of his powerful arms, he sends his chair careening across the hardwood and into the kitchen.

When I can only see the top of Kurt’s head in front of the sink,
I turn to Rogan. His expression is unfathomable and his eyes are heavy-lidded as they watch me. I try not to fidget under his curious scrutiny and my voice is a hoarse croak when I speak. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“A-are you okay?” I ask.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. You just seem . . . off.”

Rogan grins, an action that transforms his face into the one I’m most familiar with, making my belly do a little flip. The brooding version was like a stranger. “Does that mean you prefer me when I’m
on
?”

His eyes twinkle as he comes to stand before me, less than six inches separating us as he stares down into my face.

“I didn’t say that,” I reply, a bit more breathless than I’d like to be.

Rogan reaches up and drags the back of his index finger under the edge of my lower lip. “You didn’t have to.” For a few seconds, I tense, wondering if he’s going to try to kiss me, but then he winks, reaching for my hand and tipping his head toward the other side of the room. “Since Kurt volunteered for cleanup, let’s go out onto the patio and get started, ’kay?”

I nod, shivering at the heat that pours from his palm into mine. It flows up my arm as Rogan leads me through the living room to a wall of windows. Two of them are giant sliding panels that open onto a softly lit travertine patio. Directly in front of me lies a lagoon-style pool, the water inside it a deep blue. Overflow spills from the attached spa, creating a soothing backdrop. It gives the backyard a Zen garden feel.

An area rug to one side holds a grouping of wicker furniture that
sits beneath a pergola. A dozen creamy lanterns hang overhead. They shed their warm, romantic light on the intimate setting like twelve tiny moons.

Rogan moves to the sofa and releases my hand, gesturing for me to have a seat. “We can go over the lines a couple of times and then try it a few times without cheat sheets,” he says with a grin, referring to two sets of script pages that seem to have appeared in his other hand like magic.

I nod again. “That’s fine.” I take the proffered pages from his extended hand and sit stiffly on the edge of a cushion.

A stab of nostalgia slices through my heart as I look over the two pages of dialogue and notes. There was a time when something like this would’ve energized and motivated me, a time when my place was in front of the camera rather than in the shadows behind it. But that time is past. Now, I just feel . . . empty. If I’d only known how much my dreams would cost me . . .

“Have you ever read through a script before? Do you want me to—”

“Yes, I’m familiar with them,” I answer soberly.

Rogan gives me several minutes to read silently through the pages before he asks, “Ready?”

Again, I nod. “I think so.”

“I’ll start from where shooting will resume.” Rogan clears his throat.

Back and forth, we read our lines. The first time, it’s more perfunctory. The second round has a little more emotion to it as I get used to the scene. The third time seems much more relaxed and real.

When he finishes with the last line, Rogan glances up at me. His brow wrinkles slightly. “You’re not reading from the script?”

“No. I think I’ve got it down pretty good.”

Rogan’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s impressed. That pleases me,
even though it shouldn’t. I just hope he doesn’t start asking questions.

“Do you want to try them standing up, then? The scene calls for us to be standing in the office of my character’s club.”

“Sure.”

Rogan stands and I quickly follow suit, wiping my damp palms on my jeans. The scene somehow plays a little too close to reality for me and I wonder if Rogan will try to finish it completely. With a kiss. My stomach feels all squirmy just thinking about it.

Rogan walks to the edge of the pool where the lantern light is mostly faded. We are minimally illuminated by the blue glow of the water. For the most part, we are in a dark bubble all by ourselves.

The first line drifts through the night, bridging the small distance between us like a velvet cord, drawing me into Rogan’s world.

“You wanted it. You wanted the truth.”

“Not like this. Not this way. I thought you were different. I thought—”

“Bullshit!”
he explodes, startling me even though I knew what he was going to say.
“You knew exactly what you were getting in to, what kind of man I am.”

“But I’ve never . . .”

It’s easy to be timid, to play the role of this confused, cowed girl trying to resist that which she wants so badly. That which she knows will destroy her. In some ways, she’s not a far stretch for me.

“You’ve never what? Had someone want you because of how it feels instead of what you can give them?”

Rogan’s voice is low as he takes a step toward me. I can feel the shivering of my nerves, just as this character probably feels the shivering of hers.

“You know who my father is. Some people will do anything to get close to him.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people. I don’t give a damn about your father. And neither should you. This is about us. This is about what I’m going to do to you the second you stop pretending you don’t feel this, too.”

I lick my lips. Not because I’m pretending to be someone else, but because right now, with Rogan so close that I can smell his soap, I’m
not.

“I can’t . . . This isn’t something that I . . .”

The arguments are the same stilted ones I would use if this were the real Rogan talking to the real me, trying to convince me to let go of my hang-ups.

“Liar. You can. And this is something that you—”

“If they ever find out . . . If anyone ever knows . . .”

“It’s too late for that, sweetheart. You’re already mine.”

“I’m not yours
yet.
There’s still time.”

“No, there’s not. I’m going to kiss you. Kiss you like you need to be kissed. Like you’ve always wanted to be kissed. And in a week’s time, I’ll be back. On that night, you’ll have a decision to make.”

My heartbeat is a tap dance, a clickity-clack against my ribs. My pulse is a song that plays its quickened rhythm just for Rogan. It doesn’t seem to matter that these are just lines from a show. From a single scene. It doesn’t seem to matter that they’re someone else’s words about other people’s lives. Even though I’m not Becca and he’s not Drago, even though they’re not even real, my insides are trembling like loose leaves in the autumn breeze.

“Can I finish?” Rogan’s words are his own, soft whispers carried to me on breath that teases my cheek.

“Finish what?” I ask, equally softly.

“Finish the scene.”

Here in the dark, pretending to be someone I’m not, I can be brave. I can keep hidden that which taunts me every time I look in
the mirror. I can taste fearlessly, behave recklessly. Just this once. Only in the dark.

Fight to survive. Fight to live.

Just this once, maybe I can live again.

“Yes,” I breathe.

The syllable has barely left my lips when his mouth drops to cover mine. It dies in the darkness, consumed instantly by the fire of what’s between us. There’s no tentativeness, no hesitation. No wading in slowly after what happened before. There is only heat and want.

His lips move over mine in a moist, hot dance that’s meant to do one thing—incite. And it’s working. Already, my chest is tight with my heaving breath and my body wants to lean into his.