Tough Enough (9 page)

Katie

What would I call my mood? I ponder this as I sit on the couch in the living room, wiggling my foot and waiting for the clock to strike seven.

Dozer is lying about three feet away, eyeing me suspiciously. Evidently my excess energy and increasing anxiety are pronounced enough to keep
even him
awake, which is really saying something. He’s practically narcoleptic.

How would I define it? Nervously wary? Or maybe anxiously skeptical? I don’t exactly know what kind of label my inner turmoil deserves. For all I know, it warrants a unique name all its own.

I hear a racy rumble come roaring down my street, getting louder as it approaches. My heart thunders along at a somewhat similar cadence, like the noise alone triggered my internal throttle. No, I don’t know that to be Rogan on his way to pick me up, but then again, yes, I absolutely do. Somehow it
sounds
like him. I’m already getting a mental picture, even though I’m still sitting on my couch.
He told me he might show me what he
chooses
to drive. Something tells me he’s about to.

When the throbbing engine reaches its peak and then dies right outside, I leap up from my seat and run to the window. My insides twist and slither like a clutch of snakes when I see what’s parked outside. A black-and-silver machine, reading
Ducati
along the shiny gas tank, rests along the curb. And on its back is Rogan.

Even with his head covered by a matching helmet, I recognize him. I recognize his body and his body language. I recognize the way I respond to him. Even when I don’t want to.

He’s wearing a snug white T-shirt and ratty blue jeans. Nothing that would identify him. It’s
the way
he wears his clothes, the way the fabrics hug his lithe form, even the way he sits on the bike, like he is one with a wild, untamable animal, that is uniquely Rogan.

When he pulls off his helmet, I’m aware of two things. One, that his hair sticks up all over his head in blond spikes that make my fingers itch to touch. And two, that his eyes are on mine. All the way across the yard and through the sheer curtains that cover the glass of the window, they’re trained on mine. I can feel it. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him, like he can feel it, too. And that he honed in on it, on
me
. Instinctively. It sounds completely insane, but I don’t doubt it. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt him watching me. And it only gets more and more disconcerting.

For a few seconds, he just stares at me. He’s not smiling; he’s just straddling his bike, holding his helmet between his big, strong hands. The intensity of his gaze burns along my nerve ends, causing me to feel both terrified and excited all at once. It also makes me wonder why I agreed to this. I’m not entirely sure I can be trusted around him. He makes me forget. And that’s dangerous.

Finally, his face breaks into a breathtaking smile and I jump away from the window. I keep backing away until I’m safely ensconced in
the shadows on the opposite side of the room. I pull in several gulps of air, fanning my flaming face with my nervous hands. I wait impatiently for the moment when he’ll knock and I’ll be face-to-face with what could end up being a nightmare for me.

But he could end up being a dream for you, too,
my inner optimist chimes
.
I don’t hear from her much, but it seems she’s more vocal of late.

Three firm knocks on my front door have my insides snapping with the electricity of attraction. Probably not the best way to start an evening where I need to maintain a cool head so that I can keep a charming, gorgeous man at arm’s length.

“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” I mutter under my breath. The thing is, I don’t know for sure that I can. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in a long time. Actually, I don’t think I’ve
ever
been
this
attracted to someone. Period. Not even my ex, who basically ruined my entire life. He’s part of my aversion to Rogan. Him and the horrific memories that he and he alone is responsible for. The other part consists of the things about me that would surely run Rogan off, things I would never let him see.

Those sobering thoughts are like a bucket of ice water right in the face. My breathing levels and my face cools, so that it’s with my usual calm that I open the door and greet him.

“Hi,” I offer with a mild smile.

“Hi, yourself, darlin’,” he drawls, leaning against the doorjamb and running his jewel-tone eyes over me. “Not only do you look beautiful, but you’re dressed perfectly.”

I glance down at my low-rise jeans and simple pink tee that reads
Fat Lewey’s
across the chest. “I am?”

“You are. I didn’t have to bring the van tonight.” He nods toward the curb, where his glossy motorcycle awaits.

I glance behind him at the gleaming yet intimidating machine.
It looks dangerous, much like its driver, which is something that I’ve made a point to avoid in my life.

Until Rogan.

“I see that. You must have a death wish,” I comment wryly.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs in a voice that moves over my skin like rich, dark molasses. He straightens with a crooked smile and holds out his hand. “Come on.”

For the space of five or six heartbeats, I wonder what I’m agreeing to, what this night will mean in the grand scheme of my life. Before I can come to any conclusion, he’s reaching forward to curl his fingers around mine, sending a shiver up my arm and a thrill down my spine.

I follow him out onto the stoop, turning to close the door behind me. “Sleep tight, Dozer,” Rogan calls to my cat where he sits on the back of a chair near the door. As I’m pulling the door closed, I see Dozer wink one yellow eye and then promptly fall asleep.

Rogan pulls me down the sidewalk behind him, his grasp firm and warm. He stops beside his bike to unstrap another helmet from behind the tiny perch that qualifies as a backseat. “This is for you,” he says, gently sliding the smaller version of his helmet onto my head. I reach up to keep my hair in place as he buckles a strap under my chin. “Shit!” he says in irritation.

“What?” I ask, mildly alarmed.

“How the hell can you look hot in a helmet?” he asks, slapping my face shield down.

He can’t see my smile as he turns to ready himself, throwing one leg over the motorcycle. He rights it from its reclining position before he raises his hand to assist me. He says nothing and neither do I as I slide my fingers across his palm and climb onto the Death Machine (which is how it will forever register in my head).

I sit clumsily on the little perch, not knowing what to do with my
hands or my legs. Rogan fires up the engine, revving it a few times before he twists to reach back and put my feet on the two little chrome stubs sticking out on either side. The action brings my knees up higher and forces me to lean forward slightly. A little yip escapes because I feel like I might fall off. Rogan grabs my hands and pulls them around his stomach, bringing my chest to his back.

“Just lean into me and hold on,” he says, his voice coming through loud and clear into my helmet. So clear, in fact, that I can hear the smile he’s wearing even though I can’t see it.

I like this, this bike, this anonymity. I can enjoy touching him, being wrapped around him without having to explain myself or worry about his all-seeing eyes. Maybe a motorcycle isn’t such a bad thing after all.

That’s what I’m thinking right up until he darts away from the curb and accelerates so fast that I fear the front wheel will come off the ground. After that, my only thought is survival.

I squeal, surprised and excited and a little afraid, to which Rogan’s only response is a throaty chuckle. It vibrates along the surface of my skin much like the motorcycle vibrates beneath my butt.

As we zip along the streets of the outskirts of Enchantment, I concentrate less on the landscape that’s speeding by and more on the intriguing man that I hold in my arms. He’s obviously had some bad things happen to him in his life. He’s obviously fought to overcome them. Only now, rather than hiding away from life and danger and risk, he embraces it. He hunts it down and conquers it. I can see it in the way he masters the curves of the road, in the way he tips his chin up to the world, grinning as if to say
Bring it on!
rather than tucking it in submission. In fear. Therein lies the difference between us. What happened to me crippled me. I became a victim, forever changed by my past. Rogan rose above, became a victor, and refused to let his past change his future.

We both fought to survive. But only one of us fought to
live
. Really live. And he won. He’s
still
winning.

Like sunshine creeping into the skies at dawn, I feel a ray of light break through the darkness that I’ve been drowning in for so long. It’s inspiration. It’s motivation. It’s the sight of someone rising up and overcoming.

It’s Rogan.

Feeling eases back into places that went numb a long time ago, places I thought were all but dead. The things that Rogan has made me feel, most of them against my will, are like thin wires feeding electricity into my nerves, my muscles, my heart. They tether me to him and pull me inexorably closer. This common ground between us, this way in which we could understand each other like most people never will, might just be the strongest one so far.

Rogan turns off the road on which we’ve been traveling for several minutes. I knew we were heading toward the foot of Brasstown Bald, which is the mountain that sits behind Enchantment, because I know that’s where the luxurious homes were built for the elite of the studio’s employees (i.e., the actors). I assumed that’s where Rogan would be staying.

When we reach a small brick guard shack to the left of an enormous wrought-iron gate, Rogan slows to wave at the guard. He jumps to his feet, smiles politely and triggers the mechanism to let us through. Rogan waits patiently, easily balancing our combined weight on his bike. It seems effortless, and I understand why when I glance down at the long muscles of his thighs. I can see them standing out, bulging inside the denim of his jeans.

As soon as the gate is open enough for us to squeeze through, Rogan sharply twists his wrist, sending us hurtling between the slowly opening halves. He cuts it so close I can almost feel the cool metal of the gate brush the skin of my arm. Almost.

Less than two minutes later, he pulls to a stop in the circular driveway of a sprawling contemporary home. It looks like little more than a sea of glass amid a field of sharp angles. He raises his hand, which I take to use for balance as I dismount. I work on unfastening the buckle beneath my chin as Rogan settles the motorcycle on its kickstand and kills the engine. My fingers work clumsily and slowly in my distraction. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the man as he tugs off his helmet, runs his fingers through his hair and drags his lean body off the machine.

He casually hooks his helmet on one handlebar and turns to face me. One side of his mouth quirks. “Need some help?”

“No,” I reply, fumbling with the strap.

Rogan watches me with an amused look on his face for a few seconds before he leans in and takes over. “Here, let me do it. You’ll never get it undone with those shaky hands.”

I glance down at my trembling fingers. “You didn’t scare me. I don’t know why I’m shaking.” Even though I think I really do.

“Adrenaline. You can’t help but feel it on that bike.”

I say nothing, more than happy to go with
that
explanation.

When Rogan finally frees me of the helmet and hangs it on the opposite handlebar, he reaches for my hand again. He’s very matter-of-fact as he curls his slightly rough fingers around my unsteady ones.

“Do you like stir-fry?” he asks as we walk side by side up the path made up of geometric concrete shapes that dot the grass.

“I do.”

“Good. I was trying to think of something that wouldn’t ruin by the time we got here, so I just cut up all the ingredients and left them in the fridge. It won’t take long to cook them.”

I pull up short, my shocked eyes turned to Rogan. “You
literally
cooked for me?”

“Well, not yet. I literally
cut and chopped
for you, though.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

Startling me yet again, Rogan throws both hands up into the air and shouts, “Finally! Thank
God
!”

“Finally what?” I ask, confused.

“Finally! I managed to impress you.”

I suppress a grin. “Like you ever had doubts.”

“I was beginning to wonder. It was startin’ to look like God had given you the gift of anti-Rogan blood.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“I didn’t think so, but you had me scared there for a minute.”

His grin is so cocky, yet so charming and cute that the only thing I can do is smile and roll my eyes.

“Well, there’s no reason to worry. You’ve accomplished your mission. Now you can stop trying.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks with a wink just before he reaches around me to open the big white front door.

He motions for me to precede him, which I do, looking around the spacious foyer-slash-great-room combo as he closes the door behind us. When I make it full circle to once again face Rogan, I stumble back a step. I wasn’t expecting for a man in a wheelchair to have somehow silently rolled up and stopped less than a foot from where I stand.

The guy reaches out to grab my wrist just as Rogan’s arm comes around my waist to steady me.

“Sorry,” he says in a low, gruff voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You must be Rogan’s brother,” I say kindly, trying not to feel put off by his frown. If it weren’t for that, he’d look a lot like Rogan with his blond hair and green eyes. He even has the same strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. But where Rogan appears happy and charismatic, his brother just seems . . . cold.

“Yep. I’m the cripple,” he remarks snidely, casting an angry glare at Rogan.

“He didn’t mention that part,” I lie in an effort to diffuse the palpable tension. Well, it’s not
technically
a lie. Rogan didn’t say he was crippled; he said he was handicapped. Semantics, yes, but still . . . “Thank you for having me to dinner.”