Текст книги "Tough Enough"

Автор книги: M. Leighton

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

TWENTY-SIX

Rogan

“You’re sleeping with the wrong brother. You know that, right?”

Sitting at the bar, munching on a carrot as I finish making dinner, Katie’s mouth drops open and her cheeks turn bright red at my brother’s comment. I kick the back of his chair.

“You’re an ass, man.”

“What?” he asks, like there’s nothing wrong with his comment. “Oh, I forgot. It’s Wednesday. Therefore I cannot speak the truth.”

I shake my head. “Sore loser,” I mutter.

“I didn’t lose. Hell, you didn’t even give me a chance to get in the game. Some of us are stuck here all day instead of on a television set kissing hot actresses and lying to beautiful makeup artists.”

I see the little frown that appears between Katie’s eyes as she listens. “I don’t lie, you dickwad.”

“Everybody lies.”

“Somebody didn’t get his nap out today,” I needle, knowing that will piss him off so bad he’ll just leave. And he does. Kurt whirls his chair around to face me, his expression filled with bitter resentment.

“Sometimes I hate you,” he spits, and then he wheels himself around the bar and down the hall to his room where he slams the door shut.

“Is he okay?” Katie asks cautiously.

I shrug. “He’s just got issues. That’s all.”

“Is he always like that? I mean, the first time I met him . . .”

“He was on his best behavior. Smitten, I guess you could say. But yeah, that’s more his normal state of douchiness.”

I’m matter-of-fact about it because I’m used to it. Kurt feels like he has a million reasons to hate and resent me. I only understand one of them.

“Why does he resent you so much?” Katie’s eyes are puzzled. Then she starts to stammer, like she regrets her question. “I—I mean, he seems to, anyway. Not that it’s any of my business.” Her voice trails off as she drops her gaze down to her hands where they’re fiddling with her napkin.

I laugh, reaching across the bar to still her fingers. “Hey, it’s fine. You can ask me anything.”

“Okay, then why does he seem to resent you so much? Is it just because of his handicap?”

I resume assembling the salads that will accompany the filets I’ll be grilling. I lay slices of cucumber on each one as I answer her. “He thinks that the reason I never went to the cops or social services, the reason that I kept my mouth shut, was because I was weak. He thinks I didn’t love him enough to get him out of there. I never told him that everything I did I did to spare him.”

I hear Katie’s gasp. “But why? Why would you let him believe that? When you sacrificed so much for him. Why?”

I glance up to meet her horrified eyes. “Because it would’ve eaten him up with guilt—knowing that I stayed around because of him. Knowing that I kept taking a beating so that he wouldn’t have to. And I didn’t want him to have to carry that around for the rest of his life.”

“Oh God, Rogan,” she whispers. Her face is pale, like she can literally feel the pain of it all.

“It’s fine,” I tell her with a smile. I’d rather blow it off than this end up in pity. It’s probably dangerously close already. “We both survived.”

“You never said what happened to your father.” I can tell that she wants to change the subject as much as I do.

“He’s gone. Long gone.” Before she can ask more questions or fumble through platitudes, I slap my hands together. “All done,” I tell her, setting the full salad bowls aside and pouring each of us a glass of red wine. I come around the bar and push one stem into Katie’s fingers as I take the platter of seasoned meat. “Come on. Let’s go grill.”

Each day that has passed this week has brought on a new sense of urgency to enjoy every second that I can with Katie. Things in Enchantment are different. This place seems separated from reality, like the real world is on a parallel plane. Real, but not here. Somewhere else. Somewhere that can’t touch us, can’t touch what we have together. I feel like once I leave here, I can never come back. Like I will have lost Katie and whatever this is between us.

We live such different lives normally. That they intersected at all is a miracle, so what could be next? I don’t know if Katie could survive in my regular life.

That’s how I’ve come to identify my existence. Before, during and after. Past, present, future. The life I’ve led up until Enchantment, the life I lead here, and the life I’ll continue to lead once I leave it. Is there a way to take the now with me? To make it a part of tomorrow? Or is it impossible for the two to ever peacefully coexist?

My phone bleeps with an incoming text. I glance at Katie, sitting on one of the poolside chairs with her feet tucked up under her. There’s a serene look on her face. I love seeing it there.

She smiles at me as she sips her wine. I hold her gaze for a few seconds before she turns her attention to the waterfall that cascades down a rocky landscape before splashing delicately into the pool. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if she wonders what I’m thinking. Or if she knows.

I check my phone when it makes a second alert. It’s my agent, reminding me of the arrangements his assistant made for my flight back to New York. I have a fight in three days. It was postponed until taping for this show was complete. Both for filming and aesthetic purposes, obviously. I knew it was coming, but in a way it almost feels like it signals the end.

But I don’t want this to end.

I turn the grill flame to low and close the lid to allow the steaks to finish up. I walk to Katie and squat down in front of her, taking her free hand in mine.

“Thursday is my last day of taping.” The statement hangs in the air. Like a cloud of inevitability.

Katie nods once, her face expressionless as she eyes me.

I figured she knew. She gets set notes, too.

“I’ve got a fight on Sunday. Kurt and I will be flying out Thursday night. The match is in New York. Come with me.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes search mine. I don’t know what she’s looking for, what she’s thinking, and she doesn’t say anything that might clue me in.

“New York is . . .” She trails off. Even if I couldn’t sense the hesitation in her words, I could detect it in her body language. She’s shrinking away from me. It’s almost imperceptible, but I can see her pressing her back into the cushion.

I’m as honest as I can be. It’s the only way I know to fight her hang-ups. “I’m not ready for this to be over yet. I want you with me.”

Just as I nearly missed her pulling away, I could’ve missed her relaxing back toward me if I hadn’t been paying attention. But I was. When it comes to Katie, I’m always paying attention.

“And then what? I’d have to be back here to work on Monday.”

“I know. I’ll make sure you’re here.”

I can see the indecision in her eyes, but I can also see that she, too, is eager to prolong our . . . whatever this is.

Finally, she nods her agreement. “Okay. I’ll come.”

I smile and lean forward to kiss her. When she weaves her fingers into my hair and slides her tongue along mine, I consider abandoning supper in favor of hauling her tasty little ass off to my bedroom. But then she pulls away, breathless.

“I’ll never get used to that,” she states, winded.

I wink at her. “I don’t want you to.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Katie

Thursday

I wake conflicted. Part of me is ecstatic to be going to New York with Rogan. It feels like we haven’t had enough time together, like this is coming to an end too soon. I’m glad he feels that way, too. And I’m glad I could get the time off to go with him.

Right now, I refuse to even think about what comes after Sunday. It makes my chest tight just to consider it. If I weren’t such a coward, I’d probably admit to myself that I’ve fallen in love with him, fallen in love with a man who lives life in a way that scares the crap out of me. He never backs down. He seizes every day. He lives life to the fullest. He’s everything I’m not. But he makes me want to be more, makes me want to do more, risk more.

Another part of me, however, is terrified to return to New York. I haven’t been back there since Calvin. Since my parents died, since my life was burned away. My last memories of the city are of painful months in the hospital, recovering, and equally painful months afterward, trying to pick up the pieces of a life that had been reduced to ash.

But I’m going.

For Rogan.

For Rogan, I’m jumping into the fray when I’ve spent the last five years avoiding it. For Rogan, I’m going public with my relationship to a star when I’ve purposely perfected the art of hiding in plain sight. For Rogan, I’m attending a brutal fight when I still have nightmares of what it feels like to be pummeled with angry fists.

If I’m ever going to learn to fight to live, not just to survive, it has to start here. I don’t know why, but instinctively I’m absolutely certain that this is crucial. That he is crucial.

Rogan.

Each morning, I’ve awakened to the feel of his body pressed to mine. Each morning, he’s been waiting for me when I get to work. Each morning, he’s watched me as I put on his makeup.

After that, the hours of each day have marched on like a thousand soldiers with feet of lead. Until he comes for me and we fall into a world consisting only of us. The world where there are no scars, no boundaries, no past and no people. There’s just Rogan and me and the fire that burns between us.

And today is the very last day of it all.

Thursday.

Normally this day of the week is of no consequence to me. The only difference is that it’s near the end of the week when I won’t have to work for two days and I get to watch The Walking Dead in thirty-six more hours. Those are the landmarks of my life.

But this Thursday is different. This Thursday marks the last day I’ll put makeup on Rogan, the last Thursday I’ll wake up in his arms, the last Thursday that I feel a million other things that I don’t want to examine too closely—love; acceptance; to be wanted, cherished, protected.

So it’s with a reverence that I will go about every moment of my short-lived new routine. The next time Thursday rolls around, it won’t feel like this. And Rogan will be gone.

“Wha’cha thinkin’ about?” Rogan asks, curling around me like a hot octopus and pressing his lips to the curve of my neck. “New York?”

He thinks I’m excited. Or nervous. Both of which are true. And I’ll let him think that’s all that I’m feeling.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“Don’t be nervous. Kurt will be there, too. With his calming influence.” His derisive snort makes me smile. A watery smile, but still . . .

I feel him start to roll out of bed to go and tend to his brother, as he’s done every morning. Only this time I reach for him.

His eyes meet mine in the receding dark. I crawl up onto my knees and stare at him for a few seconds, memorizing this moment, this feeling, this man. I stroke my fingertips down his cheek, enjoying every prickle of his early-morning beard against my skin. I don’t ever want to forget what it feels like to touch a star. Not a star in Hollywood, but a star in my otherwise black sky. Bright and warm and oh-so-fleeting.

A tiny frown flickers between Rogan’s dark, glistening eyes. He turns his face and presses his lips to the center of my palm. As always, his kiss kindles a flame, one that, if left unchecked, burns its way into a raging inferno that only he can extinguish. It never dies, though. Not really. It always seems to be waiting there. Glowing embers, just beneath the surface, waiting for him to come along and bring them back to blazing life. Like he brought me to life.

I’m glad that he takes the time to make love to me once more before he goes, but I feel guilty when I see him scurrying about, rushing to get home to his responsibilities. I’m a selfish, selfish woman. Kurt will give him a terrible time if he’s late, I’m sure. But I can’t fully regret him staying with me a little longer. I could never regret a moment spent with him, no matter how awful the consequences.

Hours later, Rogan is there when I push through the doors at work. His smile shows no evidence of a bad morning with his brother. His smile never shows anything other than his easygoing, “take life by the balls” attitude. I’ll miss it. I’ll miss him.

After our normal odd conversation with Mona and her word of the day, I take my time putting makeup on Rogan. I relish the feel of his eyes on me, of his skin beneath my fingertips, of his closeness. And when he’s walking out my door with the tech, I fight back tears.

It’s as I’m cleaning up, preparing for the next person to fill my chair that I get a visit from Victoria. My stomach twists into a resentful knot when I see her. I hope my smile is as coolly polite as always, though.

“So, you enjoying your last day?” she asks.

I frown. “Pardon?”

“Your. Last. Day,” she repeats, barbs in her tone as she enunciates each syllable like English is my second language.

“My last day of what?”

“Being Rogan’s pretend girlfriend.”

“I’m not—” I stop myself. I’m not going to discuss Rogan with this pit-viper of a woman.

“Awww, you’re going to deny it? How nice of you to think that I care, but you can save it. Because I don’t. People like you don’t even register as a blip on my radar.” Her top lip draws back from her teeth, a sneer of disgust that clearly belies the sugar of her words. “I think it’s sweet that he took pity on someone like you, but I don’t want you to think it’ll last. He’ll be back with me before next weekend.” My heart is a sluggish thump behind my ribs as her face suddenly breaks into a blinding smile. “Okay, well, see you Monday.”

She slinks back through my door, turning her nose up to the man she passes. He plays a mafia don on the show and he’s next on my list for the day. He’s older and not very attractive, far beneath her notice, but he’s a nice guy. Too nice to keep company with the likes of her, anyway, even if she wanted to. But I still hate to see her treat him like his importance ranks somewhere just beneath that of gum on the bottom of her shoe.

I smile my same polite, professional, distant smile as he takes the chair and I go about my job. It takes all my concentration to hold my mask in place, a mask that says the dark cloud over my head didn’t just get a little bit darker.

•   •   •

“Did you bring your umbrella?” Rogan asks when the stewardess leaves to fetch our drinks at just after six Thursday evening.

“Yes. I packed it, but are you going to tell me why I’m bringing a polka-dot umbrella to New York when the forecast isn’t even calling for rain?”

Rogan’s lips curve into that lopsided, sexy smile that I love. “Oh, it’ll rain. You’ll see.”

The stewardess returns with two flutes of champagne. “What are we celebrating?” I ask as I inhale the sweet perfume of the bubbly liquid.

Rogan’s smile wanes as he watches me until he glances down at his glass. His expression takes on a hint of sadness. “More time.”

My heart! Oh God, my heart!

I can’t find a smile to give him, so I’m glad that he isn’t looking at me for one. “To more time.”

When he looks up to clink his glass against mine, his temporary melancholy seems to have lifted. He winks and takes a long sip of the delicious fizz.

“Where the hell is Patrice?” Kurt blares from behind us.

“Maybe she, ohhh I don’t know, has a day off now and then. Ya think?” Rogan calls back in sarcastic response.

I grin when I hear his brother mutter, “Asshole.”

“He’s so spoiled. Just a few flights on a private plane and he’s a diva. ‘Where’s Patrice?’ ‘Bring me peanuts!’ ‘Somebody pull this stick out of my ass!’” Rogan mocks in his best, low-key Kurt impression. He seems gratified when I laugh. I know he likes it. He’s said as much.

A man who likes to see me smile and make me laugh. Was it ever possible that I woudn’t fall in love with him?

I think I know the answer to that. Falling for Rogan feels like it was as inevitable as the sun rising or the stars shining.

“So, is this your plane?” I ask.

“Nah. I don’t fly enough to justify one. It’s leased by the agency that represents me. I guess when you’re dumb enough to get in the ring with some of the world’s deadliest fighters in order to make them millions of dollars, they figure the least they can do is give me a comfortable flight.”

“The very least. And do they have someone on board to give you a foot massage, too?”

“Not this flight. I thought if there was any . . . massaging to be done . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and I roll my eyes, even though my stomach does a flip at his insinuation.

“You’re not going to say something about the mile-high club, are you?”

“I wasn’t, but now that you brought it up, I’d love to fill you in on the, ahem, package.”

I smother a laugh, resisting the urge to look back over my shoulder and make sure Kurt isn’t listening.

“I’m sure your brother wouldn’t have anything to say about that at all.”

Rogan scowls, as though he’d forgotten about his brother that quickly. “Damn it.”

“I guess you’ll just have to be on your best behavior today. Just this once.”

Rogan huffs loudly. “Fine. I guess we can watch a movie.” Reaching for my hand, Rogan kisses my knuckles and then looks into my eyes. “You know, of all the informative little tidbits that I so pleasurably dug out of you over the last six weeks, there’s one thing I never asked. What’s your favorite movie?”

“How could you be so remiss?” I gasp in mock horror.

“I was too busy being smitten to think about movies.”

My pulse stutters, but I do my best to ignore it and act natural. “But not too busy to find out what kind of facial hair I prefer on a man?”

“Hey, that’s a legit question. Sometimes I get the urge to grow a goatee. I needed to know where you stand on the matter.”

“Why? It’s not like you were going to be around very long.”

A shadow passes over his face, a mirror of the one that has hovered over my heart all week. More inevitability.

Too many things are inevitable, it seems. Love, loss. Ecstasy, heartbreak. To have, to have not.

“Don’t say things like that. It’s like you’re not even giving us a chance.”

I’m surprised by the snap in his voice.

“It’s not that. It’s just . . .” I trail off, looking down to study my fingernails as I ponder which way to go with this conversation. We both know what’s happening, but maybe we don’t need to discuss it. Maybe we can just pretend. For a little while longer. I quickly decide not to mar what beauty might be left in our last hours and days together. I do my best to recover outwardly. I lean my head back against the plush leather seat back and turn on a bright smile for Rogan. “I’ll give us every possible chance.”

His face relaxes into its normal happy façade. “Good. I didn’t want to have to kidnap you. Now, where was I?” Rogan brings his lips back to my fingers, kissing each fingertip before softly reminding, “Favorite movie?”

God, I wish I could stay in this bubble with him forever, with things exactly as they are right now. Just me in a confined space with Rogan and his wonderful smile, his tender touch.

“Judge Dredd,” I say, deadpan.

Rogan’s reaction is comical. His head jerks up and his face scrunches. “What?”

“Yep. Cinematic genius, that one.”

His mouth hangs open limply as he stares at me like I’ve sprouted horns. “I’ll drop you off in Philly as we pass. I hope you’re good with a parachute.”

I laugh outright. I’ve never even seen Judge Dredd, but now I’m pretty sure I never will. “Fine. How about Gremlins?”

“Philly.”

“Pretty in Pink?”

“Philly.”

“Blade Runner?”

“Good God, when were you born?”

“All right, all right,” I say dropping my gaze. “I guess The Man Without a Face would be my all-time favorite.” When Rogan says nothing for several seconds, I sneak a peek up at him. He’s watching me with a sad smile.

“What’s your second favorite movie?”

I don’t hesitate. “Phenomenon.”

Rogan drops his forehead onto my hand where he still holds it inside his. “You’re killing me! Don’t you like any movies that won’t make me want to flush my head down the airplane toilet?”

I giggle. “You should’ve specified and asked what my favorite movie that you might like would be. Because in that case, I’d probably say World War Z. Rocky. Iron Man. Shall I go on?”

Rogan smiles broadly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He releases my hand to reach for a bag that rests on one of the two deep swivel chairs that face us. The plane is laid out with four captain’s chairs facing a central table and, toward the back, two small sofas on either side of the aisle. Kurt is behind us, stretched out on one of those listening to music, with his wheelchair parked beside him.

Unzipping the bag, Rogan produces nearly every movie I mentioned, except for Pretty in Pink. I wouldn’t expect a guy to have that one, but the fact that he has this many tells me there’s a spy involved. Even though I was joking about them being my absolute favorites, they are the movies that come to mind most often. Well, except for Dredd.

“You cheated,” I tell him, not the least bit angry, but rather touched instead.

“Blame Mona. That girl’s tongue is loose at both ends.”

“This was her idea?”

“No, this was my idea. She loved it, though. At least I guess she did. She acted like she was about to cry when I explained to her why I wanted to know.”

“Yep. That sounds about right.”

“So, what’ll it be?”

I notice that the bag isn’t empty. “What else do you have in there?” I ask, now curious as to what he brought that had nothing to do with me and my loud-mouthed friend.

I reach for the bag and Rogan’s hand flinches, almost as though he was going to prevent me from looking inside, but then changed his mind.

I flip through several war movies. I don’t even have to ask about those. They have Kurt written all over them. It’s the one that rests on the bottom of the pile that intrigues me.

“Who’s this for?” I ask, removing the DVD of Beastly and holding it up for him to see.

Rogan actually looks sheepish, an expression I’ve never seen him wear, which only further piques my curiosity. He clears his throat before he answers. “I, uh, I saw that one night on cable a few weeks back and thought it was a pretty decent romance. I mean, a guy needs to keep on top of shit like this, too, right?” His little grin tells me that he doesn’t expect an answer. “But then when I got to know you . . . especially when you showed me all of you, I went and bought it. I’ve watched it more times than I care to count.”

His eyes flicker to mine and dart away, flicker to mine and dart away.

I swallow hard, not knowing what to make of this association. It’s plain who the beast is in our situation, but I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. I just want our last time together to be perfect, not . . . something less.

I could kick myself for being so nosey.

“Is . . . is this what you think of me?” I try to sound unconcerned, I try to be unconcerned.

Too late. My heart is already breaking.

He looks stricken. “No! God, no! I just thought it was appropriate because we’ve both struggled with our scars. We’ve both felt like the beast. Still do, sometimes. But that doesn’t mean that other people see us that way or that we can’t fall in love or be loved in return because of it. I guess this movie was just, like, proof of that or something.” He shrugs to add an air of nonchalance to his statement. Meanwhile, I’m dumbstruck, my brain circling his reference to love like bees circling a honeycomb.

I don’t know what to say, how to respond. I want to ask questions, but then again I’m afraid that the answers won’t be anywhere near the ones that are making my pulse race and my heart soar right now. Instead, I go with, “Let’s watch this one,” and I hand him Beastly.

One side of Rogan’s mouth pulls up, putting his single dimple on display. “Seriously?” His eyes are a light, happy green, a few shades darker than grass.

“Seriously,” I confirm, forcing the words past the lump of emotion clogging my throat.

I watch as Rogan walks to the front of the cabin and fiddles with some electronics in a well-concealed cabinet and then comes back to sit next to me. A flat screen descends from the ceiling just as the movie begins to play.

We recline our chairs and Rogan leans toward me. I rest my head on his shoulder and we watch Beastly together.

He plays with my fingers the whole time, stopping occasionally to kiss my palm or my wrist, but then he resumes, always touching me. It’s like he realizes how limited our time is and he wants the contact just as much as I do.

So we touch and glance and kiss and enjoy, all in an unspoken agreement to make the most out of what’s left of the “us” that was born in Enchantment and will soon die in New York City. There’s nowhere for it to go. Rogan’s life is in Texas or New York or . . . wherever his fights or his acting gigs might be. And mine is in a tiny town called Enchantment. Our paths crossed for a few magical weeks, but now our trajectories go in opposite directions. His out toward a world that adores him, mine inward, toward the only place I feel comfortable.

Just over two hours later, when we land, I have to fight back tears as Rogan leads me off the plane. I want to turn around and climb back on, to suspend time indefinitely. But I can’t. The end is coming whether I want it to or not.