by M. Leighton
At a few minutes before ten, I’m already brushed and washed and lying in bed with one of Mona’s books. I refuse to consider why I picked up another of her silly romance stories tonight of all nights. I also refuse to consider why, when I hear a door slam outside, I think for just a fraction of a second that it might be Kiefer Rogan. And that a guy like him might actually be interested in a girl like me.
I ignore the niggle of disappointment and remind myself that I’m better off without men like that in my life—the kind who love beauty and glamour, the kind who gravitate toward the kind of girl that I used to be. That got me nothing but trouble and pain and regret, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. No, I’m better off by myself and I’ll do well to remember that.
Why, after all this time, I’d let a guy like Kiefer Rogan get under my skin is strange, yes, but I have to keep it in perspective. Not let him get inside my head with his killer smile and charming wink. Letting him in would be a disaster, plain and simple.
I snap the book shut with a definitive thud, glaring at the beautiful laughing couple on the cover. Life isn’t a romantic comedy. It’s more of a light Shakespearean tragedy. Or a cruel joke. At least that’s been my experience.
EIGHT
Rogan
Because Enchantment, Georgia, is a small town—like such a small town that the one restaurant it boasts is actually a diner—the studio had some more . . . luxurious houses built for their stars. They’re designed to be leased on a very temporary basis, meant mostly for those who don’t like living out of their trailer or don’t want to travel back to their real homes on the weekends and between shoots. The place I leased from them for six weeks is perfect for my purposes, mainly because Kurt, my younger brother, has certain living requirements that make trailer, hotel or apartment residences nearly impossible to navigate with his wheelchair.
I’m still surprised that he wanted to come down here with me. He doesn’t like getting out of his element much and, as shitty as it sounds, I was sort of counting on that to keep him at home.
But it didn’t.
Maybe he needed a break from home, too.
For Kurt, home is Texas. He’s comfortable there, but I never will be. Once I left the town I was born in, I didn’t plan to return. Ever. Too many bad memories. I thought my brother and I had both managed to escape when we enlisted in the military. I thought we’d both have a better life. Him not worrying about Dad, me not having to worry about either of them. But when Kurt got hurt, I was all he had. I gave up my career in the military, the family I’d made there, so I could come home and take care of him. I went back to fighting because other than Delta Five, my covert ops team, it was all I knew. It’s what I had to do. Kind of like coming back to Texas to take care of my brother.
I had to put down roots for Kurt’s sake, and Texas is where he wanted to be, so Texas it was. I ended up going all the way around the world only to end up back in the same shitty memories I had just barely managed to escape. Between that and Kurt’s assholery and feeling trapped in a life not entirely of my making, I was sort of looking forward to this gig as a breather, even though I felt guilty as hell for looking at it that way. But that didn’t work out as I’d hoped. Now it’s just the same shit with different scenery. There’s just no avoiding obligation sometimes.
I would feel a lot more thwarted by the whole setup if it weren’t for the lovely and intriguing Katie. She is proving to be a very welcome, very effective distraction. She was the last thing I was expecting. I’m not complaining, though. Just the thought of her brings a smile to my face. In a world of one-dimensional (albeit gorgeous) robots, she’s a breath of fresh air. And it’s looking more and more like that’s just what I needed.
“Where the hell have you been? I thought you were done shooting at six, Keefie,” Kurt snaps from just inside the doorway, bringing my attention back to my current predicament—I’m late.
I take in his posture—spine straight, shoulders squared, arms crossed—and the fact that he called me Keefie—something my father used to do that he knows I hate—and I know he’s furious. Ready to fight. I don’t even need to look at the hard set of his jaw or the angry green eyes so like my own to see it. But I do. And I’m struck for about the millionth time by how sad it is to see such bitterness etched into such a handsome kid’s face. I know I’m responsible for at least part of it. He was angry with me long before he lost the ability to walk.
I keep my reply calm and level. “I left you a voice mail. Didn’t you check your messages when you got up?”
If anything, he gets even madder. “Why the hell would I? Is it too much to expect that my brother might keep his word and be home when he says he’ll be home? Jesus! It’s not enough that I lose my legs in Afghanistan, but now I have to hold your hand like a damn kid who can’t remember to wipe his ass.”
I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. Not from activity. I can take a beating inside the ring and not feel this shitty. No, this is purely emotional. Spending very much time with Kurt just drains me.
“I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do about it. One of the producers wanted me to have drinks with some of the regular cast. Sort of an introduction. I couldn’t really leave without looking like a shitheel.”
“Boo hoo! What a pissy life you have, with your money and your fame and your legs. Tell that shit to somebody who gives a damn about your selfish ass.”
With that, my brother grips one wheel, spins around and speeds off down the long hall that leads to his bedroom. I gave him the big master suite, which is on the main level, while I took one of the smaller bedrooms upstairs. I’d sleep on the roof if it put some distance between us. When he gets like this, he’ll seek me out ten times before I go to bed just to fight. But only if he can get to me.
Another pang of guilt streaks through me. He’s had a tough life and I feel like a bastard for getting frustrated with his attitude. Kurt isn’t one of those guys who came back from Afghanistan wounded yet thankful to be alive. No, he came back with a chip on his shoulder the size of a Boeing 757. In the three years that he’s been living with me, I’ve heard at least a thousand times how he can never catch a break and, honestly, I can see why he thinks that. He first had to deal with the world’s biggest asshole for a father, who he escaped by enlisting, only to get wounded in a foreign land. I guess he has a few good reasons to be bitter. But damn! It sure is hard to listen to it day in and day out.
With a sigh, I make my way back to his bedroom. I can hear the sounds of Call of Duty peppering its gunfire through the crack in the not-quite-closed door.
I knock. No response. I knock louder. Still no response. I knock a third time, adding a very congenial, “Hey, man, can I come in?”
All noise ceases when he pauses the game. I know he heard me; he’s just making me sweat. Kurt is never one to let an opportunity to punish me pass by. He pouts until he gets what he wants, which is essentially a nonspecific assurance that the entire world does, in fact, revolve around him.
He barks his acknowledgment of me a good minute and a half later. “What?”
“Look, bro, I should’ve called again instead of leaving a message. And if I couldn’t get you, I should’ve just told them I had to get home to my brother.” Another pang of guilt as I push the one button I know will get him off my back for a few minutes—his pride. He hates that he needs help, that he needs someone to take care of him.
Kurt spins around in his gaming chair, legs dangling limply in front of him, toes dragging lifelessly along the hardwoods. “Is that what gets you off, dickhole? Humiliating your poor crippled brother and using him as an excuse to get out of shit you’re not man enough to get out of on your own?”
“So let me get this straight. Telling the truth makes me a dickhole. Not blowing off the people who are paying me to be here makes me selfish. Damn, dude, what do you want me to do, then?”
His lean face is red with barely suppressed rage. I know the second I scored the winning point. His lips t
hin and his eyes narrow before he spins back around to face the television.
“Whatever, asshole. Just try to keep your word a few times before I’m dead.”
I shake my head and back out of his room, closing the door behind me. That’s as good as it’s going to get for a while, so I’ll leave that comment alone.
As I walk back down the hall, my gut burns, like my tactics were acid and I just swallowed a huge gulp. I knew I’d feel like shit about using his pride (which was just about the only thing left untouched by his ordeal) against him, but my brother really needs to take his head out of his ass every once in a while. Sometimes things can get ridiculous. I mean, all this over me being a couple hours late? When I left him a message to tell him so?
Seriously?
I grab a premium beer from the fully stocked premium fridge and stand in the kitchen as I down the first one. My phone rings before I can finish. It’s Jasper, one of the men who feel more like my family than my own flesh and blood does sometimes.
“Missing me already?” I ask, hoping this is a social call, but pretty sure that it’s not.
“You’re not pretty enough for me. Now Tag on the other hand . . .”
I laugh. Tag is the lady-killer of the four of us.
Three, I remind myself. Reid, our fourth brother-in-arms, was killed not too long ago. Someone knew his location and led a mercenary right to him. Our commander, Colonel Denton Harper, is still trying to figure out why he was killed and by whom. It’s very likely it had to do with one of the government covert operations we executed, but until the Colonel tracks down some answers, we are all in danger. For that reason alone, I suppose it’s a good thing Kurt came with me to Enchantment. We couldn’t be any better hidden if I’d handpicked a place for us to go. We’re in the middle of nowhere in a town the size of my thumbnail. A stranger would stick out like a sore thumb here.
“I’ll be sure to pass along your admiration when I see him.” Tag works a vineyard on the side of a mountain not far from here. I’m sure we’ll get together at some point.
“Just calling to say that I got a new lead. Turned it in to the Colonel. Hope it gets us something.”
“Me, too, man. You heading back to the states?”
“Uhhh, not yet. It’s not safe yet and there’s . . . Well, I’ll fill you in later. But no, I’m not coming back yet. Hopefully it won’t be long before I do, though.”
“Sounds good, J. Until then, watch your back.”
“Watch yours,” he warns.
“We’ll get this bastard.”
“Yes. We will.”
I hear death in his voice. I’ve heard it before. We all have. We’ve all done things we’ll probably never be able to talk about, but Jasper . . . he had demons that were riding him before we knew each other. I guess we all did, but his . . . Well, he’s the most tortured of us. The deadliest, too. But he’s my family and I’d trust him with my life. We all would. We all are. He’s the one most actively searching for the person responsible for Reid and his mother’s death. “Later, Ro.”
“Later, man.”
He hangs up with a click and I grab another beer before I head upstairs to go over tomorrow’s script and then turn in. Jasper and the traitor are very much on my mind. To distract myself, I think of Katie . . . maybe a bit too much. After an hour, I’ve looked at the same page a dozen times and retained exactly none of it. I have, however, managed to successfully recall every minute detail about the sexy-as-hell makeup artist. When I wake up just after three a.m., it’s with my hard dick in my hand and an auburn-haired beauty on my mind. That’s the first time I realize that I might damn well be in trouble.
NINE
Katie
I woke up feeling determined, determined to remain calmly unaffected by Kiefer Rogan. He’s just a man, probably a total jerk when he’s not trying so hard to be charming.
Total jerk, I say to myself over and over again as I make my way down the hall. I’m halfway to my door when I pull my mind back to the present enough to notice that my coworking cohort is missing from my walk. Mona gets in before I do and usually she is filling my ears with all manner of gossip, romantic elation or relationship heartbreak by now. Only this morning she’s not.
And when I get to my “office” I see why.
There, leaning up against my makeup table, gawking at Kiefer Rogan, is Mona. I don’t know which part of the scene shocks me more—Mona gawking or Rogan beating me to work. Again.
I pause in the doorway. “G-good morning,” I offer the room at large.
Both Rogan and Mona turn to look at me. Mona is wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. I wonder if I should be concerned that her face might split right down the middle. “Kitty!” she screeches gleefully.
Rogan is wearing damp hair, a tight white shirt and a lopsided grin that makes my insides turn more somersaults than an Olympic gymnast. Holy monkeys, is he hot!
Total jerk, total jerk, total jerk, I remind myself to cool my bubbling insides.
I offer a politely unaffected smile to both occupants of the room, ignoring the fact that Mona is practically vibrating with excitement. I assume it’s because of his close (and very handsome) proximity until I see her eyes continually dart to his hand.
That’s when I start to get suspicious that something’s up and that Mona’s zeal might not be entirely due to Rogan’s nearness.
I narrow my eyes on first Mona and then Rogan. Before I can ask any questions, however, Rogan stretches out his hand. In it is a coffee cup.
“Extra hot, extra cream,” he says simply, his eyes shimmering with charm and his grin glistening with sincerity.
I feel the frown furrow my brow. “Thank you,” I mutter, reaching for the coffee.
“Aren’t you going to ask how he knew you liked it that way?”
I glance up at Mona. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite this . . . animated. If a person can look like a squeal sounds, then that’s what Mona looks like. “I assume he heard you announce it yesterday when you brought me some.”
She looks a little crestfallen because I guessed it, but it does little to dull her enthusiasm.
“And he remembered,” she adds.
“So he did,” I reply, at a loss as to what else to say. It shouldn’t be any big deal that the guy overheard something and was able to retain it overnight, right? I mean, why is Mona so excited?
As for me, I’m immediately suspicious. Why is Rogan being so nice to me? Why is he working so hard to hide “total jerk” from me? Because I know it’s in there. It has to be, right? He is that guy, isn’t he?
And what could he possibly gain by deceiving me? It’s not like I’m some great prize or anything.
Rogan’s gravelly drawl breaks into my introspection. “Impressed yet?”
My befuddlement overshadows his flirtatious question and I blurt what’s on my mind, which I never do. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Rogan doesn’t answer right away. We just stare at each other as his smile dies, replaced by a puzzled expression of his own. “Honestly, I don’t know. There’s just something about you that . . . I don’t know. Makes me want to see you smile, I guess.”
Ruthlessly, I ignore the flutter in my stomach and push past it with rationale. Letting feelings get the better of me will only end in disaster.
“But why? Why me?”
Rogan’s emerald eyes hold mine firmly, his brow now creased with a frown of his own. “I’ve been asking myself that since yesterday,” he admits quietly.
“Well, at least you’re honest,” I mutter on a sigh, not intending to say the words aloud.
“I’m always honest.”
Although his words are sincere, there’s no reason for me to believe them. But, strangely, I do. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.
For a moment, it seems Rogan and I are alone in the room, immersed in a strange moment of truth and self-awareness. He nods to me, I nod to him and somewhere, deep down, I feel a small part of my inner hardness soft
en ever so slightly.
• • •
Coming to work the next day feels different. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened. In fact, my morning has gone like every other morning before it, almost down to the greeting I get from Ronnie, one of the set designers, as he enters the building a few seconds behind me.
“Looking sweet this morning, Katie,” he calls out to me. I turn toward the familiar voice and the familiar redheaded thirtysomething guy, waving and smiling my reply, just like always.
But today feels different. I don’t know why, but I suspect that it has something to do with my first client and the way my stomach is curled with anticipation. I do worry about that, but worrying doesn’t seem to change it. Neither do all the reiterations of how bad a guy like Rogan could be for me. Nothing seems to be able to penetrate the dangerous spell he’s so effortlessly weaving over me. I’m fighting it, but still I find myself looking forward to seeing him. And that’s not a good place to be. Not for me, anyway.
Today, I’m not surprised when Mona doesn’t greet me as she usually does. I have a feeling I know exactly where to find her.
Just before I turn the corner to walk into my “office,” I smooth my hair into its neat wave that flows over my left shoulder, concealing the side of my neck. I straighten my shirt and pull a cat hair from my sleeve, and my hand stops dead as I let it drift from my fingertips into the subtle air current passing by.
I’m primping. Preening. And that’s not like me either. I mean, I try to look nice and decent every day, but today . . . today I want to be attractive again. I didn’t really realize it until just now. And that worries me.
It’s that worry that I carry through the doorway and into my office. I’m wearing it like a shield, but still, it’s unable to stop the arrow of attraction that strikes me when I see Rogan sitting in my makeup chair, chatting amicably with my friend.
How can he do this to me? And how can I let him?