by M. Leighton
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.
When Rogan tilts his head to one side, deepening the kiss, I wind my arms around his neck and dive in with him, letting go with an abandon that I haven’t felt in years. I part my lips and he enters my mouth with one long lick and a groan that vibrates along my tongue.
With one big hand cupping the back of my head, he slides the other down my back to curl around my waist and hold me to him. I feel every sharp ridge and every hard plane of his body, pressing against mine from nipple to knee, and something inside me melts.
I ease my restless fingers into Rogan’s short, spiky hair. It’s soft and silky, yet prickly enough to tease my palms. When I run my tongue along the side of his, Rogan moves both hands up to cup my face, pulling his mouth away from mine and staring down into my eyes for long, toe-curling seconds.
“God, how you make me want,” he growls, tipping my chin up with his thumbs, holding me still for his delicious torture. “To taste,” he says, licking and sucking at my lips. “To feel.” His fingers thread into my hair, pushing it over my shoulders and moving it away from my neck. I tip my head slightly to the left, exposing only the right side. He strokes the pads of his fingers down my throat, stopping at the edge of my shirt to dip them just inside. Chills radiate from his touch like flame, scorching the skin of my chest and making my breasts throb. “I want to know all your secrets. To strip you down. Lay you bare. Just for me.” His lips trail from the corner of my mouth, across my cheek to my ear. “Would you like that?” he whispers, his hot breath teasing the shell.
His words . . . God! They’re so tempting. He’s so tempting. I’d
give anything to be able to just let go and be with him. No worries, no insecurities, just wet kisses and sweaty skin. But he has no idea what he’d be exposing, what he’d be baring if I let him strip me. Because if he did, he wouldn’t want me at all.
“You don’t want to do that,” I mumble, wishing I didn’t have to think or fear or know.
“Darlin’, if you could see inside my head, you wouldn’t doubt it. You’d see. You’d see just how much I do want to do that.”
“Not everyone is Hollywood perfect.”
At that, Rogan stills. With his lips pressed to my pulse and his palm pressed to the swell of my breast, he stops for a second and then raises his head. “There’s no such thing as perfect. Everyone has flaws.”
I’m glad he can’t see the sad smile I offer. “Some worse than others.”
Rogan brings his hands back to my face, his thumbs drawing soothing arcs over my cheekbones. “Show me your worst. It won’t matter. I’ll want you anyway.”
Lies. He can’t possibly know that. Because he can’t possibly know me.
Reality rushes in and the spell is broken. All too soon, I’m reminded that this was just one moment in time. Perfect yet fleeting, which is all it can ever be for someone like me. In the harsh light of actuality, nothing has changed. Not from today or yesterday or two weeks ago. Rogan is still a star and I’m still a ruin.
I take a step back, lowering my face and pulling my hair back around to its customary place, hiding behind the thick wave like I’ve done for so long. “Well, I guess I’d better get going. I think you’ve got this scene mastered.”
Although he lets me go, Rogan is still too close for my peace of mind. When he speaks, I can smell his sweet breath, a mixture of wine and something that’s just Rogan. “I’ll let you go. For tonight. I think I could still use a little more help, though. I can’t screw it up again Monday. One more night oughta do it. Two at the most.” Even in the dark, I can see the white glint of his teeth between his spread lips.
Holy crap, that smile! It starts back to work immediately, weakening my resolve.
“What if I have plans?”
“Do you?”
I hedge. I’m always hedging with him, it seems. “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll let you know.” It’s getting harder and harder to say no to him, so I stall until I can. Until I’ve been away from him long enough for my brain to clear. Until I can think past the fog of his closeness.
“Just give me a call. Or come by. I’ll be here. Waiting.”
My lips want to smile. My blood wants to sing. My heart wants to soar. But there, in the background, is dread. And sadness. That’s why I can’t let him see how I feel. No one else can know that, least of all Rogan.
I give him a nod and take another step back, hiding. I’m always hiding.
“Now, for the return ride on the Death Machine,” I say, hoping to put things on a more casual level.
Rogan laughs. “It’s better you think of it that way.”
“Why?” I ask. I’d rather talk than focus on the way it feels when he takes my hand to lead me inside, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Because you’d blush a thousand shades of red if you knew how I see it. With you on the back. Those legs of yours wrapped around my waist . . . I call it something else.”
Heat rushes to my core. His words, the sexy lilt to his voice, the picture that he paints . . . I can fill in the blanks. All too clearly.
“Maybe you should’ve picked me up in the minivan, then.”
“You don’t even want to know what I’ve thought of doing to you in that back of that thing.”
I feel my mouth twitch in amusement. “Is that all you think about?”
“No.” He stops to look down at me, his sparkling green eyes luring me in again. “I think about the way your eyes start to look haunted when you think no one is watching. I think about the way you try not to smile when someone is watching. I think about the way you lick the corner of your mouth when you concentrate and how you lose yourself in your work.”
“What?” Knowing that he watches me that closely makes me nervous, but it also makes me feel like laughing. And singing. And twirling.
“You think I don’t see you, don’t you? But I do. I see you. I could watch you and see you all day and never get tired of it.”
“You’d be bored in no time.” I laugh. It bubbles out before I can stop it. It warms me all the way to my toes to know that he pays such close attention to my mannerisms, to my habits. To me. “What else?”
“I think about the way you try to disappear. And how much I don’t want you to.”
As if giving credence to his words, I duck my chin and reach for my hair, teasing the edges, drawing solace from its presence like a reassuring talisman.
Rogan’s sigh is so slight I almost don’t hear it. But I feel it, like the empty space in a dark room. You can’t see that it’s there, but you can somehow feel it. “Will you ever let me in?”
As though he knows what my response will be, Rogan shakes his head and pulls me forward again, tugging me through the glass doors into the living room, walking me silently back out to his motorcycle.
EIGHTEEN
Rogan
I’ve got a rip-roaring case of blue balls. I took a shower after I dropped Katie off. Got all hot and soapy, thought about that lush little body of hers and how she pressed her tits to my chest when I kissed her. Thought I’d remove the poisons from the building, if you know what I mean. No dice. I get the feeling only one thing’s gonna take care of my . . . problem. And I’m far from cracking that nut.
Shit.
I hit the pulse button on the blender, gritting my teeth as if I’m actually pulverizing the fruits, vegetables and whey. When the mixture is nothing more than a foul-looking goop, I pour it into a glass and start chugging.
“Did you save any for me, asshole?”
Kurt.
I’m not in the mood for his attitude this morning.
“There’s a little left,” I reply mildly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Help yourself.” I can’t bring myself to baby his belligerent ass this morning.
“You don’t have to be a dick,” he snips, grazing my hand with his shoulder as he wheels by me.
“I wasn’t being a dick. That’s your thing, not mine.”
Rather than jerking around toward me, ready to fight, Kurt turns a smug look my way. “Katie didn’t seem to mind.”
“What the hell was that, by the way?”
I’m glad he brought it up so I didn’t have to.
“What do you mean? Does it bother you that she flirted with your crippled younger brother?”
“She didn’t flirt with you, dude. She was just being nice. That’s the way she is.”
Although I’m nonchalant about his claim, a stab of jealousy rockets through me. Katie did seem more natural, more relaxed, even smiled more when she interacted with Kurt. That shouldn’t piss me off. I mean, he is my crippled brother. I should be happy for him if he could find someone to love and to love him.
Just not Katie.
Evidently I’m not that good of a person. At least not where she’s concerned.
“Keep telling yourself that, man.” Kurt clucks, smacking the side of the blender to get out the last of the smoothie. I could help him. But I don’t. Because, like all Rogan men, sometimes I can be an asshole.
I take a swim after my workout, pushing myself harder than usual. There’s a bug up my ass and I’m determined to drown it in endorphins. Unfortunately, they’re not even strong enough to do the trick. After a shower and lunch, I’m still antsy. I’ve glanced at the clock a hundred times. The minutes aren’t passing swiftly enough. What I really want is to see Katie. Only she hasn’t called.
I thought of surprising her this morning. I considered it again this afternoon, but I know I can’t push her. She’s obviously had some kind of bad experience, likely with a guy, that’s made her gun-shy, and the worst possible thing I coul
d do is press her too hard, too fast. But it’s frustrating as shit to go so slow when I find myself thinking about her all the time, wondering what she’s thinking and what I could do or say to make her smile.
I’ve never met someone who I had to work for. Hell, I’ve never wanted to.
Until now.
Until Katie.
There’s just something about her. As vague and stupid as that sounds, there is. Of course I want to kiss her and peel her prim clothes off to see every inch of her satin skin. Who wouldn’t? But I find myself in the unusual place of wanting to get inside her head, too. To find out what scares her and to protect her from it, to do everything I can to take away that wary, distrustful look she carries around so often.
But to do that, I’ll have to go at her pace, which is slower than any snail in the history of time.
I glance at my watch again. Maybe she’ll show up at my door in another hour or so to rehearse again tonight. I left the invitation open. And if she doesn’t, then I’m going to find her. Slow is one thing, but I have to see her tonight. I have to.
Frustrated and full of restless energy, I head back to the pool for more swimming. I have to stay busy or else I’ll be on my bike, heading across town, and I damn well know it.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when I’m sitting on the edge of the pool letting my shorts dry. That’s when I hear the doorbell.
My smile is immediate. She came.
I leap up and head back through the house, calling out to Kurt in case he heard it, too. “I got it!”
No answer. He’s probably wearing his headset, gaming with someone online. Even better. He can stay the hell in there all night. That would suit me just fine. I want Katie all to myself.
I yank open the door without even looking through the glass on either side of the big double wooden panel. I’m not at all pleasantly surprised when I find Rayelle standing in front of me, looking hot in a tank dress that reveals a crazy amount of cleavage and barely covers her ass at the bottom. Yeah, she looks good, but I much prefer Katie’s natural, relaxed beauty to this.