Tough Enough

by M. Leighton

  I take a deep breath, girding myself for what’s to come. Talking about it almost feels like reliving it. And I’d never want to do that. “He was charming and handsome, wealthy and accomplished. His father was influential. He was all that a girl with stars in her eyes needed to complete the picture. I dove right in, despite the fact that I didn’t really know him. Not really. For a while, it was perfect.”

  When my pause drags on too long, Rogan prompts me. “But that didn’t work out either?”

  I sigh softly, like the sound leaked right out of the never-quite-healed gash in my heart, along with a trickle of blood. Still too fresh. Always too fresh. “No. We moved in together before I found out that he had a temper. And that he wasn’t afraid of what a girl from nowhere might tell others. He knew no one would believe me.”

  Rogan’s voice is steel when he asks, “He put his hands on you?”

  I know he doesn’t mean sexually; he means physically. Abusively.

  I don’t answer. I don’t need to. And he knows that my silence is answer enough.

  “It was worse when he was jealous, which he often was. He didn’t want me to have friends, he hated everyone that I had class with, he didn’t want me acting on Broadway, which I’d had an offer to do. Unfortunately, he expressed all this with few words and a lot of flying fists. And palms. And the occasional kick with his boot or whipping with the mean end of an extension cord.” I don’t glance up at Rogan. I can tell by his posture from the corner of my eye that he is rigid with anger. “When I finally got up enough nerve to leave him, he followed me. I should have known he would. He found me at a friend’s apartment. I’d gone there to stay until I could figure out something else. He waited for me to leave for my night class. Waited until I got in and rolled down my window, like I always used to do. Then he walked right up and threw alcohol at me. Bourbon, I think it was. It hit my left side and splattered down the door and onto the floorboard. I remember looking up at him, wondering what the hell he was doing. I started fumbling, trying to get my window rolled up, but I wasn’t fast enough. I saw him strike the match. His face was almost sad. Almost.”

  I can still feel the fear. I can still smell the alcohol. I can still hear the whoosh of flames erupting all around me.

  “He threw the match through my window before I could roll it up completely. It landed right in my lap. Everything around me went up in flames. It melted most of the hair on my left side. Gave me third-degree burns on my neck and the top of my shoulder. Second-degree burns down my side and on my leg. All the places you saw. That was the end of my acting career.” Even thinking back to that time of my life produces a crushing weight in my chest. “I guess my parents were right after all. And that’s not even the worst part.”

  “How can it be worse?” he asks, his voice a coarse, husky croak.

  “My parents were notified. They’d been on their way home from church that Wednesday night. They didn’t even go home. They drove straight up to New York.” I stop to meet Rogan’s eyes for the first time, but I can’t stand what I see there—a reflection of my own pain—so I look away before I finish. “They were both killed in a car accident on the way. I never even got to tell them I was sorry.”

  My throat is tight with controlled emotion. I haven’t talked to anyone about this in years. It was easier than I thought it would be, but still not easy by any far stretch of the imagination. I lost everything that night, everything that ever meant something to me.

  Rogan says nothing. And that’s good because there’s really nothing to say. I’ve heard all the platitudes from my friends and friends of the family. Yet another reason I moved to the middle of nowhere. I needed to be someone no one knew. I needed to be someone other than this poor girl who’d had such a tragic life. I had to be someone other than the girl who everyone pitied. But I also needed to get away from Calvin. Permanently.

  After a length of silence, I glance up at Rogan, trying my best to smile. “I was in a medically induced coma for three days and in the hospital for twenty-four more. I had surgeries following that. Skin grafts for some of the worst places. But as you can see, there’s no covering something like that except with clothes.”

  “Katie, I’m so—”

  “Please don’t,” I plead. I can’t take his sympathy right now. It would crush me.

  He waits a few seconds before he asks, “What happened to the guy?”

  “Since I was in such bad shape right after, the police ruled it an accident. Found a broken liquor bottle on the floorboard and two full bottles in the passenger seat. Calvin planned it well, made it look like I was heading out to a party or something. The friend that I was staying with had no idea what happened, of course. Turns out the police were going to charge me. I couldn’t believe it. Until I found out why they hadn’t. When I met with the cop who investigated it, he mentioned that my boyfriend’s father had cleared things up for me and that I’d better be thankful that I ‘had connections, young lady,’” I mimic, using my best deep, cop voice. “The whole thing was ridiculous. I knew right then that there would be no point in trying to tell them what really happened. Calvin was protected. When your father is a wealthy, influential politician . . . Well, you know how that goes. I just got tangled up with the wrong guy all the way around.”

  “So that’s it? No justice? That bastard just got off scot-free?” His tone has a hard edge.

  I shrug. The ending to my story is far from perfect, far from even satisfactory, but I came to terms with the unfairness of life a long time ago.

  “Some people have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  There’s a pause during which I can hear Rogan’s controlled breathing. I know he has something to say and I appreciate that he’s not saying it. It won’t help anything to be angry. It didn’t help me at all.

  “At least now I understand,” Rogan finally says, his voice quiet as he sits up and reaches forward to stroke my cheek with his fingertips.

  “Understand what?”

  “Understand why you push people away.”

  “Most people don’t. They don’t get it. But it doesn’t matter. This keeps me safe. Keeps me from getting hurt.”

  “I hope you know that I would never hurt you.”

  My grin is lopsided and humorless. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Only I mean it.”

  “I think Calvin did, too. In his own twisted way. He just wanted something of his own, something no one could take away from him. And that thing was me.”

  “I don’t care what he wanted. There’s never a good enough reason for a man to hurt a woman like that. Never.”

  “I had to stop thinking that way a long time ago,” I say, pulling Rogan’s hand away from my face. I can’t lean on him right now. I can’t accept his strength. I need to be able to relive this and be at peace with it on my own. “I carried a combination of fear and anger and horrible grief with me for two years afterward. My family was dead, my dreams were dead. My present, my future, my hope—everything was gone. I had nothing. Thankfully one of my professors came to visit me at the hospital. She thought maybe one day I’d change my mind about acting. She thought I should at least keep my foot in the door, so she gave me the number of Sebastian, a man she knew in the makeup business. I’m glad she came, because without her and Sebastian, I’d have had no future.

  “So, almost a year after the fire, after rehab and all the surgeries, when I felt and looked almost human again, I called Sebastian. He said my professor had talked me up and that he’d take me on as his apprentice, but only if I could show promise. He flew me out to California for what amounted to an audition. Turns out I had a knack for making ugly things pretty and beautiful things more so. I worked with him for a year and a half before I got the job here with the studio. I moved to Enchantment right away and haven’t looked back since. Until now.”

  “I don’t even know what to say,” Rogan confesses. I see all sorts of tightly controlled emotions on his face, but there’s only one I’m searching
for. It’s why I understood him that day in the makeup room when I first saw his scars.

  “You see why I didn’t pity you when I saw your scars? I knew how you felt. I knew that pity is like acid for people like us. It eats away at what little there is left of our soul. I’d rather someone hate me or think I’m backward and shy and weird than pity me.”

  “I don’t pity you. But I do pity that asshole ex of yours if I ever run into him.”

  I shake my head. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth another second of my misery. I gave him too much already.”

  “Sometimes we don’t give it. Sometimes people take it when we aren’t looking. It’s like they rip it out and by the time we realize it, the damage is done.”

  “Is that how you feel about your father?”

  “In a way. It’s like we were an okay family, and then, before I even knew that we were broken, he’d already stolen something from me. Something I couldn’t get back.” He looks off into the distance behind my shoulder, lost in time, falling silent for several seconds before he turns his eyes back to mine. “The thing is, we can still survive. Even if pieces are scarred. Or dead. Or even missing. We can still survive. We can still live.”

  I glance down at my fingers where they fidget in my lap, clasping and unclasping, clasping and unclasping. “I’m not sure I’ll ever really live again. I feel like the star of a fairy tale that went wrong. So, so wrong. Like Beauty turned into the beast. In the blink of an eye. So much more than just my skin died in the fire that day. I lost everything.”

  “Katie, look at me,” Rogan insists, his finger tipping my face up toward his. “You’re not a beast. You’re still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Your scars don’t change that. The problem is, you won’t take my word for it. You don’t believe it. And unfortunately, I can’t make you see it. You have to find it in the mirror, and you need to. You survived, but now you need to live. Because when you aren’t living, you’re dying a little more every day.”

  I feel my chin begin to tremble against his finger. “I’m trying. This . . . you are the closest I’ve come to living in a long time.”

  “Then let me bring you back to life,” he whispers, brushing his lips over mine in a kiss even softer than his words. “Inch by inch, day by day, touch by touch.” I close my eyes and let him soothe away the worry, the fear, the ash that I’ve carried in a bucket where my heart used to be. “Will you? Will you let me?” My eyelashes flutter up to find his jewel-like green eyes staring intensely down into mine. “Please,” he breathes. I more see the word on his mouth rather than hear it.

  The Katie I’ve fashioned from the remains of who I used to be hesitates, but within seconds, the lonely shell of the girl I was sighs into Rogan’s descending mouth. “Okay,” I manage and then his kiss turns into fire.

  • • •

  Monday. It’s incredible what a difference a couple of days makes. I can’t remember a better weekend. Ever. Granted, it had a few rough patches, but the good more than made up for the bad. Even as a child, when practically every day was loaded with some kind of happy memory of my parents, I can’t remember feeling so whole and optimistic. It almost worries me, like I should be waiting for the world to cave in around me and demolish the little glimmer of hope I’m beginning to glimpse.

  I don’t know what kind of future Rogan and I could have, if any, but just the prospect, just the consideration of a tomorrow with someone is a huge step for me. I truly thought I was going to be alone. Forever.

  There’s a hitch in my step as I walk through the door to work. Nearly every morning since I’ve been here I’ve run into Ronnie first thing. We share our little ritualistic greeting and then go on with our day. Only today, things are different. And not just because of Rogan.

  My carefree, happy morning just took a stressful turn as my eyes scan the hall for Ronnie. I don’t see him anywhere.

  But who I do see is Rogan.

  My lips twitch up into a small, relieved smile when I spot his tall physique. He’s clad in the rattiest jeans I’ve ever seen, along with black boots, a black tee, and a wicked grin that makes me blush. He didn’t leave my house until almost dawn. Said he wanted to be there when his brother got up so he could fix their breakfast, as was his habit. Of course I didn’t argue, even though I was loath to see him go. Much more than I would’ve expected when we’ve only really known each other for a few weeks. That alone should be a warning sign.

  His sparkling green eyes watch my every step until I stop in front of him. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he drawls.

  Butterflies beat their gossamer wings against the walls of my stomach, of my chest. I forgot what this feels like—this intimate feeling of knowing someone, of being close to them in a way that binds you, that turns every glance, every smile, every brush of the hand to delicious innuendo. To carefully controlled passion, biding its time until it can be unleashed.

  I’m reveling in the moment, in the sensation, right up until Rogan begins to lean toward me. It shakes me from my fantasy world and I take a step back, glancing left and right.

  I clear my throat, meeting his frown with another smile. “Good morning.” When the wrinkle between his eyes deepens to a trench, I continue. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I glance around again to make sure no one is watching or listening. “I’m positive. I usually run into Ronnie first thing in the morning.”

  Rogan’s skeptical frown disappears in a blaze of fury that burns across his handsome features. “That asshole knows better than to get near you. He won’t look at you, talk to you, talk about you ever again. Hell, he’d better not even mention your name if he knows what’s good for him.”

  My grin widens. God, I love that he’s protective. It’s so nice to feel like someone cares, like someone is caring for me. I haven’t felt like that since the accident when my parents died. “Even though I couldn’t let you do anything to him, I love the sentiment.”

  “I love that you think you could stop me.”

  That gives me pause. “It would make things hard for me here. At work. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  I can see that he does, but he doesn’t like it. “Yeah. I get it. But still, he’d better be very careful.” As his anger dissipates, I see his eyes narrow. “Is that why you’re keeping your distance? Because of work?” Reluctantly, I nod. He drops his voice in response. “Because it seems that just a few hours ago, we were about as close as two people are able to get. Chest to chest, belly to belly, my co—”

  I clear my throat very loudly, interrupting him even as my cheeks blaze with color and heat. “So, you’re early again, Mr. Rogan. You must be a morning person.” I feel all flustered now. In the best possible, albeit most disconcerting, way.

  “Oh, I’m very much a morning person.” His wink reminds me of how he left me in the wee hours—sated, boneless, with the imprint of his body still fresh and warm on mine. Yes, he’s definitely a morning person. And a night person. And a noon person.

  I widen my eyes, a silent plea for him to stop his suggestive teasing, but all the while my lips are trembling. It’s a struggle to suppress the girlishly delighted giggle dying to get out.

  “What’s the matter, Beautiful Katie?” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear. “You look flushed. Dirty mind?”

  Oh God! Dirty mind, indeed.

  With a slight shake of my head and a tightly controlled smile, I make my way around Rogan, who falls into step beside me. I can feel his masculine gloat hitting me like waves of heat, causing my skin to feel dewy and hot from head to toe.

  Rogan starts to whistle. It’s a happy sound from a happy man. Or at least he seems to be happy. There’s a glimmer to his eyes, and they want to crinkle at the corners, like he has a secret. Or maybe a wink on deck. And that makes me happy. I shouldn’t care about his state of contentment. But I do. I feel so good that it would seem far less “good” if he weren’t good, too. But he seems good. We bo
th seem good. And that is very good.

  Although I keep my attention focused straight ahead, I’m aware of the sidelong glances we are getting as we make our way along the hall to my little cubby. I’m not at all surprised when I walk through the door to find Mona standing in the center of the room, arms crossed over her ample chest, toe tapping in agitation. She looks like a stripper dressed in school-teacher attire. She’s wearing a pencil-slim black skirt and a white blouse that’s at least two sizes too small. Her long legs are encased in fishnets and her feet in stilettos. All she needs is a riding crop, some smart glasses and hair that’s piled messily on top of her head so she can whip it down dramatically.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in her petulant expression and rigid posture.

  “I’m feeling very disenfranchised,” she explains.

  I glance over at Rogan, who’s already smiling and shaking his head.

  “Word of the day?”

  She cracks a grin. “Yeah, why? Did I use it wrong?”

  “Depends on what you were trying to say,” I tell her as I walk past her to lay my purse on the counter. I turn back to her, feeling both pleased and nervous when Rogan comes to stand beside me, leaning his tall body against the counter next to me and crossing his arms and ankles. I can literally feel the warmth from his body. It teases me, beckoning me closer. I plant my feet and make a point to stand up straight, not giving in.

  Mona’s eyes are narrow now as she looks back and forth between Rogan and me. I can see the wheels of her romance book–polluted mind going a mile a minute. Finally, her posture eases and her face lights up with glee. She taps the tips of her fingers together in a tiny clap.

  “Eeeeeee,” she squeals in a hushed voice. “Okay, I’m not mad anymore.”

  She knows. I don’t even have to ask about her reaction. I know how to interpret it. It’s nothing that I really want to talk about with her, though, especially not in front of Rogan, so I steer the conversation elsewhere. “If that’s what you were trying to say, then yes, you used the word wrong.”