Tough Enough

by M. Leighton

  “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.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rogan

  I had my agent put Kurt in a different room so that Katie and I would have the entire suite to ourselves. And I’m glad I did, because by the time we walk through the doors, all I can think about is getting her naked.

  As soon as the bellhop sets our bags in the closet, I tip him and practically shove him out the door. When he’s gone, we are surrounded only by absolute quiet and the insatiable chem
istry that fills the space between us.

  I take her hand and softly invite, “Come look at the view.”

  We walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows and I push open the sheer curtains. Spread out before us like a galaxy of twinkling stars is the city that never sleeps. Standing in front of me like a siren of unmatched beauty is the woman who never lets my mind sleep.

  “It looks exactly the same, like time stood still.”

  “I think it’s never looked more beautiful,” I tell her, burying my nose in the exposed side of her neck. She still insists on keeping that one thick wave of hair swept around to cover the other side where her scars are located. “Then again, I’ve never seen it with you standing in front of it.”

  She looks up and back at me, her eyes all wide and sparkly. “You know just what to say.”

  “I only speak the truth.”

  “Your truth makes me . . .” She trails off in a wistful sigh.

  “Makes you what?” I ask, circling her tiny waist with my hands before I run them up under her shirt to cup her breasts.

  “Makes me . . .” She trails off again, this time on a breathless note, her eyes drifting closed as I rub her hard nipples between my fingers.

  I release them to unbutton her top, stepping away from her only long enough to pull it from her shoulders and slip off her bra.

  I knead the firm mounds as I move her forward a few inches. I lean into her, watching her nipples pucker as they near the cool glass of the window and then flatten against it.

  “Can I share you with New York?” I ask, rhythmically pressing into her back so that the glass stimulates her nipples. It frees my hands to slide down her stomach.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice is already raspy and shallow.

  “I want to tease them with what I get to touch, what I get to taste. What they can never have.”

  I ease one hand beyond the loose waistband of her jeans and into the front edge of her panties. I find her slit with my index finger and I slip inside. She’s slippery wet and hot.

  “God, you’re so wet. Is this all for me?” I ask, rubbing my finger in her moisture before leisurely stroking the firm little ridge of her clit.