Tough Enough

by M. Leighton

  His eyes search mine. For what, I don’t know. But he must find it because his expression relaxes back into the subdued mask he was wearing earlier.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about them?”

  I don’t have to inquire what “them” he means. He’s referring to the scars. “No.”

  “Most people don’t notice, but those who have assume they’re the result of my fights. Like you did at first.” He pauses, scrutinizing me like he can see right into my soul. “But you don’t now, do you?”

  Reluctantly, I shake my head.

  Before he can say anything more, a shadow darkens the door behind him. I glance up just as one of the techs announces that she’s here for Rogan. “Stage Four is ready.”

  “Just a sec,” I reply, avoiding Rogan’s eyes as I quickly dab some makeup on two more round places that dot his ribs just under his left pectoral. Except for the one around his shoulder blade, these scars, just like all the others, are so pale they’re barely noticeable. And I’m sure Rogan likes it that way. And I envy his body’s ability to naturally conceal things that might otherwise cause him discomfort. My body saw no such need to help me out. What’s wrong with me is impossible to miss if I don’t take measures to hide it.

  When I finish, I steal a glance back up at Rogan’s face. He’s watching me again, only this time with an odd expression marring his otherwise perfect visage. When he leans close to me, he does it quickly as he stands so that I have little chance to move away. His lips graze the shell of my ear as he speaks. “Whatever I did last night, I’m sorry.”

  And with that, he swipes up his shirt and follows the tech right out my door.

  SIXTEEN

  Rogan

  “Cut! Let’s try this again. Right from ‘You wanted it.’”

  I grit my teeth. Why the hell can’t I get this right?

  The answer to that question is a word. A single word. Or rather a name.

  Katie. Sweet, beautiful, intriguing Katie. Katie with a dash of fire that she keeps as close as the hair around her neck. Katie with lips that taste like the wine we never got to drink. Katie with the eyes that push me away and then beg me to stay. That Katie.

  I push her out of my mind and smile at the tall redhead across from me, the one with whom my onscreen relationship is heating up. She watches me with her appreciative gray eyes, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she stares up at me. She’s made her interest in me known. I’ve been polite in my disinterest. She’s all but ignored it. Obviously, she’s not the type to give up.

  Her attention doesn’t bother me. Her titillating teases don’t faze me. I’m not tempted. I’m just . . . distracted.

  I just keep smiling, unaffected, as I run the lines through my head again. When I can recite them perfectly in the silence, I nod back at the director. My mind is clear and focused. I’m ready.

  I roll my head on my shoulders, trying to regain my usual level of concentration. That’s when I see her. She draws my eye like a bright flash of light, only there’s no flash, no light. Just her.

  I’ve never seen her come out to watch filming before. And wouldn’t you know that today, of all days, she’d show up. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I’m having enough trouble keeping my head in the game as it is. She certainly isn’t going to help that.

  “Rogan?” Rayelle, the redhead, leans left, putting her face in my line of sight, making it a nonissue for me to look away from Katie.

  I grit my teeth again, something I’ve done all day, something that has given me one helluva headache, and I nod once more.

  “Take fourteen. Action!”

  The instant Tony, the director, says ‘action,’ the words just leave me. Again. My eyes flicker to Katie. On her face is a blank mask. She’s neither excited nor blasé, neither interested nor disinterested. She’s simply here. Watching. I’m beginning to know her well enough to guess that something is going on just beneath the surface, though. It didn’t take me long to figure out that her still waters run very deep.

  “Cut!” Tony barks again. “Rogan, what the hell? Is your head in your ass or what?”

  I curl my fingers into fists. This isn’t like me. I never bring less than my A-game to anything that I do. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.

  “Sorry, Tony. I don’t . . . I don’t know what’s wrong, man.” The aggravated disappointment on his face makes me feel like shit. He’s been singing my praises since the first day I got here and I hate to let him down.

  He gets out of his chair and walks over to me, reaching up to drape his arm around my shoulder. It’s an awkward position for him considering the height disparity, but he does it anyway so that he can lead me off set. “Are you running your lines? Putting in the time?”

  “I read over my lines every night. I just . . .” I feel like punching something. I need some time in the ring to get rid of a little aggression.

  “Maybe get Rayelle to help you out a couple times a week.” His wink says he thinks she can help me with more than just my lines. I’m sure she’d be more than willing, but she can’t fix what ails me. Only one woman can, and I’ve hit a brick wall with her.

  Then it occurs to me. “I think I might know just the person to, uh, help me out.”

  “Fine, fine. I don’t give a damn who it is, just make it work.”

  “I’ll be right as rain by Monday,” I pledge, my mind already on the weekend and how I can convince Katie to spend it with me.

  Tony grins and slaps me on the back. “That’s my boy!”

  With that, he turns back to the set. “Get Groenig in here. We’ll shoot the mansion scene this afternoon instead.”

  My enthusiasm spikes to a more normal level and I swivel my head back to where Katie was standing. The spot is empty now.

  Why come if you were planning to leave so soon?

  I don’t understand her at all, which is probably part of the appeal. She’s such a contradictory female I don’t know what to make of her. She doesn’t react to me like most women do.

  I think back to the way she looked at me when she saw my scars. They affected her. Why, I don’t know. She didn’t appear to be disgusted, so I don’t think it was that. Regardless, I’m more determined than ever to get inside that beautiful head of hers.

  I’m smart enough to know she damn sure ain’t gonna spill her guts for me. But if she has come to know me at all, then she ought to know that I don’t give up. I’m no quitter. I will know her. And I’ll know her well.

  Ignoring all the chaos surrounding me, I tug my shirt over my head and make my way to Katie’s brightly lit cosmetic cove. I stop just inside the doorway, catching and holding my breath so that she won’t hear me. Her back is to me, her rich hair spilling between her shoulder blades like a coppery waterfall. She’s doing something with her hands, something I can’t see, but she’s also humming. She’s swaying the tiniest bit to the music inside her head and, at this moment, she looks more peaceful than I’ve seen her so far.

  The scene makes me ache to touch her, but the song she’s humming makes me smile through the discomfort. “Ten Feet Tall.” It’s funny because something about her, something about the way she tries not to care but can’t seem to help herself, makes me feel that way—ten feet tall. Like I’m somehow an exception to her rules, whether she wants me to be or not. I don’t think anyone has gotten close to her in a long time.

  Maybe until me.

  Suddenly, she turns to throw something at the trashcan. I don’t have time to warn her of my presence and she gasps in alarm, her big sapphire eyes getting bigger as she stumbles backward. The makeup chair clips her behind the knees and I see her start to go down. Her arms shoot out and her mouth rounds into an O, as in oh shit! I rush forward, reaching out to wind my fingers around her thin wrists and pull her toward me. The shift in momentum causes her to overcorrect and she falls against my chest.

  “Oh!” she chirps, stunned. “Thank you. You startled me.”

  “You’re welcome, and I didn’t mean to.
I was enjoying the show.”

  Color pours into her cheeks and she tucks her head. “How embarrassing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. It just is. I mean . . . I don’t know.”

  “I love that song, by the way.”

  “You knew what I was humming?” She seems surprised.

  “Of course I did. Now if it were me, it would be anybody’s guess. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  Shyly, she glances up at me, a wry twist to her lips. “For some reason I doubt that. I bet you’ve never sucked at anything in your whole life.”

  “I suck at things all the time,” I reply, hoping to keep the conversation going so that she doesn’t become too aware of the fact that I’m still holding her. Because I like holding her. I love the way she feels against me, all tiny and warm and curvy. And if she thinks too much about it, she’ll pull away.

  “Like what?”

  “Like origami. Like crocheting. Like ballet. Like—”

  She grins up at me. “Have you actually tried any of those things?”

  “I have.”

  “Dare I ask why?”

  “No, you dare not.”

  “Secrets. A man after my own heart.” She says it in jest, but I know she’s only partially kidding. I don’t doubt that she has a lot of secrets. And I want to know them all.

  “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” I inject every bit of sincerity into my voice that I can muster. I don’t know why I would even offer. There are several things I couldn’t ever tell her. Wouldn’t ever tell her. But something tells me she’d never take me up on such an offer. That’s not who she is. I’d say she respects a person’s privacy. And asks them to do the same of hers.

  Her eyes are locked on mine so I see the very second that awareness sinks in. Her expression starts to shut down before she physically backs away.

  “Everyone is entitled to their secrets. I’ll be nice and let you keep some of yours,” she says, trying to be light and playful about it.

  Even though I knew it wouldn’t be her style to want all the details, some part of me wants her to know all the ugly, all the unacceptable, all the things that no one else really knows. I want her to know about them and still give me the time of day. Despite them. “What if I want you to know them? What if I want to share them with you?”

  “You don’t.”

  “And why don’t I?”

  “You don’t want to get involved with someone like me. I’m not the . . . I’m just not . . .”

  I reach out to take her chin between my thumb and forefinger, capturing her before she can completely escape. “What do I have to do to convince you that I do want to be involved with you? Not someone like you, but you.”

  That was too much. I can see it in the way she shrinks away from me.

  I’m about to lose control of this opportunity and, knowing Katie, I might not get another one any time soon.

  I plaster on a big damn smile even though I’m frustrated as hell.

  “Luckily, I didn’t come here to discuss your worth as a human being. I came here to collect.”

  “Collect?” she repeats with a frown.

  “Yep. You totally derailed me on set today and Tony chewed my ass for not knowing my lines. Made me promise to rehearse them this weekend. And guess who got volunteered?”

  I paraphrased, of course. She didn’t get volunteered, except by me. But paraphrasing isn’t lying. Is it?

  “Who, me? Why me?”

  “Well, I volunteered you. Mainly because you were the source of my . . . distraction to begin with. I figure it’s only right that you make it up to me. To this show.” I throw the last in for good measure, just in case my argument wasn’t convincing enough on its own.

  She starts to make excuses. Just like I imagined that she would. “I’d love to help, but—” She stops abruptly, tilting her head to the side the slightest bit. As she considers me, I think back to the moment when she looked up at me after having examined my back. That same soft look is back in her eyes now. She pulls those big blues away from me for a heartbeat, but then she brings them right back. “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll help you.” She squares her chin, like she’s bolstering herself, but bolstering what? Her courage? Her resistance? Her determination?

  I must admit to being pleasantly surprised. I know I can be hella convincing when I want to be, but I was beginning to wonder if Katie is in possession of some sort of Rogan Immunity Charm that I’m not aware of. But now, I’m thinking that maybe inadvertently revealing something about myself, about my past, has made her see that I’m not such a cocky, obnoxious sleazeball after all.

  Damn, this woman . . . She’s making me crazy!

  But still, I consider this a victory, so my smile reflects as much. It’s genuine. And it’s big. “You will?”

  Why the hell did I just give her an out?

  She smiles in return. A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

  “I will. But just to rehearse lines,” she adds sternly.

  I laugh, giving her a sloppy salute. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am! I’ll pick you up at seven. We can eat and work and then maybe take a swim.”

  It only takes about ten seconds for it to register. Panic. That’s what shows up on her face, in her eyes. Panic, pure and simple.

  “No, I, uh, I can’t stay out too late. I’ve got some, um, things to do in the morning. But thank you. Just the lines.”

  “And dinner. You have to eat some time.” She reaches for the hair that is ever-present at her shoulder and smoothes it around like a comforting blanket. Her nervous tick. “My brother doesn’t get out much and he could realllly use the company.”

  “He has you,” she argues.

  I give her a withering look. “Yeah, but I’m . . . me. Have you met me?”

  The corners of her mouth twitch and I’m immediately gratified. “As a matter of fact, I think I have.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Well, you are pretty disagreeable,” she jokes.

  “A real bear of a guy, I hear.”

  She exhales. “Okay. Just dinner and lines, but then I have to get home.”

  “Fair enough,” I announce, backing away. I feel good that I’m making some headway, but I don’t want to push my luck. “Seven o’clock.”

  She nods, her eyes shining. Right this minute, she doesn’t look worried or hesitant or guarded like she so often is. She just looks . . . beautiful.

  I decide that this is the way I like her best. And that I’ll do everything I can to make sure I see it more often than not.

  SEVENTEEN

  Katie

  What would I call my mood? I ponder this as I sit on the couch in the living room, wiggling my foot and waiting for the clock to strike seven.

  Dozer is lying about three feet away, eyeing me suspiciously. Evidently my excess energy and increasing anxiety are pronounced enough to keep even him awake, which is really saying something. He’s practically narcoleptic.

  How would I define it? Nervously wary? Or maybe anxiously skeptical? I don’t exactly know what kind of label my inner turmoil deserves. For all I know, it warrants a unique name all its own.

  I hear a racy rumble come roaring down my street, getting louder as it approaches. My heart thunders along at a somewhat similar cadence, like the noise alone triggered my internal throttle. No, I don’t know that to be Rogan on his way to pick me up, but then again, yes, I absolutely do. Somehow it sounds like him. I’m already getting a mental picture, even though I’m still sitting on my couch. He told me he might show me what he chooses to drive. Something tells me he’s about to.

  When the throbbing engine reaches its peak and then dies right outside, I leap up from my seat and run to the window. My insides twist and slither like a clutch of snakes when I see what’s parked outside. A black-and-silver machine, reading Ducati along the shiny gas tank, rests along the curb. And on its back is Rogan.

  Even with his head covered by a matching helmet, I recognize him.
I recognize his body and his body language. I recognize the way I respond to him. Even when I don’t want to.

  He’s wearing a snug white T-shirt and ratty blue jeans. Nothing that would identify him. It’s the way he wears his clothes, the way the fabrics hug his lithe form, even the way he sits on the bike, like he is one with a wild, untamable animal, that is uniquely Rogan.

  When he pulls off his helmet, I’m aware of two things. One, that his hair sticks up all over his head in blond spikes that make my fingers itch to touch. And two, that his eyes are on mine. All the way across the yard and through the sheer curtains that cover the glass of the window, they’re trained on mine. I can feel it. It’s like he knows I’m looking at him, like he can feel it, too. And that he honed in on it, on me. Instinctively. It sounds completely insane, but I don’t doubt it. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt him watching me. And it only gets more and more disconcerting.

  For a few seconds, he just stares at me. He’s not smiling; he’s just straddling his bike, holding his helmet between his big, strong hands. The intensity of his gaze burns along my nerve ends, causing me to feel both terrified and excited all at once. It also makes me wonder why I agreed to this. I’m not entirely sure I can be trusted around him. He makes me forget. And that’s dangerous.

  Finally, his face breaks into a breathtaking smile and I jump away from the window. I keep backing away until I’m safely ensconced in the shadows on the opposite side of the room. I pull in several gulps of air, fanning my flaming face with my nervous hands. I wait impatiently for the moment when he’ll knock and I’ll be face-to-face with what could end up being a nightmare for me.

  But he could end up being a dream for you, too, my inner optimist chimes. I don’t hear from her much, but it seems she’s more vocal of late.

  Three firm knocks on my front door have my insides snapping with the electricity of attraction. Probably not the best way to start an evening where I need to maintain a cool head so that I can keep a charming, gorgeous man at arm’s length.