by M. Leighton
“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” I mutter under my breath. The thing is, I don’t know for sure that I can. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in a long time. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been this attracted to someone. Period. Not even my ex, who basically ruined my entire life. He’s part of my aversion to Rogan. Him and the horrific memories that he and he alone is responsible for. The other part consists of the things about me that would surely run Rogan off, things I would never let him see.
Those sobering thoughts are like a bucket of ice water right in the face. My breathing levels and my face cools, so that it’s with my usual calm that I open the door and greet him.
“Hi,” I offer with a mild smile.
“Hi, yourself, darlin’,” he drawls, leaning against the doorjamb and running his jewel-tone eyes over me. “Not only do you look beautiful, but you’re dressed perfectly.”
I glance down at my low-rise jeans and simple pink tee that reads Fat Lewey’s across the chest. “I am?”
“You are. I didn’t have to bring the van tonight.” He nods toward the curb, where his glossy motorcycle awaits.
I glance behind him at the gleaming yet intimidating machine. It looks dangerous, much like its driver, which is something that I’ve made a point to avoid in my life.
Until Rogan.
“I see that. You must have a death wish,” I comment wryly.
“Not tonight,” he murmurs in a voice that moves over my skin like rich, dark molasses. He straightens with a crooked smile and holds out his hand. “Come on.”
For the space of five or six heartbeats, I wonder what I’m agreeing to, what this night will mean in the grand scheme of my life. Before I can come to any conclusion, he’s reaching forward to curl his fingers around mine, sending a shiver up my arm and a thrill down my spine.
I follow him out onto the stoop, turning to close the door behind me. “Sleep tight, Dozer,” Rogan calls to my cat where he sits on the back of a chair near the door. As I’m pulling the door closed, I see Dozer wink one yellow eye and then promptly fall asleep.
Rogan pulls me down the sidewalk behind him, his grasp firm and warm. He stops beside his bike to unstrap another helmet from behind the tiny perch that qualifies as a backseat. “This is for you,” he says, gently sliding the smaller version of his helmet onto my head. I reach up to keep my hair in place as he buckles a strap under my chin. “Shit!” he says in irritation.
“What?” I ask, mildly alarmed.
“How the hell can you look hot in a helmet?” he asks, slapping my face shield down.
He can’t see my smile as he turns to ready himself, throwing one leg over the motorcycle. He rights it from its reclining position before he raises his hand to assist me. He says nothing and neither do I as I slide my fingers across his palm and climb onto the Death Machine (which is how it will forever register in my head).
I sit clumsily on the little perch, not knowing what to do with my hands or my legs. Rogan fires up the engine, revving it a few times before he twists to reach back and put my feet on the two little chrome stubs sticking out on either side. The action brings my knees up higher and forces me to lean forward slightly. A little yip escapes because I feel like I might fall off. Rogan grabs my hands and pulls them around his stomach, bringing my chest to his back.
“Just lean into me and hold on,” he says, his voice coming through loud and clear into my helmet. So clear, in fact, that I can hear the smile he’s wearing even though I can’t see it.
I like this, this bike, this anonymity. I can enjoy touching him, being wrapped around him without having to explain myself or worry about his all-seeing eyes. Maybe a motorcycle isn’t such a bad thing after all.
That’s what I’m thinking right up until he darts away from the curb and accelerates so fast that I fear the front wheel will come off the ground. After that, my only thought is survival.
I squeal, surprised and excited and a little afraid, to which Rogan’s only response is a throaty chuckle. It vibrates along the surface of my skin much like the motorcycle vibrates beneath my butt.
As we zip along the streets of the outskirts of Enchantment, I concentrate less on the landscape that’s speeding by and more on the intriguing man that I hold in my arms. He’s obviously had some bad things happen to him in his life. He’s obviously fought to overcome them. Only now, rather than hiding away from life and danger and risk, he embraces it. He hunts it down and conquers it. I can see it in the way he masters the curves of the road, in the way he tips his chin up to the world, grinning as if to say Bring it on! rather than tucking it in submission. In fear. Therein lies the difference between us. What happened to me crippled me. I became a victim, forever changed by my past. Rogan rose above, became a victor, and refused to let his past change his future.
We both fought to survive. But only one of us fought to live. Really live. And he won. He’s still winning.
Like sunshine creeping into the skies at dawn, I feel a ray of light break through the darkness that I’ve been drowning in for so long. It’s inspiration. It’s motivation. It’s the sight of someone rising up and overcoming.
It’s Rogan.
Feeling eases back into places that went numb a long time ago, places I thought were all but dead. The things that Rogan has made me feel, most of them against my will, are like thin wires feeding electricity into my nerves, my muscles, my heart. They tether me to him and pull me inexorably closer. This common ground between us, this way in which we could understand each other like most people never will, might just be the strongest one so far.
Rogan turns off the road on which we’ve been traveling for several minutes. I knew we were heading toward the foot of Brasstown Bald, which is the mountain that sits behind Enchantment, because I know that’s where the luxurious homes were built for the elite of the studio’s employees (i.e., the actors). I assumed that’s where Rogan would be staying.
When we reach a small brick guard shack to the left of an enormous wrought-iron gate, Rogan slows to wave at the guard. He jumps to his feet, smiles politely and triggers the mechanism to let us through. Rogan waits patiently, easily balancing our combined weight on his bike. It seems effortless, and I understand why when I glance down at the long muscles of his thighs. I can see them standing out, bulging inside the denim of his jeans.
As soon as the gate is open enough for us to squeeze through, Rogan sharply twists his wrist, sending us hurtling between the slowly opening halves. He cuts it so close I can almost feel the cool metal of the gate brush the skin of my arm. Almost.
Less than two minutes later, he pulls to a stop in the circular driveway of a sprawling contemporary home. It looks like little more than a sea of glass amid a field of sharp angles. He raises his hand, which I take to use for balance as I dismount. I work on unfastening the buckle beneath my chin as Rogan settles the motorcycle on its kickstand and kills the engine. My fingers work clumsily and slowly in my distraction. I can’t seem to take my eyes off the man as he tugs off his helmet, runs his fingers through his hair and drags his lean body off the machine.
He casually hooks his helmet on one handlebar and turns to face me. One side of his mouth quirks. “Need some help?”
“No,” I reply, fumbling with the strap.
Rogan watches me with an amused look on his face for a few seconds before he leans in and takes over. “Here, let me do it. You’ll never get it undone with those shaky hands.”
I glance down at my trembling fingers. “You didn’t scare me. I don’t know why I’m shaking.” Even though I think I really do.
“Adrenaline. You can’t help but feel it on that bike.”
I say nothing, more than happy to go with that explanation.
When Rogan finally frees me of the helmet and hangs it on the opposite handlebar, he reaches for my hand again. He’s very matter-of-fact as he curls his slightly rough fingers around my unsteady ones.
“Do you like stir-fry?” he asks as w
e walk side by side up the path made up of geometric concrete shapes that dot the grass.
“I do.”
“Good. I was trying to think of something that wouldn’t ruin by the time we got here, so I just cut up all the ingredients and left them in the fridge. It won’t take long to cook them.”
I pull up short, my shocked eyes turned to Rogan. “You literally cooked for me?”
“Well, not yet. I literally cut and chopped for you, though.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
Startling me yet again, Rogan throws both hands up into the air and shouts, “Finally! Thank God!”
“Finally what?” I ask, confused.
“Finally! I managed to impress you.”
I suppress a grin. “Like you ever had doubts.”
“I was beginning to wonder. It was startin’ to look like God had given you the gift of anti-Rogan blood.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“I didn’t think so, but you had me scared there for a minute.”
His grin is so cocky, yet so charming and cute that the only thing I can do is smile and roll my eyes.
“Well, there’s no reason to worry. You’ve accomplished your mission. Now you can stop trying.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks with a wink just before he reaches around me to open the big white front door.
He motions for me to precede him, which I do, looking around the spacious foyer-slash-great-room combo as he closes the door behind us. When I make it full circle to once again face Rogan, I stumble back a step. I wasn’t expecting for a man in a wheelchair to have somehow silently rolled up and stopped less than a foot from where I stand.
The guy reaches out to grab my wrist just as Rogan’s arm comes around my waist to steady me.
“Sorry,” he says in a low, gruff voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You must be Rogan’s brother,” I say kindly, trying not to feel put off by his frown. If it weren’t for that, he’d look a lot like Rogan with his blond hair and green eyes. He even has the same strong jaw and slightly crooked nose. But where Rogan appears happy and charismatic, his brother just seems . . . cold.
“Yep. I’m the cripple,” he remarks snidely, casting an angry glare at Rogan.
“He didn’t mention that part,” I lie in an effort to diffuse the palpable tension. Well, it’s not technically a lie. Rogan didn’t say he was crippled; he said he was handicapped. Semantics, yes, but still . . . “Thank you for having me to dinner.”
“Like I had much choice.” Another fuming look thrown at Rogan.
“If I’m imposing, I can come back another time. I don’t want to put you out.”
Finally, the brother looks at me as though he’s seeing me for the first time and not some tool Rogan is using to infuriate him. “No, you’re fine.”
For some reason, I feel sorry for this man. I know it would kill him to know this, but I can’t seem to help it. It’s not for his handicap that I pity him, though; it’s for his anger. I know from past experience that anger and bitterness can eat you alive and steal away what life you have left if you let it. It’s best to just let go and move on whenever possible.
It’s with this sense of sorrow that I feel for him that I stick out my hand and put on my biggest smile. “Great, then. I’m Katie. It’s nice to meet you, Rogan’s brother.”
He watches me silently for several long seconds before he looks down at my outstretched hand and then back up to my face.
“Kurt. It’s nice to meet you, Katie,” he replies, a very small smile curving his lips.
I feel gratified to get civility from him. “So I hear we’re having stir-fry. Your idea or his?” I tip my head to indicate Rogan, who is standing quietly at my side, watching our interaction. When I glance over at him, I see that it’s now his brow that’s creased with a frown. I smile at him and the wrinkles deepen. What is it with these men?
“Mine,” Kurt replies, shooting Rogan a quick grin as he wheels his chair one-hundred-eighty degrees and takes off toward the kitchen, which is separated only by a raised bar in this open floor plan.
“He’s full of shit. I’m the brains in this operation.”
“No, you’re the legs. I’m perfectly capable of doing everything else,” Kurt calls from in front of the refrigerator. When he turns back around, he’s holding two covered bowls in his lap and boasting a cocky grin that’s one hundred percent Rogan. “My legs are the only things that don’t work right.”
I smile again, sliding my eyes over to my Rogan. “He’s definitely your brother.”
I don’t know what happened to make him frown back there at the door, but his wink assures me that all is right with the world again.
By order of Rogan, I am confined to a chair during dinner preparations. “How can I impress you with my extensive culinary expertise if you help?” he asks.
“You won’t have to worry about that. She’ll be too dazzled by me to give you a second thought,” Kurt says.
“You haven’t dazzled anybody since Regina Lawson in the second grade.”
“You wouldn’t know dazzling if it exploded right beside your head.”
“I’m the definition of dazzling.”
And so the banter goes until the table is set, the wine is poured and dinner is served. Time passes so pleasantly, so humorously, so effortlessly that I can’t quite remember how the conversation turned to Star Wars. I only know that the guys are hilarious as they debate who would’ve made a better Han Solo.
“I have better reflexes, which would make me the better pilot of the Millennium Falcon,” Rogan declares.
“But I’m a better kisser, and where would Han be without Leia?” Kurt argues.
“How the hell could you possibly know that you’re a better kisser?”
“Amy Steadman told me.”
“Amy Steadman? The only reason she kissed you is because you were gettin’ all girly and emotional and shit over that sophomore who broke your heart. What was her name again?”
“You’re a damn liar! Amy kissed me because she was tired of putting up with your cheatin’ ass.”
“I didn’t cheat on her. We weren’t seeing each other when all that happened. Which brings me to my next point. I’d make the best Han Solo because I’m taller. You’d get stuck being Luke.”
“You’re only taller because your legs work. I’m taller sitting down.”
“Bullshit! I’m an inch and three quarters taller than you. Have been since you peaked the year you graduated. Not my fault you stopped growing too early.”
“This is getting us nowhere. Let’s ask our own Leia,” Kurt suggests, turning his slightly less dazzling green eyes to me. “Be honest, who would make the best Han Solo? Kief or me?” Kurt gives me his most winsome smile, winking and nodding and gesturing for me to choose him, all of which makes me laugh.
“You can’t ask me that! You’d both make great Hans.”
“Well, you know the only way to know for sure, don’t you?” Rogan’s brother asks.
Something about his wide grin makes me instantly suspicious. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
“You’ll have to kiss us both.”
“What?”
Kurt shrugs. “Sorry. I don’t make the rules.”
Open-mouthed, I turn to look at Rogan. “Are you hearing this?”
His face is relaxed and his lips are curved, but there’s a hardness to his eyes that gives me pause. “I’m hearing it. The only thing that’s keeping me from kicking his ass is sympathy. I know how it feels to want to kiss a beautiful makeup artist.”
“I don’t want to kiss just any beautiful makeup artist. I want to kiss this one.”
My face flames under the heat of so much attention. I glance shyly from Kurt to Rogan. Something about his expression tells me that he’s no longer having fun. I wonder if the cause is his brother’s overtly flirtatious commentary. That seems to be the only thing that has changed, and as much as I shouldn’t care whethe
r Rogan is jealous, the prospect that he might be sends a little thrill through me.
“Well, unfortunately, you’re both out of luck. I’m a terrible kisser, so it would hardly be fair for me to judge.”
“That’s highly unlikely,” Kurt declares.
When I glance at Rogan, his eyes are a dark emerald sparkle in the handsomely tanned landscape of his face. “Liar,” he says softly.
Clearing my throat, I stand and grab my plate to take it into the kitchen, but Kurt stops me. “Leave it!” he barks. I freeze, mid-motion, glancing across the table at him questioningly. His face breaks into a boyish grin. “You’re a guest. You shouldn’t have to clean up.”
“But I—”
“Ah ah ah,” he clucks, shaking his head and wheeling around to my side of the table. “No arguments.”
Kurt takes my plate from my fingers and places it in his lap before he wheels around to collect the rest of the plates from the table. With one aggressive fling of his powerful arms, he sends his chair careening across the hardwood and into the kitchen.
When I can only see the top of Kurt’s head in front of the sink, I turn to Rogan. His expression is unfathomable and his eyes are heavy-lidded as they watch me. I try not to fidget under his curious scrutiny and my voice is a hoarse croak when I speak. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“A-are you okay?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. You just seem . . . off.”
Rogan grins, an action that transforms his face into the one I’m most familiar with, making my belly do a little flip. The brooding version was like a stranger. “Does that mean you prefer me when I’m on?”
His eyes twinkle as he comes to stand before me, less than six inches separating us as he stares down into my face.
“I didn’t say that,” I reply, a bit more breathless than I’d like to be.
Rogan reaches up and drags the back of his index finger under the edge of my lower lip. “You didn’t have to.” For a few seconds, I tense, wondering if he’s going to try to kiss me, but then he winks, reaching for my hand and tipping his head toward the other side of the room. “Since Kurt volunteered for cleanup, let’s go out onto the patio and get started, ’kay?”
