Tough Enough

by M. Leighton

  It’s as I’m cleaning my station, preparing to leave for the day, that one of the set assistants gives a swift knock on the door frame and moves inside just long enough to hand me a folded note. “Mr. Rogan asked me to bring this to you.”

  The note is short, simple and to the point.

  Don’t leave yet. Wait for me.

  —R

  It’s written in a slanted, masculine scrawl that somehow suits him. And it makes my stomach clench against a little pinch of hurt. I caution myself not to make too much of what I saw, repeating the mantra, It was contrived, it was contrived, it was contrived. But for some reason, that doesn’t ease the vaguely nauseous feeling swimming in my gut.

  The assistant smiles politely and takes off without another word. I fold the note and stick it in my pocket, turning back toward my daily cleanup duties. And I wait.

  Time ticks slowly on. Absently, I listen to the sounds of everyone else leaving for the day as I continue cleaning, anything to keep my hands busy. I glance up at the clock, then out into the darkened hallway. I don’t know how much longer I should wait, or if maybe he forgot about me.

  Another pang registers in my chest at the thought.

  I turn back to my furious scrubbing and I block out sound and thought and feeling as much as I can as I concentrate. That’s why I don’t hear Rogan until the snap of the door shutting startles me.

  I turn around to find him approaching me much as I imagine a starving lion might approach his prey—quickly, savagely and with purpose.

  One moment he’s striding across the room, the next he’s pushing me up against the counter, driving his hands into my hair. He kisses me with all the abandon of a wild animal. I’m elated and skeptical and overwhelmed by his passion.

  I drag my mouth away from his. “Rogan, wait. Please.” I struggle to catch my breath as dark green eyes devour my face.

  “I thought thinking about you would help with my scenes. And it did. Right up until I kissed her. She wasn’t you. No one else is you.”

  And just like that, all my insecurities, all my pain, all my niggling fears are washed away in the tide of his desire. This is for me. All that was for me, too. Whether or not I can see why, Rogan wants me.

  “I thought . . . It looked like . . .” I stammer, feeling silly now.

  Rogan cups my face. “When are you going to realize that you’re the one I want, Katie? The only one I want.”

  “But . . . it just doesn’t make any sense,” I argue.

  “It does to me,” he says, bending his head toward mine, spreading kisses over my face to punctuate his sentences. “The shy way you look away from me when I watch you. The sexy way you lick your lips when you concentrate. The delicious way you pant when you’re gettin’ ready to come.” Rogan’s hands slip around the tops of my thighs and lift until I’m sitting on the counter. My skirt is hiked up and Rogan is standing between my knees. “Your midnight eyes, your lush tits, your perfect ass. You’re all I can think about most days. And now that I’ve been inside you . . . God!” Rogan spreads my legs farther and pulls me toward him until we are pressed intimately together. He grinds against me and I grip the counter, leaning back and holding on. “My body craves you.”

  He dives into my mouth like it’s an oasis in a barren land. His tongue swirls around mine in a ravenous rhythm that’s like a drug. And I’m drugged. Out of my mind under his influence. “My hands feel you. Even when you’re not around.” As if to prove his point, Rogan backs away just enough to slide his hands under my skirt and up the outsides of my thighs. He runs his fingers under the edge of my panties, tracing the elastic to the damp material between my legs. Frantic and not thinking, I reach for his zipper. I need to feel his hardness. I need to feel that he wants me. I need to have it in my hands, a tangible thing. When I wind my fingers around it, it jumps against my palm. “And my cock . . . it throbs to be inside you,” he says, moving his fingertips into my crease. He moans loudly as he spreads moisture over my clit and gently massages it.

  Flexing his hips toward me, Rogan covers my fingers with his own, gripping his length and guiding it toward my body. He nudges my legs farther apart and rubs the head between my folds, the silken knob gliding smoothly over my clit.

  Back and forth, he moves over me, pushing me closer and closer to the edge. “If I could make a living finding new ways to make you come, that’s all I’d do. Every day for the rest of my life.” He teases me with the wide crown of his shaft, the friction unbearably delicious. He eases down toward my entrance and then moves away again, a dance meant to torture. And that’s what it’s doing. “My mouth waters when I think about the way you taste. Better than pie,” he says hoarsely, reminding me of our lunch conversation.

  Suddenly urgent to mark him with moments and phrases and memories like he’s marking me, I push against his chest until he releases me, and I drop to my knees on the floor in front of him.

  Reaching around and sinking my hands into his firmly perfect butt, I lick the glistening head and then ease my lips down over Rogan, taking as much of him into my mouth as I can, which isn’t nearly all of him. I taste the essence of me mingled with the flavor of his skin, a salty, intoxicating cocktail that has heat and more moisture gushing into my panties.

  I moan against him and Rogan threads his fingers into my hair, hissing his approval as I consume him with mouth and hands, even running my tongue along the crease between his heavy balls. “If you were on the pill, I’d spread your legs and come all over you,” he growls, rocking his hips against me.

  I work my way back up his shaft, sucking and licking until I feel him tighten against my palm. “I’m gonna come,” he breathes with great effort. A tingle of satisfaction ripples through me and when his warmth pours into my mouth, my sex throbs with need.

  I take every drop, savoring him as the ache between my legs increases. And then hands are reaching under my arms to pull me upright. Rogan’s mouth covers mine in a savage kiss as his fingers find my core, thrusting into me and stealing my breath. “Oh God!” I cry, my knees going weak.

  Rogan wraps one strong arm around my waist and lifts, carrying me the few feet to my makeup chair, where he deposits me, dropping one leg over the arm, leaving me wide open to the assault of his mouth. It’s his turn to drop to his knees, push my panties aside and bring me racing toward the precipice, sucking and thrusting me all the way over it.

  Pleasure crashes through me like a violent electrical storm, innervating my every muscle fiber. My back arches, my feet flex, and my fingernails dig into the armrests as Rogan penetrates me with his tongue, licking my release as it pours out for him.

  Slowly, his aggressive penetration turns to soft, leisurely strokes as though he senses exactly where I am and what I need. I lie limply in the chair before him as my body drifts down from the hazy heaven of my climax. After two long, languorous minutes, Rogan begins to rain butterfly kisses across my stomach, which is partly bared by the drastically skewed position of my skirt.

  “That’s what I’ve been waiting for all day,” he says, glancing up at me as he rights my panties and tugs my skirt down to cover me. “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “Yes,” I breathe, giving in to the urge to smile.

  Rogan, about to rise, stops and leans forward to run his forefinger over the curve of my bottom lip. “And this . . . this smile is what I’ll wait for all day tomorrow.”

  Neither of us says another word as I cut off the lights and Rogan leads me from the building.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Rogan

  “You’re sleeping with the wrong brother. You know that, right?”

  Sitting at the bar, munching on a carrot as I finish making dinner, Katie’s mouth drops open and her cheeks turn bright red at my brother’s comment. I kick the back of his chair.

  “You’re an ass, man.”

  “What?” he asks, like there’s nothing wrong with his comment. “Oh, I forgot. It’s Wednesday. Therefore I cannot speak the truth.”

 
; I shake my head. “Sore loser,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t lose. Hell, you didn’t even give me a chance to get in the game. Some of us are stuck here all day instead of on a television set kissing hot actresses and lying to beautiful makeup artists.”

  I see the little frown that appears between Katie’s eyes as she listens. “I don’t lie, you dickwad.”

  “Everybody lies.”

  “Somebody didn’t get his nap out today,” I needle, knowing that will piss him off so bad he’ll just leave. And he does. Kurt whirls his chair around to face me, his expression filled with bitter resentment.

  “Sometimes I hate you,” he spits, and then he wheels himself around the bar and down the hall to his room where he slams the door shut.

  “Is he okay?” Katie asks cautiously.

  I shrug. “He’s just got issues. That’s all.”

  “Is he always like that? I mean, the first time I met him . . .”

  “He was on his best behavior. Smitten, I guess you could say. But yeah, that’s more his normal state of douchiness.”

  I’m matter-of-fact about it because I’m used to it. Kurt feels like he has a million reasons to hate and resent me. I only understand one of them.

  “Why does he resent you so much?” Katie’s eyes are puzzled. Then she starts to stammer, like she regrets her question. “I—I mean, he seems to, anyway. Not that it’s any of my business.” Her voice trails off as she drops her gaze down to her hands where they’re fiddling with her napkin.

  I laugh, reaching across the bar to still her fingers. “Hey, it’s fine. You can ask me anything.”

  “Okay, then why does he seem to resent you so much? Is it just because of his handicap?”

  I resume assembling the salads that will accompany the filets I’ll be grilling. I lay slices of cucumber on each one as I answer her. “He thinks that the reason I never went to the cops or social services, the reason that I kept my mouth shut, was because I was weak. He thinks I didn’t love him enough to get him out of there. I never told him that everything I did I did to spare him.”

  I hear Katie’s gasp. “But why? Why would you let him believe that? When you sacrificed so much for him. Why?”

  I glance up to meet her horrified eyes. “Because it would’ve eaten him up with guilt—knowing that I stayed around because of him. Knowing that I kept taking a beating so that he wouldn’t have to. And I didn’t want him to have to carry that around for the rest of his life.”

  “Oh God, Rogan,” she whispers. Her face is pale, like she can literally feel the pain of it all.

  “It’s fine,” I tell her with a smile. I’d rather blow it off than this end up in pity. It’s probably dangerously close already. “We both survived.”

  “You never said what happened to your father.” I can tell that she wants to change the subject as much as I do.

  “He’s gone. Long gone.” Before she can ask more questions or fumble through platitudes, I slap my hands together. “All done,” I tell her, setting the full salad bowls aside and pouring each of us a glass of red wine. I come around the bar and push one stem into Katie’s fingers as I take the platter of seasoned meat. “Come on. Let’s go grill.”

  Each day that has passed this week has brought on a new sense of urgency to enjoy every second that I can with Katie. Things in Enchantment are different. This place seems separated from reality, like the real world is on a parallel plane. Real, but not here. Somewhere else. Somewhere that can’t touch us, can’t touch what we have together. I feel like once I leave here, I can never come back. Like I will have lost Katie and whatever this is between us.

  We live such different lives normally. That they intersected at all is a miracle, so what could be next? I don’t know if Katie could survive in my regular life.

  That’s how I’ve come to identify my existence. Before, during and after. Past, present, future. The life I’ve led up until Enchantment, the life I lead here, and the life I’ll continue to lead once I leave it. Is there a way to take the now with me? To make it a part of tomorrow? Or is it impossible for the two to ever peacefully coexist?

  My phone bleeps with an incoming text. I glance at Katie, sitting on one of the poolside chairs with her feet tucked up under her. There’s a serene look on her face. I love seeing it there.

  She smiles at me as she sips her wine. I hold her gaze for a few seconds before she turns her attention to the waterfall that cascades down a rocky landscape before splashing delicately into the pool. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if she wonders what I’m thinking. Or if she knows.

  I check my phone when it makes a second alert. It’s my agent, reminding me of the arrangements his assistant made for my flight back to New York. I have a fight in three days. It was postponed until taping for this show was complete. Both for filming and aesthetic purposes, obviously. I knew it was coming, but in a way it almost feels like it signals the end.

  But I don’t want this to end.

  I turn the grill flame to low and close the lid to allow the steaks to finish up. I walk to Katie and squat down in front of her, taking her free hand in mine.

  “Thursday is my last day of taping.” The statement hangs in the air. Like a cloud of inevitability.

  Katie nods once, her face expressionless as she eyes me.

  I figured she knew. She gets set notes, too.

  “I’ve got a fight on Sunday. Kurt and I will be flying out Thursday night. The match is in New York. Come with me.”

  Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes search mine. I don’t know what she’s looking for, what she’s thinking, and she doesn’t say anything that might clue me in.

  “New York is . . .” She trails off. Even if I couldn’t sense the hesitation in her words, I could detect it in her body language. She’s shrinking away from me. It’s almost imperceptible, but I can see her pressing her back into the cushion.

  I’m as honest as I can be. It’s the only way I know to fight her hang-ups. “I’m not ready for this to be over yet. I want you with me.”

  Just as I nearly missed her pulling away, I could’ve missed her relaxing back toward me if I hadn’t been paying attention. But I was. When it comes to Katie, I’m always paying attention.

  “And then what? I’d have to be back here to work on Monday.”

  “I know. I’ll make sure you’re here.”

  I can see the indecision in her eyes, but I can also see that she, too, is eager to prolong our . . . whatever this is.

  Finally, she nods her agreement. “Okay. I’ll come.”

  I smile and lean forward to kiss her. When she weaves her fingers into my hair and slides her tongue along mine, I consider abandoning supper in favor of hauling her tasty little ass off to my bedroom. But then she pulls away, breathless.

  “I’ll never get used to that,” she states, winded.

  I wink at her. “I don’t want you to.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Katie

  Thursday

  I wake conflicted. Part of me is ecstatic to be going to New York with Rogan. It feels like we haven’t had enough time together, like this is coming to an end too soon. I’m glad he feels that way, too. And I’m glad I could get the time off to go with him.

  Right now, I refuse to even think about what comes after Sunday. It makes my chest tight just to consider it. If I weren’t such a coward, I’d probably admit to myself that I’ve fallen in love with him, fallen in love with a man who lives life in a way that scares the crap out of me. He never backs down. He seizes every day. He lives life to the fullest. He’s everything I’m not. But he makes me want to be more, makes me want to do more, risk more.

  Another part of me, however, is terrified to return to New York. I haven’t been back there since Calvin. Since my parents died, since my life was burned away. My last memories of the city are of painful months in the hospital, recovering, and equally painful months afterward, trying to pick up the pieces of a life that had been reduced to ash.
/>   But I’m going.

  For Rogan.

  For Rogan, I’m jumping into the fray when I’ve spent the last five years avoiding it. For Rogan, I’m going public with my relationship to a star when I’ve purposely perfected the art of hiding in plain sight. For Rogan, I’m attending a brutal fight when I still have nightmares of what it feels like to be pummeled with angry fists.

  If I’m ever going to learn to fight to live, not just to survive, it has to start here. I don’t know why, but instinctively I’m absolutely certain that this is crucial. That he is crucial.

  Rogan.

  Each morning, I’ve awakened to the feel of his body pressed to mine. Each morning, he’s been waiting for me when I get to work. Each morning, he’s watched me as I put on his makeup.

  After that, the hours of each day have marched on like a thousand soldiers with feet of lead. Until he comes for me and we fall into a world consisting only of us. The world where there are no scars, no boundaries, no past and no people. There’s just Rogan and me and the fire that burns between us.

  And today is the very last day of it all.

  Thursday.

  Normally this day of the week is of no consequence to me. The only difference is that it’s near the end of the week when I won’t have to work for two days and I get to watch The Walking Dead in thirty-six more hours. Those are the landmarks of my life.

  But this Thursday is different. This Thursday marks the last day I’ll put makeup on Rogan, the last Thursday I’ll wake up in his arms, the last Thursday that I feel a million other things that I don’t want to examine too closely—love; acceptance; to be wanted, cherished, protected.

  So it’s with a reverence that I will go about every moment of my short-lived new routine. The next time Thursday rolls around, it won’t feel like this. And Rogan will be gone.