Tough Enough(38)

I nod again. “That’s fine.” I take the proffered pages from his extended hand and sit stiffly on the edge of a cushion.

A stab of nostalgia slices through my heart as I look over the two pages of dialogue and notes. There was a time when something like this would’ve energized and motivated me, a time when my place was in front of the camera rather than in the shadows behind it. But that time is past. Now, I just feel . . . empty. If I’d only known how much my dreams would cost me . . .

“Have you ever read through a script before? Do you want me to—”

“Yes, I’m familiar with them,” I answer soberly.

Rogan gives me several minutes to read silently through the pages before he asks, “Ready?”

Again, I nod. “I think so.”

“I’ll start from where shooting will resume.” Rogan clears his throat.

Back and forth, we read our lines. The first time, it’s more perfunctory. The second round has a little more emotion to it as I get used to the scene. The third time seems much more relaxed and real.

When he finishes with the last line, Rogan glances up at me. His brow wrinkles slightly. “You’re not reading from the script?”

“No. I think I’ve got it down pretty good.”

Rogan’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s impressed. That pleases me, even though it shouldn’t. I just hope he doesn’t start asking questions.

“Do you want to try them standing up, then? The scene calls for us to be standing in the office of my character’s club.”

“Sure.”

Rogan stands and I quickly follow suit, wiping my damp palms on my jeans. The scene somehow plays a little too close to reality for me and I wonder if Rogan will try to finish it completely. With a kiss. My stomach feels all squirmy just thinking about it.

Rogan walks to the edge of the pool where the lantern light is mostly faded. We are minimally illuminated by the blue glow of the water. For the most part, we are in a dark bubble all by ourselves.

The first line drifts through the night, bridging the small distance between us like a velvet cord, drawing me into Rogan’s world.

“You wanted it. You wanted the truth.”

“Not like this. Not this way. I thought you were different. I thought—”

“Bullshit!” he explodes, startling me even though I knew what he was going to say. “You knew exactly what you were getting in to, what kind of man I am.”

“But I’ve never . . .”

It’s easy to be timid, to play the role of this confused, cowed girl trying to resist that which she wants so badly. That which she knows will destroy her. In some ways, she’s not a far stretch for me.

“You’ve never what? Had someone want you because of how it feels instead of what you can give them?”

Rogan’s voice is low as he takes a step toward me. I can feel the shivering of my nerves, just as this character probably feels the shivering of hers.

“You know who my father is. Some people will do anything to get close to him.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people. I don’t give a damn about your father. And neither should you. This is about us. This is about what I’m going to do to you the second you stop pretending you don’t feel this, too.”

I lick my lips. Not because I’m pretending to be someone else, but because right now, with Rogan so close that I can smell his soap, I’m not.

“I can’t . . . This isn’t something that I . . .”

The arguments are the same stilted ones I would use if this were the real Rogan talking to the real me, trying to convince me to let go of my hang-ups.

“Liar. You can. And this is something that you—”

“If they ever find out . . . If anyone ever knows . . .”

“It’s too late for that, sweetheart. You’re already mine.”

“I’m not yours yet. There’s still time.”

“No, there’s not. I’m going to kiss you. Kiss you like you need to be kissed. Like you’ve always wanted to be kissed. And in a week’s time, I’ll be back. On that night, you’ll have a decision to make.”

My heartbeat is a tap dance, a clickity-clack against my ribs. My pulse is a song that plays its quickened rhythm just for Rogan. It doesn’t seem to matter that these are just lines from a show. From a single scene. It doesn’t seem to matter that they’re someone else’s words about other people’s lives. Even though I’m not Becca and he’s not Drago, even though they’re not even real, my insides are trembling like loose leaves in the autumn breeze.

“Can I finish?” Rogan’s words are his own, soft whispers carried to me on breath that teases my cheek.