“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 we 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.”