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.
“Finish what?” I ask, equally softly.
“Finish the scene.”
Here in the dark, pretending to be someone I’m not, I can be brave. I can keep hidden that which taunts me every time I look in the mirror. I can taste fearlessly, behave recklessly. Just this once. Only in the dark.
Fight to survive. Fight to live.
Just this once, maybe I can live again.
“Yes,” I breathe.
The syllable has barely left my lips when his mouth drops to cover mine. It dies in the darkness, consumed instantly by the fire of what’s between us. There’s no tentativeness, no hesitation. No wading in slowly after what happened before. There is only heat and want.
His lips move over mine in a moist, hot dance that’s meant to do one thing—incite. And it’s working. Already, my chest is tight with my heaving breath and my body wants to lean into his.
When Rogan tilts his head to one side, deepening the kiss, I wind my arms around his neck and dive in with him, letting go with an abandon that I haven’t felt in years. I part my lips and he enters my mouth with one long lick and a groan that vibrates along my tongue.
With one big hand cupping the back of my head, he slides the other down my back to curl around my waist and hold me to him. I feel every sharp ridge and every hard plane of his body, pressing against mine from nipple to knee, and something inside me melts.
I ease my restless fingers into Rogan’s short, spiky hair. It’s soft and silky, yet prickly enough to tease my palms. When I run my tongue along the side of his, Rogan moves both hands up to cup my face, pulling his mouth away from mine and staring down into my eyes for long, toe-curling seconds.
“God, how you make me want,” he growls, tipping my chin up with his thumbs, holding me still for his delicious torture. “To taste,” he says, licking and sucking at my lips. “To feel.” His fingers thread into my hair, pushing it over my shoulders and moving it away from my neck. I tip my head slightly to the left, exposing only the right side. He strokes the pads of his fingers down my throat, stopping at the edge of my shirt to dip them just inside. Chills radiate from his touch like flame, scorching the skin of my chest and making my breasts throb. “I want to know all your secrets. To strip you down. Lay you bare. Just for me.” His lips trail from the corner of my mouth, across my cheek to my ear. “Would you like that?” he whispers, his hot breath teasing the shell.
His words . . . God! They’re so tempting. He’s so tempting. I’d give anything to be able to just let go and be with him. No worries, no insecurities, just wet kisses and sweaty skin. But he has no idea what he’d be exposing, what he’d be baring if I let him strip me. Because if he did, he wouldn’t want me at all.