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.
“Wha’cha thinkin’ about?” Rogan asks, curling around me like a hot octopus and pressing his lips to the curve of my neck. “New York?”
He thinks I’m excited. Or nervous. Both of which are true. And I’ll let him think that’s all that I’m feeling.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Don’t be nervous. Kurt will be there, too. With his calming influence.” His derisive snort makes me smile. A watery smile, but still . . .
I feel him start to roll out of bed to go and tend to his brother, as he’s done every morning. Only this time I reach for him.
His eyes meet mine in the receding dark. I crawl up onto my knees and stare at him for a few seconds, memorizing this moment, this feeling, this man. I stroke my fingertips down his cheek, enjoying every prickle of his early-morning beard against my skin. I don’t ever want to forget what it feels like to touch a star. Not a star in Hollywood, but a star in my otherwise black sky. Bright and warm and oh-so-fleeting.
A tiny frown flickers between Rogan’s dark, glistening eyes. He turns his face and presses his lips to the center of my palm. As always, his kiss kindles a flame, one that, if left unchecked, burns its way into a raging inferno that only he can extinguish. It never dies, though. Not really. It always seems to be waiting there. Glowing embers, just beneath the surface, waiting for him to come along and bring them back to blazing life. Like he brought me to life.
I’m glad that he takes the time to make love to me once more before he goes, but I feel guilty when I see him scurrying about, rushing to get home to his responsibilities. I’m a selfish, selfish woman. Kurt will give him a terrible time if he’s late, I’m sure. But I can’t fully regret him staying with me a little longer. I could never regret a moment spent with him, no matter how awful the consequences.
Hours later, Rogan is there when I push through the doors at work. His smile shows no evidence of a bad morning with his brother. His smile never shows anything other than his easygoing, “take life by the balls” attitude. I’ll miss it. I’ll miss him.
After our normal odd conversation with Mona and her word of the day, I take my time putting makeup on Rogan. I relish the feel of his eyes on me, of his skin beneath my fingertips, of his closeness. And when he’s walking out my door with the tech, I fight back tears.
It’s as I’m cleaning up, preparing for the next person to fill my chair that I get a visit from Victoria. My stomach twists into a resentful knot when I see her. I hope my smile is as coolly polite as always, though.
“So, you enjoying your last day?” she asks.
I frown. “Pardon?”
“Your. Last. Day,” she repeats, barbs in her tone as she enunciates each syllable like English is my second language.
“My last day of what?”
“Being Rogan’s pretend girlfriend.”
“I’m not—” I stop myself. I’m not going to discuss Rogan with this pit-viper of a woman.
“Awww, you’re going to deny it? How nice of you to think that I care, but you can save it. Because I don’t. People like you don’t even register as a blip on my radar.” Her top lip draws back from her teeth, a sneer of disgust that clearly belies the sugar of her words. “I think it’s sweet that he took pity on someone like you, but I don’t want you to think it’ll last. He’ll be back with me before next weekend.” My heart is a sluggish thump behind my ribs as her face suddenly breaks into a blinding smile. “Okay, well, see you Monday.”