Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous #2)(49)

“I’m sure I’d have one if I could think,” I reply honestly.

Rogan laughs, a sound that I’m quickly falling in love with. It’s a rich rumble that seems to come from his soul. It always makes me want to smile, like I can’t help enjoying what he’s enjoying. “I like your style, Ms. Rydale.”

I know he doesn’t mean that kind of style, but his comment brings to mind my wardrobe, which in turn brings to mind the concealing blouse I chose and the comforting swath of hair that resides where it does every day—covering my scars.

I kneel on the spread and set Dozer down. He walks all of four feet, to the edge of the blanket, and flops down, falling almost immediately to sleep. Rogan, watching him, shakes his head in amazement.

“A narcoleptic cat. Who knew?”

I giggle as I slide in beside Rogan, pulling my feet up under me. “So, what feast did you bring us?” I ask, inclining my head toward the huge basket resting behind Dozer.

“Ah-ah-ah. Work first, play later.”

I’m surprised. “We’re really going to run lines?” I thought it was just his way of teasing me.

“Yep. Sure are. I want to get this right the first time tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you will. You’re quite good.”

Rogan looks genuinely pleased. “Thank you. I noticed that you’ve got mad skills at all this. Have you ever acted? Or considered acting?”

I feel myself tense. I know Rogan’s question was innocent enough, but it still stirs memories that I never like reflecting upon.

I could hedge. Make up something to put him off, but since he’s been so honest with me, told me such painful things, I feel that I owe him the truth.

I take a deep breath, gathering my courage. “Actually, that’s what I originally went to school for.”

“What? Acting?” Now he seems surprised.

“Yes.”

“Why the hell didn’t you pursue it? Is it because of your burns? Because—”

“No, no. Not really,” I interrupt, not wanting to discuss them again. I would still much rather pretend that they aren’t there, or that he can’t see them. “Since I was a little girl, I always dreamed about being an actress. I tried out for every school play that I could, watched as many movies as I was allowed, studied the greats. You know how kids are. But my parents were very, very strict. They didn’t want me in the spotlight like that. They wouldn’t even consider letting me attend The Julliard. But I applied anyway and was accepted with a full scholarship.”

Rogan sits up from where he was resting back on his elbow. “You got a scholarship to The Julliard?”

I smile, but it’s no longer a proud smile. It’s just sad. “I did. But they still refused to let me pursue it. They wanted me to be a pharmacist.”

“Well, it’s not too late, you know,” he says, his expression rife with resentful determination. “You should chase your dreams, damn it.”

I wave him off. “No, I actually did that. Only it didn’t work out so well.” I clear my throat, twirling a stray piece of grass between my fingers, anything to give my hands something to do and my eyes something to focus on other than Rogan. “It was what I wanted, and even though my parents were against it and very upset with me for applying anyway, I packed up and left. I did what I wanted to do. At the time it didn’t matter what they wanted.”

“But it didn’t work out?” Rogan asks, his warm palm covering my bare foot nearest him.

“Not in the end. At first it was great. I accepted the scholarship and moved to New York. Within a couple of months of being at The Julliard, I was getting a lot of attention. Instructors, directors, local theater. They keep an eye on all the productions put on at the arts center and I guess for a while, I was the apple of their eye. The up-and-comer to watch.” My laugh is bitter. I can’t help it. It wells within me when I think back on my life, on my decisions. On fate. “I was in the paper a few times the summer after my freshman year. It was surreal. And that got me the notice of a guy.”

I take a deep breath, girding myself for what’s to come. Talking about it almost feels like reliving it. And I’d never want to do that. “He was charming and handsome, wealthy and accomplished. His father was influential. He was all that a girl with stars in her eyes needed to complete the picture. I dove right in, despite the fact that I didn’t really know him. Not really. For a while, it was perfect.”

When my pause drags on too long, Rogan prompts me. “But that didn’t work out either?”

I sigh softly, like the sound leaked right out of the never-quite-healed gash in my heart, along with a trickle of blood. Still too fresh. Always too fresh. “No. We moved in together before I found out that he had a temper. And that he wasn’t afraid of what a girl from nowhere might tell others. He knew no one would believe me.”

Rogan’s voice is steel when he asks, “He put his hands on you?”

I know he doesn’t mean sexually; he means physically. Abusively.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. And he knows that my silence is answer enough.

“It was worse when he was jealous, which he often was. He didn’t want me to have friends, he hated everyone that I had class with, he didn’t want me acting on Broadway, which I’d had an offer to do. Unfortunately, he expressed all this with few words and a lot of flying fists. And palms. And the occasional kick with his boot or whipping with the mean end of an extension cord.” I don’t glance up at Rogan. I can tell by his posture from the corner of my eye that he is rigid with anger. “When I finally got up enough nerve to leave him, he followed me. I should have known he would. He found me at a friend’s apartment. I’d gone there to stay until I could figure out something else. He waited for me to leave for my night class. Waited until I got in and rolled down my window, like I always used to do. Then he walked right up and threw alcohol at me. Bourbon, I think it was. It hit my left side and splattered down the door and onto the floorboard. I remember looking up at him, wondering what the hell he was doing. I started fumbling, trying to get my window rolled up, but I wasn’t fast enough. I saw him strike the match. His face was almost sad. Almost.”