Tough Enough

But not for Rogan.

Not for the man who I fell in love with. Not for the man who held me so tenderly and kissed my scars so sweetly. Not for the man who has given so much for the people he loves.

I have the power to help him and his brother.

If I’m tough enough to go through with it.

As I consider the Senator’s words, I think of letting Calvin back into my life, even in this controlled way on a temporary basis. The thought makes my physically ill. My belly roils with nausea and remembered fear. My skin feels cold and clammy, and my hand shakes where I hold the phone to my ear.

Let Calvin back in. When I practically had a panic attack just seeing him after Rogan’s fight. How can I do that? How can I stand to be near him? How could I smile pretty for a camera like I’m not shriveling on the inside just being in the same room with him? How could I do that? When he took so much from me—everything, in fact—how could I do that?

I fold over so that blood can rush to my dizzy brain. I squeeze my eyes shut like maybe when I open them, I’ll be somewhere else. Maybe someone else.

But then I see twinkling green eyes and a lopsided grin. They pop into my mind as if by answer.

How could I do that?

Rogan.

That’s how I could do it. For those eyes, for that smile, for that man, I would do almost anything. But does that include this?

“My offer is not without its time restrictions, you understand,” the Senator says when I suppose I’ve been silent for too long, drowning in the idea of a misery I’m not sure I can face.

“I . . . I just . . .” I’m finding it hard to breathe even considering this. It’s as though the fire of my past is consuming all the oxygen from the room of my present, leaving me no air. Saliva pours into my mouth and my chin trembles with emotion. But despite my body’s reaction, my heart remembers only one thing. Rogan. I can do it for Rogan.

Or would the truly strong, truly tough thing to do be to find another way? To outwit the Senator and his son? To beat them at their own game and save Rogan my way?

Liquid steel pours through me, strengthening me in all my hurt places, reminding me that I’ve come so far and that I’m better than this, stronger than this. They can’t rule me anymore. I’m not the victim anymore. This time, I will win.

“I’ll do it.”

“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for. Maybe you’d have been a good match for my son after all.”

“You can go to hell, because when this is over, I don’t expect to ever see either one of you again. Not as long as I live.”

I hear a smile in his voice again, one that causes a shiver of apprehension to ripple down my spine. “That can be arranged,” he says in a snakish way. “I’ll be in touch.”

The line goes dead, leaving me alone in my kitchen with a combination of bad memories and rock-hard determination.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Rogan

I’m not sure how I’ve made it through the last month. I’ve tried everything from exhaustion to redirection, and nothing seems to work. I even tried to get the Colonel to let me come and help him, help him find the man who’s targeting our team, but that didn’t work either. Couldn’t get ahold of him. Not that I’d be much help anyway. My focus is shit right now. Hell, I could be the next target for all I know, and I’d be a pretty easy one since I’m out of hiding in Enchantment and distracted as shit. But still, it’s the farthest thing from my mind. At least Katie is safe from that threat. We weren’t together very long and we were never public, so she was never in any danger.

Katie.

The only thing that’s getting me through the days is rage, I suppose. I’ve let it consume me. Well, I don’t know if I’ve let it, so much as it just has. It’s that or go completely batshit crazy. I didn’t realize what an important part of my life Katie was until she was no longer in it at all.

But I’m stuck. Trapped.

Some of it has been my own doing, some not. The thing is, I can’t change the past. As much as I wish I could, there are too many things beyond my control¸ things that have nothing to do with Katie. Yet everything to do with why I’m not with her right now.

I jerk off my sparring gloves and throw them aside in a fit of temper. I turn and walk off the mat, ru

But then what? Would I have kept it from her? Not told her I knew them, worked with them? Maybe I’d have told her elaborate lies. Or just never let her find out.

No.

Hell no. I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d taken away her right to choose like that. Even if I knew that choice would mean the end of us. And that’s just what it cost me—her. Us.

She thinks I’m a pile of shit for associating with the Simses. Actually, I couldn’t agree more. But it’s not just me who would suffer if I cut ties. And that’s what makes me stuck.

If it were just me or my career, or even my ass on the line, I’d choose her over them so fast it would make their heads spin. But it’s not. Only she can never know that. No one can. It’s a secret I have to keep.

That doesn’t mean that I’m sitting idly by, letting those two bastards get away with what they did, though. I’ve been having that shithole Calvin followed since the morning after Katie left. I’ll get him for something. I’ll nail his ass to the wall. For Katie. Even though no one will know that it was me who did it or that she’s the reason. That doesn’t matter, though. I’ll know. And that’s how I’ll be able to sleep at night. Well, what little bit of sleep I actually get without Katie.

THIRTY-NINE

Katie

I wake with a pounding heart and a heaving chest. My dream . . . it was so real. I was at work with my back to the door, putting away some new products, when Calvin walked in. I turned to find him just a few feet away, watching me. As big as life. As big as my nightmares.

I realize now that he hasn’t changed much. I didn’t really notice at Rogan’s match; I was too stu

His hair is still dark sable and cut short. He’s got the hair of an aristocrat. And why not? He’s like political royalty because of his father. His face is still handsome even though I’d much rather see it after a truck tire rolls over it. His eyes are still the same greenish blue, but in my dream, the pretense was gone. There was not a shred of kindness in the cold depths. He’d stopped playing the game. We’d come to an understanding. I know just what lies beneath the surface and he’s not going to waste his energy trying to convince me that I don’t.

I shudder involuntarily as I think about glancing down at his hands in my dream, hands that brought me such pain during the year we were together. Hands that ultimately stole everything from me with the simple flick of a match.

Even as I curl onto my side under the covers, I still feel every single emotion as if I’d actually experienced the whole thing. In a way, I guess I did. It was as if I’d actually gone through with it. But this . . . this is why I have to call Rogan. I have to fight this. I can’t trust them. I won’t trust them. Not with my life. Not with a day. And certainly not with Rogan’s future.