Fire Inside: A Chaos Novel (23 page)

His expression changed again, surprise sifting through then warmth settling in.

“That beats out you telling me I’m distracting for the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he replied.

I closed my eyes.

“Babe,” he called.

I opened my eyes and his hand sifted up into my hair.

“I liked you asked. I liked you were curious. I liked gettin’ to share. I want you to know my history but what I want you to take from what I told you is, I didn’t learn my lesson from my dad goin’ through that. I learned it by goin’ through it. But I learned it, Lanie. That monster in you I gotta beat, that isn’t me pickin’ through hard ice hopin’ to find a warm core. Women twist shit in their heads, even innocent shit you say. Don’t twist any of that. You know a lot of the reasons I’m sittin’ here with you right now. I’ll tell you another one and that is, you’ve been around. I’ve watched you. I know you. And I know you’re the kind of woman who can sit in a bar, eat shit food, drink beer, laugh and enjoy herself without any games or bullshit. A good night. An easy night.” He grinned. “It took a while for me to get to it but now that I got it, it’s what I expected. Somethin’ I knew I’d like a fuckuva lot.” His hand slid back to my neck before he whispered, “And I do.”

I had no idea what to say to that so I just said a breathy, “Okay.”

His repeated, “Okay,” was not breathy but I got breathier, and this was because his hand at my neck was putting pressure on, his eyes dropped to my mouth and I knew he was going to kiss me.

I wasn’t wrong.

In a rough but cool bar, with the delicious mix of beer and Hop on his tongue, Hopper Kincaid kissed me like he always kissed me, thoroughly and beautifully.

I kissed him back like I always kissed him, happily and dazedly.

He pulled back but even as he did, his hand slid from my neck to my jaw and his thumb swept out and he did what he sometimes did after we had sex (or before or, it could happen, during). His thumb moved over my lips, putting pressure on, dragging my lower lip with it as he watched my mouth intently.

There was something about this crude but intimate gesture I didn’t quite get but I liked. It was claiming. It was like he was taking me in, through touch and sight.

No, not taking me in, branding me. My lips were his. No one else’s. Hopper Kincaid’s. And doing that, beyond my lips, everything that was me, staking his claim at a place so intimate as my mouth, was his too.

Me.

All of me.

His.

I felt that warmth settle around my heart at the same time I felt a tickle up my spine and the tip of my tongue slid out slightly, tasting the salt of his thumb.

His eyes watched my tongue before they cut to mine. His thumb swept away and the pads of his fingers dug in as he yanked me to him, this time forcefully. His mouth slamming on mine, again Hop kissed me like he often kissed me, thoroughly, beautifully but also deep, wet, rough and
long.

And I kissed him back like I always kissed him. Happily and dazedly but, this time, more of both.

The kiss only ended when we heard the sounds of a live (loud) rock band suddenly crashing our way. At the sound of cheers from the crowd, Hop’s lips left mine and we both turned to the stage.

Five men, all Hop and my age, all around (but not quite) Hop’s gorgeousness (except the drummer who was, alas, not all that good-looking but his manic smile and his clear talent with a backbeat made up for it in a huge way), were on the stage rocking right the heck out.

Within the first few notes, the crowd went wild, especially the women—whose ages ranged from too young to be in a bar to women who either had ten decades on me or needed more moisturizer—that were dancing up front.

During the first two songs I realized I’d been so into Hop I hadn’t noticed that this wasn’t a live-band-at-the-local-biker-bar crowd, but that the vastness of bodies taking up the soon heaving space in front of the stage meant this band was a big draw.

There was a reason why.

The band wasn’t good. They were fantastic.

So fantastic, I wondered why they were playing a local biker bar. The only reason I could come up with was that the music they played with ease and sheer, swelling rock goodness, were all covers.

Luckily, the stage was up high so the mass of bodies out front didn’t limit our view. Although every muscle in my body was screaming at me to get up and move to the beat, sing out loud and enjoy the vibe, Hop’s arm around my chair kept me anchored, slouched into him, tapping the beat with my toe.

But I did it smiling.

It was after song five when the lead singer stopped the music in order to speak into his microphone.

“Those of you who been with us for years, you’ll know, sixteen years ago, we lost the best front man in the business. Tonight, you give him a yell, he might come up here and show you how we used to do it. Caid! Why don’t you get your ass up here?”

I found this confusing—not only the wall of sound from the crowd that concluded this announcement, but also the fact that the lead singer seemed to be looking directly at Hop.

It hit me that “Caid” was Hop when I heard him mutter, “Fuckin’ shit.”

Part of the older contingent of groupies started to chant, “Caid, Caid, Caid!”

Still, I was stunned when Hop leaned into me and murmured in my ear, “Be back, babe,” before he straightened from his chair and headed around the table.

“Oh my God,” I whispered to no one as I watched Hop wind his way through the crowd to pats on his back, applause, and come-hither eyes.

He took a big step up to the stage, and I watched him do a man hug with the lead singer before moving to shake hands with the bassist and give a chin lift to pianist, keyboard guy, and drummer. A guy who appeared to be a roadie ran on stage with a guitar.

“Oh my God,” I repeated as Hop looked at the guitar, then wrapped a hand around its neck and lifted the strap over his head.

Hop played guitar.

Hop had been in a rock band.

Oh my God!

He was looking down, strumming the instrument like he was getting used to it, when the roadie handed him an amp plug and he shoved it into the guitar.

Another cheer rose from the crowd.

He was going to sing.

And play.

Hopper Kincaid, badass biker and hot guy, was going to
sing
and
play
with a
rock band.

I wasn’t surprised when I immediately felt my panties get wet (or wetter, considering his last kiss started that action).

I watched Hop do a lips-to-ear brief chat with the lead singer. The lead nodded enthusiastically, grinning like a lunatic, then he turned to his band and shouted something I couldn’t hear.

Hop went to the microphone that was front and center.

I again stopped breathing.

“Gotta do this shit again, gonna make it count,” he growled into the microphone, his voice coming through the speakers rougher and sexier than ever, and the crowd again went wild. He started strumming and my heart stopped beating when he finished, “This is for Lanie.”

When the bassist kicked in, my hand darted out to wrap around the edge of the table, to hold on even though I was sitting, eyes glued to Hop as he started singing about gypsy wind and scarlet skies in that growly, sexy voice of his, his eyes locked to mine.

Then Hopper Kincaid, badass biker and hot guy, sang Bob Seger’s “You’ll Accomp’ny Me” straight to me.

Straight.

To.

Me.

Words I’d heard time and again (and enumerable times recently) came from his beautiful lips and pummeled right into me.

Exquisite pain.

The kind you wanted to feel every day for the rest of your life.

It was the pain of finally having something you wanted. Something you’d longed for. Longed for since you had memories. Something life taught you to believe you’d never have. Something, if you lived without it, it left a void in your soul you knew would never be filled. Something, without it, you knew you’d never be whole.

It was something you needed.

It was as necessary as breath.

It was what was required to complete you.

And, I found in those four minutes as Hopper sang to me, when you got it, it filled you so full you thought you’d rupture but it was so precious, you would do anything to hold it all in and not lose a drop.

Not one drop.

That was what Hop gave to me by telling me through Bob Seger’s words exactly how he felt about me.

And what he intended to do about it.

By the time he was done, every inch of my skin was tingling, my eyes were burning from holding back tears, and my fingers hurt from gripping the table.

And when he was done, I had no idea what to do. How to communicate what I was feeling. How to tell him what he needed to know.

But I was Lanie Heron and even if my mind was scrambled by the beauty of all Hop had just given me, my body knew exactly what to do.

So I straightened from my chair. I put one high-heeled boot into the seat, pulled myself up and turned to Hop. Then I lifted the fingers of both hands to my lips and threw them out toward a good man, a handsome man…

My man.

Then I shrieked like a groupie,
“You are the shit, Hopper Kincaid!”

It was the right thing to do. It got me a sexy smile that I was pretty sure melted my panties clean away (and those of most of the women in the audience) before he followed the
Nine Tonight (Live)
playlist, turned to his friend. His mouth moved and they went right into “Hollywood Nights”.

I danced on my chair until a bouncer told me I had to get down.

Hop finished the first set with his boys and then the entire band joined us for a drink at both their breaks.

Hop held me so close while he was talking to his buddies I was practically in his lap.

Later, looking back, I had no idea if I even spoke a word.

But I do remember smiling so big and for so long, the next morning, my face hurt.

Like I said.

Exquisite pain.

“So, you were a rock star?”

I grinned as I watched Hop press his handsome head into the pillow and burst out laughing.

It was Tuesday night.

I was in Hop’s bed at Hop’s house. It was the first time I’d been there.

I found, after following his directions, that Hopper Kincaid lived in a nondescript split-level on a cul-de-sac in a regular neighborhood, not a clandestine biker bunker I had to be led to blindfolded.

This was a surprise but not a disappointment.

The house was nice although it was clear he could spend more time on the yard. The moment after I had this thought, my mind purged it. Hopper Kincaid and yard work didn’t go together. What did go together was, if his neighbors didn’t like it, since he was a badass biker, they probably didn’t complain and just put up with it.

The minute I walked in (after Hop laid a hot and heavy one on me in the open doorway), I was assaulted by décor that shouted,
“A man lives here!”

The prevailing colors were black and brown.
Dark
brown. The feel wasn’t “sit and stay a while,” but “kick back and lounge for however long you want, preferably with a beer.”

It was not the way I would decorate but I had to say, I liked it.

It was pure Hop.

There was framed rock memorabilia everywhere. Signed pictures of Springsteen, Seger, Clapton, Page, these intermingled with framed tickets, rock concert posters, and posters from motorcycle rallies.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to peruse this Museum of Rock (and Motorcycle Rallies) because dinner was ready and I got surprise number two of the night.

Hop could cook.

He made a meatloaf that had been basted in a sweetened tomato sauce that was out of this world. It was so good Mamaw would approve, and that was saying something.

When I shared this information, he grinned at me and stated, “Don’t get excited, lady. I can kick ass with ground beef and I can broil the fuck out of a pork chop but outside that, my cooking is not much to write home about.”

I was looking forward to him “broiling the fuck out of a pork chop” for me, but I didn’t share that mainly because I was shoveling meatloaf in my mouth.

Now, the dirty dishes were in the sink and we were in Hop’s bed. This was because he didn’t waste time after dinner in starting the tour of his house. This included a lot more man stuff, the not-surprising knowledge that Hop wasn’t exactly tidy, and the equally not-surprising knowledge that Cody was a Hop Mini-Me (seeing as his room was filled with motorcycle and rock stuff).

The revelation was Molly’s room, which was painted a pastel yellow and decorated effusively in every shade of purple under the sun, with a liberal sprinkling of daisies in the form of daisy lamps, a daisy motif to the bedclothes, daisy prints on the walls, and a daisy nightlight.

Glancing into Molly’s room was more proof badass biker Hopper Kincaid loved his daughter. It didn’t belong in this rambling, split-level man cave.

And yet, getting to know Hop, it absolutely did.

The end of the tour was Hop’s room, and I was again surprised when confronted with a mammoth, black leather-padded waterbed. Although it looked incredibly cool, I’d slept on a waterbed twice in my life and, albeit an adventure, being tossed on the waves every time you twitched wasn’t my idea of a restful night.

I didn’t have a chance to think much on this because Hop wasted no time ending the house tour and beginning another one.

The new tour lasted two hours.

During it, it took Hop thirty whole minutes to take all my clothes off me. It took ten more for me to get all his off him.

In other words, it was about taking our time. It was about exploration, rediscovery and memorization, of touch, taste, sound, and sensation.

Two hours.

Two hours
of making love.

It was phenomenal and, by the time Hopper slowly slid inside of me, his eyes holding mine, I was so primed, I came instantly. I did it hard and it lasted a long time.

And it was the best I ever had.