Fire Inside (Chaos #2)(61)

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.

Chapter Nine

No Regrets

“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 f**k 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 f**k 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.