Own the Wind(107)

Lanie Heron.

He didn’t move. He kept leaning against the post that held up the roof over the patio area of the Compound, holding a beer and watching her move.

Jesus, she was one serious class act. Even when she came to a barbecue, to the Compound to shoot pool, or to a hog roast, communing with the brethren of the Chaos Motorcycle Club, she didn’t dress down. Designer gear, head to toe. She looked like a f*cking model except better, because she was real, right there, walking right to him, her eyes locked to his.

She was also one serious messed-up bitch.

This was not simply because the woman was pure drama. Fuck, he’d seen her create a scene because she wasn’t paying attention when she was pouring her Diet Cherry 7Up and it had fizzed over the top of the glass.

No, Lanie Heron was messed up because she stood by her man.

In normal circumstances, Hopper would find that an admirable trait in any woman, mostly because he knew by experience it was a rare one.

Not with Lanie.

This was because before he got shot to death, her man was even more messed up than she was. The proof of this was he was now very dead, and she had scars from the bullets her dead fiancé bought her because he wanted to give her some crazy-ass, out-of-season flowers for their wedding and he got involved with the Russian Mob to do it.

The f*cking Russian Mob.

For flowers.

Not messed up, f*cked up.

Before it all went down, she found out about him working for the Mob. Being a woman, of course, first, she busted his balls. Then she made a tremendously bad decision and stood by him even after his shit got her kidnapped. Then she watched him die and nearly got herself killed in the process.

Fucked up. Your old man gets involved with the Russian Mob, this gets your ass kidnapped, once you get rescued you kick him to the curb. No question. You just do it.

You don’t go on the lam with him and get yourself shot.

He watched her move his way, thinking all of this at the same time thinking about the moment he first saw her. It was the night she found out her old man was making whacked decisions in order to buy flowers. Even though, at the time, she was in full-blown drama mode, for once her drama being understandable, the second Hop saw her years ago, he’d thought she was definitely one fine piece of ass.

Watching her come his way, he had not changed his mind.

She was not his thing, normally. Too tall, too skinny, no ass, not enough tits and way too put together with her designer jeans and high-heeled boots that had to cost a f*cking mint.

But there was no denying her glossy, long, dark hair was f*cking gorgeous. And her green eyes defined what Hop always thought was stupid as shit, but in her case it was true. They were bedroom eyes. They were the eyes any man with a functioning dick would want staring into his as he was moving inside her.

Fuck, her eyes were amazing.

After she nearly lost her life standing by her man, she’d taken off, moved from Denver to be close to her family in Connecticut, and she stayed there for a while licking her wounds. This while lasted too long, according to Tyra, Lanie’s best friend and old lady to Kane “Tack” Allen, the president of Hop’s motorcycle club, the Chaos MC. Tyra, known to the boys as “Cherry,” flew out to Connecticut, reamed her ass, and hauled it back to Denver.

Lanie set herself up again in house and job, and now she was a staple at Chaos gatherings mostly because she was Tyra’s best friend. Also because the brothers liked looking at her so they didn’t mind her being around and even Hop had to admit her frequent dramas were pretty damned funny (when they weren’t annoying). You had to give it to anyone who was how they were no matter who was around, and that was pure Lanie. She was Lanie, she didn’t water that down, and she didn’t care what anyone thought of it.

This was the way of the biker, so men like Hop and his brothers could appreciate it.

That said, freaking out because your 7Up overflowed was over the top. Still, a bitch as gorgeous as Lanie Heron… f*ck, you’d watch her sitting around and watching TV. Having a fit over spilled soda was definitely worthwhile. Especially if she did it like she did it, jumping around so that hair was swinging, those eyes flashing and what little tits and ass she had moved right along with her.

As she got close, Hop tore his eyes off her and moved them through the crowd.

Tack nor Cherry were anywhere to be seen. This was not a surprise. It was late, things were getting rowdy, but that wasn’t why those two had disappeared. Hop knew they were either on Tack’s bike going back up the mountain to their house or they were in his room at the Compound. They were married, had been together awhile, neither of them were anywhere near their twenties, they had two young boys, but still, they went at each other like teenagers.

This also wasn’t a surprise. Tyra did have tits and ass, lots of hair, and a serious amount of sass. A woman like that was built to be bedded and often, and Tack took advantage. Then again, that was why Tack accepted her ball and chain. Actually, not so much accepted it as much as forced her to clamp her shackle on his ankle. Given the choice of waking up to Tyra Allen every morning, not many men wouldn’t.

“Hey,” he heard Lanie greet him and his eyes moved back to her.

“Hey,” he replied.

Her head tilted slightly down, her ear tipping to her shoulder even while her neck gave a small twist but her eyes never left his as she remarked, “Getting rowdy.”

“Always does,” he murmured, his gaze moving over her shoulder while he thought, Jesus, she was tall. She had to be five-nine not in those heels. In them, she was six foot one. His height. They were eye to eye.