Fire Inside

Chapter Eight “You’ll Accomp’ny Me”

Hop and I were sitting at a table in a biker bar that was so much better than the one I where I’d met Monster Truck Man, it wasn’t funny. That said, it was still rough but rough in a cool, kickass way, not a scary, precursor to being violated way.

Two mornings before, Hop had woken me early at his condo in Vail with a kiss that led to some cuddling and groping but he didn’t take it anywhere. Still, it felt nice and it was better than phone sex even if it didn’t lead to fruition. This was because it involved Hop, his hands, his mouth, his rough, sleepy voice right in my ear and his body right there for me to put my hands and my mouth on. It was fantastic.

We were up and out of bed before the kids woke. I was in the kitchen making pancakes when they cutely and sleepily made their way downstairs.

As an aside, Hop got gold stars because he had buttermilk available for pancakes. These stars started shining when he told me pancakes weren’t worth making without buttermilk and, since this was the God’s honest truth, I took it as happy indication that Hopper Kincaid and I might just be soul mates.

As they were waiting for pancakes, Hop gave the kids a vague explanation of why I was there, saying my parents had to go home early and he was helping out by giving me another day in Vail. The kids took this in but they did it in a way where I knew explanations were unnecessary. They liked pancakes. They liked being in Vail with their dad. They liked me. So it didn’t matter to them why I was there. They were just happy to go with the flow.

We did pancakes, we went into the Village, we had lunch then we headed home. Riding the high that was being with Hop and his kids, not to mention Hop coming to my rescue in a Dodge Ram the night before, I asked if they wanted to stick around when they dropped me off at my place and I’d make them dinner.

To this offer, I got two enthusiastic replies from the back of the cab and one eye slide complete with sexy, warm grin from the driver’s seat. I took this as ringing endorsement for my idea. I also didn’t try to stop myself from processing how nice that felt.

I didn’t have food so we stopped by the grocery store before we went to my house. Hop dragged my suitcase upstairs while the kids alternately explored and chattered to me and I made chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, thick white gravy with loads of pepper and green beans. Since I didn’t have time, I cheated on the key lime pie and made the pie my grandmother taught me how to make, “When you’re in a pinch, sugar plum.” That was, frozen lime juice concentrate mixed with Cool Whip, tossed into a premade graham cracker crust and chilled. It didn’t hold a candle to the real thing but, like Mamaw said, it did in a pinch or at least the way Hop, Molly and Cody wolfed it down, it seemed to.

Dinner was another revelation of all things Hop.

After taking my suitcase upstairs, he, like his kids, explored my house.

But there was something sweet and strangely profound in the way he did it. So much so, I found my eyes wandering to him and I found that warmth around my heart growing.

This was because I caught sight of him holding the framed picture of me and Lis. We were in profile, our foreheads pressed together, looking in each other’s eyes, smiling huge, clearly close and loving. When Hop was looking at it, his lips were curved up in a sexy smile, his eyes were soft, his expression something I felt like a physical touch. The same with the picture of Ty-Ty and me, both in little black dresses, both sitting at a swank bar, both holding a martini glass, both laughing so hard our heads were thrown back. The same when he ran one of his long fingers down the fake fur of the stuffed black panther I had on my couch. It was my aunt’s. She’d died young, but before she died she gave Lis and me a lot of loving. When she died, that panther was the only thing of hers I wanted. I got it and I kept it right on my couch so I could see it every day.

I could tell, because he didn’t hide it, that Hop liked having the opportunity to get to know me better by taking in the things I kept around me.

And I liked it that Hop liked it.

Another revelation was Hop and his kids eating my cooking. The kids just liked it, were polite enough to say so, but their enthusiasm while eating said it better.

For Hop, if there was a test to pass with him, the way he ate my food, I knew I’d passed it. But it was the way he looked at me after he took his third bite, the expression on his face taking all of my attention, his lips muttering, “Good food, babe,” that I knew it was less a compliment and more a revelation about me that he liked.

A whole lot.

And I liked that too.

Because of the kids, we didn’t get to make out when they left. We did get to have phone sex later because of Hop.

He called late. I answered on the first ring.

He opened with, “Not gonna push, lady. Not a good time to share over the phone and I want you to share when you’re ready to do it, but just wanna know, you good?”

I liked knowing he wasn’t going to push but still wanted to make sure I was okay.

“I’m good and, thanks for coming to my rescue and giving me a good day so it would take my mind off things.”

“One way or another, babe, got your back,” he replied, then he moved us out of the heavy and into the fantastic when he told me to cup my breast.

He gave me an orgasm and then gave me a warning before he rang off. “Now you owe me again. Tomorrow night, lady.”

This meant I went to sleep relaxed, happy, and looking forward to the next day.

I woke up refreshed.

After a weekend with my parents that included a blowout with my dad, this was a miracle.

And I owed it all to Hopper Kincaid.

Therefore, letting him in further, I called him that day at work.

He answered in one ring. “Lady.”

“Hey. Things good?” I asked.

“Kids are gone, which is not good. Took ’em to school so they’ll do the switchover without me havin’ to see their mom, which is good. And got plans with my woman tonight and that’s definitely good.”

This was an excellent answer.

I didn’t tell him that. I told him, “I need to know the dress code tonight.”

“The dress code is, you wear what you want. You work anything you put on,” he told me.

This was also an excellent answer.

“But, if you gotta plan,” he went on, “we’re goin’ to a bar to watch a band and they probably don’t have martini glasses.”

I smiled into the phone and confirmed, “Message relayed.” Then I asked, “A band?”

“My buddy’s the lead singer, lead guitarist of a band. Been at it for decades. They’re good. He and me’ll connect during their breaks. You and me’ll connect before they play and after we get home.”

Now that was an excellent answer.

Therefore, I gave him my understatement. “Sounds fun, honey.”

“The first part will be fun. The second part will be wow.”

I remembered Hop’s brand of “wow”.

Definitely something to look forward to.

I was smiling into the phone again when I said, “Gotta get back to work.”

“Pick you up at seven,” he replied.

“See you then, Hop.”

“Later, baby.”

“Later, honey.”

We disconnected and I smiled through the day. I did this even with the knowing looks I got from my staff. I also miraculously did this even after calling my sister to give her the lowdown of the weekend.

Elissa was ticked because it happened, livid at what Dad said to me, but happy I finally found the backbone to lay down the law.

“Now stick to it, Lanie,” she advised. “The thing that business with Elliott should have taught you is not what Dad says it should have taught you, but that life is way too short to put up with dysfunction like that. If Dad didn’t get the wakeup call from that whole scene then there’s nothing more you can do. Now, I know you have to work but I want sister time, ironclad, in your calendar, at least an hour so you can tell me all about this Hopper Kincaid guy. And you’ve got forty-eight hours to fit me into your schedule, girl. If you don’t, I’m flying to Denver and I’ll find out about this guy myself. It isn’t like the Chaos MC and Ride Custom Bikes and Cars are located in secret bunkers so don’t force me to do anything dramatic.”

Obviously, I’d had to tell my sister about Hop to give her the whole scoop about Dad. Also obviously, the drama gene had been inherited from Mom by both of us.

“I’ll call you tomorrow at lunch,” I assured her.

“Holding you to that,” she returned. “Now, you get back to work.”

We rang off and I got back to work. I knew she got back to work, too, but this consisted of doing laundry, cleaning house, doing school runs and cooking for a family of four, thus she was probably a lot busier than I was.

Later, Hop picked me up and took me to the bar and Hop did all this again without pushing me to share what had happened with Dad.

For some reason, we weren’t on his bike. We were in the Ram, so there were opportunities to talk on the way to the bar, as well as when we shared a Lanie-approved evening meal of bar food including hot wings, fried mushrooms, and stuffed potato skins. He just didn’t force me to talk. Not about that.

We ate. We drank beer. We chatted. We laughed.

Hop, without my drama, his kids, or sex, was mellow and amusing. I knew this since I’d known him for years but having all that to myself, his body close, our knees brushing, his attention solely on me, felt so good it was hard to process. Not because I wasn’t letting myself do it, just because I’d never had anything so simple and good.

And right.

I’d dated a lot. I’d had more than my fair share of male attention. I’d been treated to posh restaurants, the finest champagne and effusive compliments. Elliott, in his geeky, sweet Elliott way, gave me all of that in spades.

Hop gave none of that to me.

But that date was the best I’d ever had.

Bar none.

Feeling very good about all of this, the remains of our grease fest laying in front of us, new beers having recently been added, I turned to Hop. We were sitting side-by-side at a round table facing a now empty stage so when I turned and leaned in, my breast brushed Hop’s arm and he immediately gave me his attention.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything,” he replied.

Another excellent answer.

I smiled and leaned farther in, something Hop liked and I knew it when he twisted to me, lifting his arm to lay it on the back of my chair as he moved closer.

“You know the Club talks,” I started and watched his face change. His expression wasn’t guarded but it was clear he was bracing for what I’d say next.

“Yeah,” he prompted when I said no more.

“Well, all the boys have nicknames,” I told him something he knew. “But you don’t. Your name is Hopper which is kind of… unusual.”

His expression cleared and he moved closer to me as he grinned. “You wanna know how I got my name.”

“I’ve always been curious,” I shared.

His grin got bigger and his eyebrows inched up. “Always?”

I took a breath.

Then I let him in farther.

“Yeah. Since I found out that was your real name. Always,” I confirmed.

He took his arm from the back of my chair, slid his fingers through the hair at the side of my head, then rested it back on my chair, all this while grinning, this time with approval.

Only after that did he begin.

“My dad, if given the choice, which he wasn’t, would have been in an MC. No doubt.”

There was not much there and yet, there so was.

“Uh…” I mumbled in an effort to communicate this to him. Hop’s grin became a smile and his arm gave my chair a jerk so our thighs were plastered together and I was super close.

“My younger brothers are named Jimmy and Teddy,” he told me. “Jimmy’s a high school gym teacher and basketball coach. He’s got an ex-wife who married a man who makes a lot more than Jimmy does and she doesn’t hesitate to rub his nose in it. They have two boys. Now he’s got a new woman who is the shit. She treats him like a king, loves his kids. So his ex can be as big a bitch as she wants. He’s got it good so he doesn’t give a fuck.”

I nodded and Hop went on.

“Teddy apprenticed to be a cabinetmaker, made journeyman and about two days later, decided he wanted to be an electrician. He went all the way with that and now he’s apprenticing as a plumber. His whole life, he’s been restless. The fact that he’s had three professions and five ex-wives and he’s in his early thirties lays testimony to that bullshit.”

Although this was all fascinating, most especially how it was even possible to have five ex-wives and be in your early thirties, it didn’t explain Hopper’s name.

“Well…” I started and Hop kept smiling at me.

“What I’m sayin’ is, Dad got in there before Mom could do shit about it and he named me a name he liked. The name he thought sounded like the name for a biker. Hopper, James, and Theodore don’t go together, so you can take it as Mom learnin’ her lesson and layin’ down the law after me. Mom was good at layin’ down the law. Dad was good at gettin’ his balls busted. Lookin’ back, I get this. She was a knockout and still is. Beautiful. But hard. Tough. Bossy. And sometimes mean. He took it as long as he could, and when I say that I mean he ate that shit every day of his life until he couldn’t eat it anymore. He left her and the next day bought his first Harley. Now he has three. I reckon it was part born in me, part given to me by my old man, since he took me, not Jimmy or Teddy, to the bike shops all the time. He talked to the salesmen, the customers, practically fuckin’ salivatin’, wishin’ he was livin’ his dreams. Now he lives the life he always wanted but he doesn’t live it how he wanted because she’s not in it.”

Oh dear.

“So, you’re saying, he still loves her?” I asked carefully.

“Yeah. I’m sayin’ that and I’m sayin’ the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I’m a lot like my dad, includin’ the fact I found a hard, bossy, tough-as-nails woman I thought I could fix and make happy. Unlike my dad, when I could take no more, I moved on. He didn’t. Like me and Mitzi, my parents don’t get along. This is because Mom still wants to control Dad and he’s not down with that, but Dad still loves Mom so he’s always strugglin’ with the idea that maybe he should be. It’s not cool and it’s hell on the kids. Dad comes out two or three times a year but he only does it anytime he hears word Mom’s thinkin’ of comin’ out. So he makes his plans and she gets shitty and backs off. Kids see their granddad but they haven’t seen their grandma in three years. He plays that shit with her all the time just to dick with her ’cause he’s pissed she isn’t what he needs her to be. Drives her nuts and she gives that anger to me, and while he’s here I have to listen to his shit when he crows about stickin’ it to her. It’s insane and a pain in my ass.”

It sounded like a pain in the ass.

“That isn’t very nice,” I noted, again carefully.

“Nope,” Hop agreed. “But I can’t find it in me to say she doesn’t deserve it. The best day of my life up to then was the day he left her. She busted his balls and he took it but that didn’t mean he didn’t go down without a fight. They fought all the fuckin’ time. Morning, noon and night. Loud. Vicious. Told you kids suck shit up like a sponge. With that, Jimmy, Teddy, and me didn’t have to suck it up. It was shoved down our throats. She was still a bitch after he left but at least we didn’t have to listen to our mother and father tearing into each other all the fuckin’ time. It was a relief.”

I wrapped my fingers around his thigh and said quietly, “That doesn’t sound like a fun upbringing.”

“It wasn’t,” Hop confirmed. “Dad’s a good guy but eventually boys grow up and look at their old man and they can do one of two things. Have somethin’ they wanna emulate or get scared shitless that they’ll grow up just like him. Jim, Ted, and me, we got the last. Jim, like me, fucked up and moved on. Teddy’s so busy movin’ on, he hasn’t settled so he fucks up constantly. Not a great legacy for either of my folks to give their boys. Honest to Christ, babe, if they weren’t such good grandparents, I’d be done with the whole fuckin’ thing. But they love Molly and Cody. My kids and Jimmy’s kids do not get any of the shit we were treated to, and I want my kids to have that. So even though they bite at each other and that reminds me of unhappy times, I put up with it because the kids have to have one set of grandparents who love them unconditionally, and not with the haze of hatin’ their mom and dad hangin’ over every damned thing.”

“That makes me sad not only for you but for Molly and Cody,” I admitted, and after the words left my mouth, his hand curled around the back of my neck and he leaned in so he was all I could see.

“That’s why you make buttermilk pancakes and, when the opportunity for a weekend in the mountains comes up, you jump on it. Why, when a beautiful woman offers to make dinner, you take her up on it immediately ’cause you wanna be with that woman but you also want your kids to be around beauty and the goodness of a home-cooked meal. Why, when the last thing you wanna do is play fuckin’ Pictionary, you do it ’cause you don’t remember one single good time in your life that involved both of your parents that didn’t end in ugly words or an out-and-out fight. Why, they laugh and you hear it’s carefree, you feed on that shit because you know they know you hate their mother but they still got it in them to laugh real, deep, from their fuckin’ gut. So even though that shit is all shit and they know it as much as you do, it didn’t seep into their blood like you were scared as fuck it would and you rejoice in that.”

When Hop was done talking, I was staring at him and I wasn’t breathing.

All I could do was take him in and let each of his words, the depth of love he had for his kids, settle straight into my soul.

I must have done this for a while because I felt his fingers tense at my neck and he called, “Lanie?”

I pulled in a breath and then told him straight. “You’re a good man, Hopper Kincaid.”

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.