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  Hop was the kind of man who didn’t let you get a word in edgewise when you were somewhat arguing but you were also somewhat not arguing because he wouldn’t let you get a stinking, stupid word in edgewise.

  Hop was the kind of man who got mad at you because you gave head too good. Then he stormed out because you gave fantastic blowjobs that made him so wild, he buried himself inside you and forgot to put on a condom.

  Therefore it was good Hop was gone because if Hop was there, I would have kicked him out.

  “So that’s it. You got nothing?”

  My body jerked in the bed as his voice came from the door and something occurred to me.

  I was so busy trying not to think, I didn’t hear his Harley roar.

  I switched on the light, got up to my booty in the bed, shoulders to the headboard, and saw him casually leaning against my doorjamb. There was nothing casual about the look on his face.

  Still pissed but now, more.

  “Two weeks, you got nothing?” he asked.

  “What?” I asked back.

  “So that’s it,” he said again and I stared at him, perplexed.

  “What’s it?” I queried.

  He pushed from the doorjamb, took one step into the room, stopped and planted his hands on his hips.

  Unfortunately, all his hotness heated up significantly, hands on slim hips and handsome face angry.

  Fortunately, I was not only perplexed, I was getting angry, so this didn’t affect me as it normally would.

  “Lanie, you throw a shit fit when your soda fizzes over. The man you’re fuckin’ gets pissed and takes off, you got nothin’? You just put on a nightie, turn out the light and go to sleep?”

  I felt my eyes get wide as I pointed out, “Hopper, you didn’t give me the chance to give anything.”

  “You didn’t take your chance,” he shot back.

  “Are you serious?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t.

  “Do I look serious?” he asked back and I studied him.

  He did. In fact, he seriously looked serious.

  Something else hit me and I felt my brows shoot together. “Was that a test?”

  He shook his head as he took his hands from his hips and crossed his arms on his chest, which was unfortunate because that pose assumed by a badass biker with kickass tattoos of flames on his sinewy forearms was even hotter.

  By… a lot.

  “No. Don’t play games,” he announced. “Don’t wanna know what kind of men you’ve had in your bed before me outside of the one I do know so, since I know about him, you gotta know, I get it. No offense to the dead but unless he had Superman under all that geek, babe, I know whatever you got from him you liked but it wasn’t what you get from me.”

  He was not wrong about that.

  Hop kept going.

  “But the way I like it, you’ve had night after night of comin’ to know. So you knew what you were doin’ and you also knew, I said, ‘come here’, you come there. You know you’ll get your times to play but you also know I’ll fuckin’ give them to you. That’s the way I roll, the only way I roll. And last, you know you get off on that so do not try to bullshit that you don’t. So, no games. You pulled that shit anyway, knowin’ I wouldn’t be down with it so I was pissed. Then I sat on my bike, thinkin’ I shouldn’t haul ass but come back and work it out and as I was decidin’, I saw your light go out. You didn’t phone me. You didn’t text me. You didn’t even call my fuckin’ name as I walked out. I’m here, I’m gone, all the same to you. So, again, I’ll ask, that’s it?”

  I wasn’t entirely certain I understood his question at the same time, scarily, I thought I did.

  I went with what I thought but did it gently, “Honey, you know we don’t have that.”

  I found I was right when his mouth got tight right before it opened to say, “And you know, two weeks, no cool down, fuck, if anything, our fire is blazing brighter; that’s bullshit.”

  Oh God.

  “Hop—”

  “Or I thought so until your fuckin’ light went out.”

  He stared at me.

  I stared at him.

  Neither of us spoke.

  This time, Hop didn’t break it and it went on so long, it felt like the silence had become a weight and it started getting heavy on me. Heavy in a way I couldn’t breathe.

  I had to breathe. I had to let something out. Therefore, I had to share.

  Just a little bit.

  “I don’t have anything to give, Hop.”

  His response was immediate. “That’s bullshit, too.”

  I shook my head.

  He shook his, dropped his arms from his chest and came farther into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed.

  “Tyra will get it,” he declared then added, “eventually, and if she doesn’t, who gives a fuck? We do.”

  I felt my breath catch.

  We do.

  He got it.

  I got it.

  We got it.

  We absolutely did.

  It was a drug for him like it was for me. He was my crack. I was his.

  He’d just admitted it but I already knew it.

  Thirteen nights, dark until dawn.

  Feeling the hollowing of my belly whenever he left.

  Counting the minutes until he came back.

  I liked that he got it. I did. God, I did.

  But I couldn’t let myself like it.

  I also could absolutely not let myself have it.

  “It isn’t Tyra,” I told him.

  “You told her about us?” he asked instantly.

  I shook my head again.

  “It’s Tyra,” he stated, and he was right but only sort of.

  “It’s more, Hop,” I informed him.

  “Share,” he ordered on a clip, leaning in slightly and visibly losing patience.

  “You don’t get that,” I said softly and carefully.

  “Fuck me, babe, seriously?” he ground out then threw a hand toward the bed. “You knocked yourself out to make me wild. You told me your fuckin’ self. Why, Lanie? Why the fuck would you pull out all the fuckin’ stops to make a man already drunk on you drunker?”

  Oh God.

  He was drunk on me.

  Drunk.

  On.

  Me.

  I knew it but it felt good that he said it, right out, no lies, no hiding, no games.

  My mind screamed, Do not process that, Lanie!

  “I was just—” I started, scrambling to hold myself together.

  Hold myself back.

  “Don’t deny it, babe. Remember you came to me.”

  “For one night,” I reminded him.

  His hands went back to his hips as he bit out, “Jesus, that’s bullshit too.”

  “It isn’t, Hop. I told you then exactly how it was,” I returned.

  “You lied then and you’re lyin’ now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not,” I snapped but it didn’t sound angry. Stupidly, I didn’t control it and it came out sounding desperate.

  His head jerked. He heard it.

  Then he gave it to me.

  “You’re searchin’ for it, same as me. If you haven’t found it, fuck, babe, same as anybody.”

  No, no I wasn’t searching for it. I was, years ago. Then I thought I’d found it. Then I lost it.

  And I wouldn’t even allow myself to think he was searching.

  “I’m not,” I denied.

  “Serious as shit, Lanie, that’s bullshit too, worse than the rest ’cause you’re not only tryin’ to feed me that shit, you’re forcin’ it down your own fuckin’ throat.”

  This had to stop.

  I shook my head. “What you asked earlier—I’m sorry, honey, but the truth is, yes, that’s it.” I shrugged, hoping for nonchalant. “You’re gone, lights out.”

  His eyes narrowed in that scary, sexy way and suddenly he moved and he did it fast. He was no longer at the foot of the bed but
up it, knee in the mattress, arm around my waist, other hand behind my neck, both hauling me up with such power and speed my body slammed into his.

  I made an oof noise but that was all I got out before his hand at my neck moved, went between us and my nightgown was yanked up my belly.

  I felt myself instantly get wet as my body stilled.

  I stared into his eyes trying to breathe as his hand at my midriff slid back down, slow, light. I shivered but he wasn’t starting something, something fabulous, like angry fighting sex that might lead, hopefully much later, to non-angry make-up sex.

  He was saying something.

  My still body turned to stone when his fingers stopped.

  No, not when.

  Where.

  “You can’t hide it,” he whispered and I felt them, tears crawling up to choke me, biting the backs of my eyes, but I wouldn’t shed them.

  No way.

  I couldn’t give that to him.

  I didn’t have it left to give.

  “From the very first time, baby, I saw them. I saw them all. You can’t hide them,” he went on.

  I stared at him, unmoving, not speaking.

  “Here,” he ran his fingers light across the ridge on my belly. My scar. One of three. Opened up by a bullet, opened bigger by a scalpel. “Here.” He moved his hand to the pucker that ran along the top of my left thigh then his hand lifted. “And here,” he finished, his finger lifting to the mark that marred the skin just under my right breast.

  I kept staring at him, unmoving, not speaking.

  He held my eyes as his hand moved again, sliding down my arm, his fingers curling around my hand. He lifted our hands, pushed them between our bodies and pressed mine, palm flat, against my chest.

  Against my beating heart.

  “That’s you alive, Lanie,” he kept whispering then his head moved, coming my way, his lips hit the side of mine, his mustache tingling against my skin as his mouth slid along my cheek to my jaw and down, to my neck where he stopped and murmured against my pulse. “Feel you alive here, too, lady.”

  I closed my eyes, my hand against my chest closing in a fist, my other hand lifting and curling into the fabric of the sleeve of his tee.

  His lips and whiskers slid up to the skin just under my ear where he stated, “I’m right. You know it. You’re hiding. Right out in the open, Lanie, you’re trying to hide. Hide from me. Hide from everybody. I don’t know about everybody, lady, but you gotta know, you’re not hiding from me.”

  I dropped my head, my forehead hitting his shoulder, and I admitted, “I can’t do this.”

  “You won’t,” he returned.

  “I can’t,” I parried.

  “You won’t,” he repeated.

  I pulled in breath then did what I had to do.

  For me.

  For my protection.

  For my sanity.

  I stated, “Okay then, Hopper, I won’t.”

  I felt his whiskers prickle against my neck harder than normal as he shoved his face deep before he lifted his head and looked in my eyes.

  “Okay, lady, so you won’t. But we got tonight.”

  We had tonight.

  Tonight.

  Just tonight.

  I could do that.

  I could give myself tonight.

  One more night of not being alone. One more night of not being lonely.

  One more night of the drug that was Hop.

  “We’ve got tonight,” I agreed.

  His head dipped forward, his forehead coming to rest on mine as he closed his eyes and I felt it coming from him, the same thing I felt deep inside me, and my stomach hollowed out again in a way I knew it would never, ever feel full.

  And it was then I realized I’d felt hollow a really fucking long time.

  It was just that I really didn’t need to know that Hop felt the same way.

  I had this realization for about a second before his mouth moved to mine and he kissed me—not hard, but deep, wet, long and unbearably, excruciatingly sweet.

  Hop pressed his torso to mine, taking me to my back, kissing me sweet the entire time, his hands moving on me, under my nightie, whisper-soft against my skin, making me shiver, making my skin tingle, and then he did to me what he’d never done to me. He took his time. He was thorough. It lasted forever and it was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’d ever experienced.

  Beyond the best I’d ever had. It was the best I’d ever have.

  And what it was was Hopper Kincaid making love to me.

  After, when my mind was shut down, my body languorous, my limbs wound around the sheets, the pillow he’d tucked under me held tight, I watched him walk to the bathroom and then I watched him walk back.

  He didn’t grab his jeans.

  He didn’t grab me for another go.

  He switched off the light and I felt the sheets tugged gently away, the pillow pulled out and thrown to the head of the bed, his warm, long, lean, strong body sliding into bed beside mine, the sheets and comforter pulled up and, finally, he tugged me close and held tight.

  “Hop—” I whispered the start of my objection into his chest where my cheek lay.

  His arm tight around my back gave me a squeeze. “We’ve got tonight.”

  I shut up.

  Hop’s hand found mine, curled around it and pulled it up his chest where he rested it, and I could feel his heart beating, strong and true, against the back of my hand.

  I closed my eyes tight.

  “One more thing I want from you, Lanie,” he said into the dark and I closed my eyes tighter.

  I’d give him one thing. I’d give him a million things. I’d give him anything.

  I knew that in my bones.

  That wasn’t about great sex.

  That was about him tucking the covers around me before he turned out the lights.

  I didn’t tell him that.

  I didn’t say anything.

  Hop didn’t need me to.

  His arm again squeezed and, this time, stayed tight. “Those bullets tore through you, baby,” he said gently and I felt my body tense. His other hand let mine go, came up and slid into the side of my hair, holding my head to his chest as he kept talking. “But you didn’t leak out. You’re still here. You lost blood, Lanie, and someone you loved. But you’re still here. Give me one more thing before this is over and promise me you’ll try to find it in you to remember that.”

  So he would stop talking, I gave him what he wanted even if it was a lie.

  “I promise, Hop.”

  “Good,” he muttered, his hand pressing lightly against my head then sliding out of my hair, his palm gliding against my cheek before it fell away and he finished, “Sleep, lady.”

  Sleep, lady.

  I memorized his deep voice wrapping around those soft words as I replied, “Okay.”

  My cheek rose as his chest rose to take in a deep breath.

  My body relaxed as his chest fell when he let it out.

  I paid attention and I kept doing it until I fell asleep and I knew I fell asleep before Hopper did.

  But I slept deeply.

  I knew this because, hours later, when I woke up, he was gone.

  * * *

  That night, I sat on the couch, heels to the edge, knees to my chest, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, staring at it.

  Staring hard.

  I didn’t ever look at it. I didn’t even know why I’d put it there. I didn’t know why I didn’t hide it away. Pack it up in a box and shove it into the back of a closet so when I moved or when I died and someone went through my stuff, they’d find it and wonder. Wonder what it was. Who it was. And if they knew, they’d wonder why I kept it.

  I stared hard.

  Then my feet came out from under me, hitting the floor as I straightened out off the couch, walked to it, and snatched it off the shelf.

  I brought it to my face.

  Elliott and me. Arms around each other, my head on his shoulder.

  Smi
ling.

  Happy.

  I stared at the picture.

  I brought it closer, my eyes moving over his face in the only place it could ever be anymore, contained in a frame, and I found my lips whispering, “You got yourself killed, nearly got me the same way, got Tyra stabbed for… fucking… flowers.”

  Elliott had no reply.

  “You fucking asshole,” I hissed.

  Elliott made no response.

  My body twisted, my arm going with it, and the frame flew across the room, slamming against the wall, the glass shattering before the frame fell and the shards tinkled to the ground.

  I glared at it for long moments before I stomped to my purse, yanked out my iPod, and stomped to my stereo. I shoved the little thingie on the cord that led to my stereo into the little thingie on the top of the iPod, turned on the stereo, bent my head and moved my thumb on the pad until I found it.

  Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band: Nine Tonight (Live).

  I scrolled to the track, hit play, and walked to the couch, resuming my position, staring at my stereo as the crowd cheered then went silent as the piano started up and Bob started singing “We’ve Got Tonight”.

  I listened to the words.

  When the song ended, I got up, hit back, and played it again.

  I listened to the words.

  When it ended, repeat.

  And repeat.

  Again.

  And again.

  I did not cry.

  I would not cry.

  Not ever again.

  I didn’t have it in me.

  I had nothing left to give.

  I not only had nothing left to give, I just had nothing.

  And I was going to keep it that way.

  If you had nothing, you couldn’t feel more pain because you had nothing left to lose.

  Chapter Three

  My Eye on You

  Three weeks later…

  “Uh… Lanie, honey, where’s the frame?”

  I was smiling at Tack, who was standing in my doorway waiting for Tyra to pull the lead out and follow him to his bike, but at my best friend’s words I felt my smile freeze on my face.

  Tack didn’t miss it.

  Tack, the single-most decent man I’d ever met (regardless of how much he swore, which was maybe more than Hop did), was also the smartest.

  He didn’t miss anything.

  So when my smile froze, his sapphire blue eyes dropped to my mouth and his dark brows snapped together.