Fire Inside by Kristen Ashley
“Be back,” he muttered.
I slid my eyeballs up to him sitting on the side of the bed and nodded, then watched him walk to the bathroom.
He disappeared. I studied the fabulous décor of Hotel Monaco, which was just like all the pictures on their website said it was cracked up to be.
I did not think about relaxing with Hop in a hotel room that was supposed to be mine but he made ours.
I did not think about ending up making love with him in the bed in that room.
I didn’t think of anything.
He came out of the bathroom, turned out the lights, and slid in bed beside me.
Only after he arranged me pressed tight to his side and partially draped on his front, his arm tight around me, his other arm crossing his chest to sift through the side of my hair and along the length of my back, did I think about something.
“Hop, will you listen to me?” I whispered to his chest, a chest I was cuddling.
“Yeah, lady.”
“This has to end,” I told him honestly but insanely, considering I was cuddling him after having sex with him. “For me.”
His hand in my hair stilled before his body turned into mine, his hand going to the back of my head, cupping me there and pressing my face to his throat as his other arm held me close.
“This has to keep goin’,” he replied, both his hand and arm giving me a squeeze. “For you, lady.”
I closed my eyes tight and felt Hop’s lips come to the top of my hair.
“Got a monster to beat,” he murmured there.
I opened my eyes and admitted, “It lives in me, Hopper. I know it. It can’t be beat.”
His hand moved as his body shifted slightly and I found my cheek pressed to his chest.
In this position, held close to his long, hard, warm frame, I heard him whisper, “We’ll see.”
I closed my eyes again.
Kung pao shrimp.
I sighed.
Tomorrow, I’d plan.
My body, powerless against Hop’s pull, pressed closer.
Tonight…
Whatever.
Chapter Six
Getting to Me
Six days later…
I stood at the end of my bed staring at my packed suitcase that was ready for my trip to Vail. Except for closing it, I was all packed.
Sorted.
I looked to the clock on the nightstand.
I had thirty minutes until the limo arrived.
My parents were up in the air, fast approaching Denver International Airport. Soon, we’d be driving up to Vail, with Mom chattering at the same time fretting about getting to a liquor store.
And me…
Me…
I was screwed.
Suffice it to say that in the last six days, I had not formed a plan.
No, I had not.
Not even close.
* * *
Last Sunday, waking up at Hotel Monaco tangled with my fix, I partook of the high immediately. Or, more accurately, Hop woke up in the mood and wasted no time bringing the mood over me.
First thing in the morning sex led to cuddling, ordering room service, having a shower, watching TV, having more sex, ordering more room service, dozing, watching more TV, ordering more room service, having more sex and then falling asleep.
All with Hop.
I didn’t even protest.
I just went with the flow and essentially gorged myself on the drug that was Hop.
It was fantastic.
Monday morning we woke early, checked out, and Hop drove my car and me home. He kissed me at my front door and walked out, and I watched through the plantation shutters as he swung into the passenger seat of a black van driven by High.
They drove away.
I didn’t allow myself to think of anything but getting to work and taking advantage of being ahead of the game for once.
Mid-afternoon, Hop called me.
“Like I told you, babe, got the kids this week. Thought they had a gig tonight that meant they’d be home later so we could have dinner and do a little business. Their gig’s cancelled so they’ll be home after school. Can’t do dinner or business.”
This, I told myself, was a relief, but even as I told myself this I didn’t believe myself.
“Okay, Hop,” I said.
“I’ll come tomorrow, take you to lunch.”
Oh dear.
I had to come up with a plan to end things. Or, more accurately, buy time to create an elaborate plan that might actually work against the onslaught of all things Hopper Kincaid.
“I can’t,” I told him. “I have a lunch appointment tomorrow.”
This, fortunately, was true.
“Wednesday,” Hop immediately replied.
Damn. I didn’t have a lunch appointment on Wednesday and I needed a lot more time to create a plan that was so elaborate it might actually work.
“I work through lunch,” I informed him. It was lame but it was all I had.
“My old lady doesn’t work through lunch. She gets food in her belly and she does it eating with her old man. See you at noon.”
This was Hop’s response right before he hung up on me.
I stared at my phone for long moments before dialing him back.
Smartly, probably knowing why I was calling, Hop didn’t answer.
Gah!
Half an hour later, I received a call from a potential, huge client. They were having some issues with the creativity of their current agency drying up and they were shopping around for fresh ideas. They were giving a number of agencies a try including my agency as well as my old agency who had half-heartedly made efforts to undercut me at the same time made overtures for us to merge, something that was not going to happen. I liked being my own boss. I liked the freedom to create without someone breathing down my neck. And anyway, my offices were way cooler than their offices.
The potential client was a heavy hitter and had a massive advertising budget. It could mean big things that didn’t only include more money but possibly more clients. This approach was good. No, fabulous.
I wanted that action.
That was the good news. The bad news was, they wanted a pitch on Thursday which was nigh on impossible with the current workload even if I had come to work ahead of the game.
This meant that by Tuesday afternoon, when Hop called again, I’d worked until ten the night before and had my mind on our pitch, not on my plan to end things with Hop.
“How you doin’, lady?” he asked when I answered.
“Crazed, Hop. We have a potential new client and to build the pitch, keep up with other stuff and be able to take off Friday afternoon to meet my folks, I can’t do lunch tomorrow.” After I delivered this, I lowered my voice to finish, “I’m sorry.” And I did it actually being sorry.
Even though I didn’t want to, I had to admit, I missed my fix.
“That’s cool. I’ll bring sandwiches to your office.”
I stared at my desk blotter.
Why did I think I might get away with a valid excuse?
“Hop, seriously. It’s nuts around here.”
“Lanie, seriously, with your work, my kids and your parents here this weekend, my time seein’ you is curtailed in a way I don’t like a whole fuckin’ lot so I’ll bring sandwiches, you work, I’ll see you and it’ll all be good.”
“You’re distracting,” I snapped and this was met with silence. When that lengthened, I called, “Hop?”
“Nicest thing you’ve said to me,” he answered, a smile in his voice I felt in the region of my heart. “When I’m not fuckin’ you, that is,” he amended. “And outside you askin’ me if I wanted to fuck you and all the shit you said with that the first time you asked me to fuck you,” he went on.
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.
“Right. Leavin’ you to get back to work after you tell me what kind of sandwich you like,” he stated.
I rolled my eyes to my computer. “This conversation could
“Yep,” he replied, another smile in his voice.
Ty-Ty was not wrong. These boys rolled right on through even if you didn’t want them to. How I found this both irritating and attractive, I had no idea. I didn’t process that, either, except the irritating part.
“You do realize that’s kind of a jerky thing to do when you know I don’t have time to fight with you,” I pointed out.
“Yep,” he replied, still with a smile in his voice, which also meant no remorse.
“You don’t care, do you?” I asked to confirm his lack of remorse.
“Means I have lunch with you, look in your eyes, hear your voice, check you’re okay.” He paused then, “Nope.”
I sighed, liking that he wanted to look in my eyes, hear my voice, check I was okay.
God.
There it was. The reason I found his macho stubborn streak attractive.
“I like pastrami,” I told him.
“Got it,” he replied.
“And turkey. Or roast beef but only if it’s rare and only with swiss on it. Provolone if it’s pastrami. I also like Reubens but you need to tell them to go light on the sauerkraut if you take that route. I don’t like meatballs or anything that could be messy and get on my clothes, except for a Reuben, that is. No onions. My staff would be forced to smell them all day and that’s not nice. Chips, plain, nothing that could stain my fingers—like cheese puffs—or flamin’ hot. And a cookie or brownie wouldn’t go amiss.”
I stopped talking and was met with silence.
“Hop?” I called again.
“Anything else, beautiful?”
No smile in his voice. It was vibrating with suppressed laughter.
It sounded really nice.
So nice, I didn’t have it in me to do more than whisper, “No. I think that’s it.”
“All right, see you at noon tomorrow.”
“Right, Hop. Have fun with your kids tonight.”
“Always do,” he muttered. “Later, baby.”
“Bye, Hop.”
He disconnected and I put my phone on my desk at the same time it occurred to me my staff was going to see a rough, badass, albeit hot, biker walk in and have lunch with me in my office.
With ease, I shoved this from my mind.
This, I didn’t care about. Everyone had wondered why I was with Elliott, too, and I hadn’t cared about that either. I had my way of doing things. I had my baggage. I had my issues. I had my demons. But I had few pet peeves, though one of them was anyone judging a book by its cover or judging anything at all, including anyone who might judge me or my decisions.
No, I had enough head space taken up by judging myself and my decisions. I didn’t need to give more over to what anyone else thought of me.
So I didn’t.
Wednesday rolled around and the pitch was in disarray. I knew I was facing another ten o’clock night but when I felt the vibe of the office change—this wafting through my wall of windows—my eyes went there.
I saw Hop striding toward me, smiling, carrying a white paper bag held in the crook of one arm, bags of chips visible out of the top and a six-pack of diet cherry 7Up in his other hand.
At the sight, the pitch, the client, my staff, and everything else flew from my mind.
I had lost myself in work for two and a half days so it was easy (sort of) not to think of Hop except when I was in bed, trying to fall asleep and missing doing it with him and waking up in his arms.
Him there in my office—walking toward me, bringing me lunch, being hot, smiling a smile that was sexy and all for me—he was the only thing on my mind.
He was the only thing in the universe.
He hit my open door and, eyes never leaving me, greeted, “Hey, babe.”
He kicked the glass door with his boot. As it swung closed I replied unconsciously, “Hey, honey.”
His eyes and smile got warmer. He walked through the office and dumped the stuff on my desk.
“I have a stash of 7Up,” I informed him.
“Now you have a bigger stash,” he informed me.
Okay, damn.
I had to admit it.
He was getting to me.
Hop unpacked the sandwiches, handing me mine and a bag of plain Ruffles, yanking a cold 7Up off the plastic and setting it on my black desk blotter. Then he sat with his food as he had with his Chinese, feet up on the desk, open bag of Doritos in his lap, sandwich held close to his face, a 7Up at the edge of my desk.
“Pastrami,” he muttered. “Provolone. Had them grill it and hold the mustard. Nothin’ should mar that blouse, lady.” He dipped his head to my blouse, his lips curved up with appreciation. “There’s packets in the bag if you wanna go wild.”
I reached for the bag thinking, yes, he was getting to me.
I mean, everyone knew you had mustard on pastrami but very few would think to hold it in case you were willing to make the sacrifice because you were wearing a nice blouse.
Thoughtful.
Sweet.
I also was thinking we never had this, sitting, eating, everything normal, no fighting, Hop not saving me from the unwanted advances of a monster truck owner, us not having sex or about to have sex or in the aftermath of sex.
I claimed some mustard packets, opened up my sandwich and was squirting mustard on, looking for topics of conversation.
Eventually, I found one.
“How are the kids?”
“Good,” he said through a mouth full of sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at me. “Lookin’ forward to Vail this weekend. Found a rental. They’re psyched.”
“Right,” I muttered, closing my sandwich, picking it up, and taking a bite.
Delicious. I didn’t know where he got it but I was going to find out.
“You prepared?” he asked and his tone of voice made me look to him.
I chewed, swallowed, and asked, “Prepared for what?”
“The weekend,” he answered.
“I’m never prepared, Hop,” I told him honestly and took another bite.
“Got two days, Lanie,” he said softly. “Train your mind to think you’re gonna be in God’s country, at the foot of mountains in a spot that’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. Away from this.” He threw out a hand to indicate the office. “What you’re facing sucks. Where you’re gonna face it doesn’t. Try to think of that.”
This was actually a good strategy and I couldn’t stop myself from giving him a small smile.
“I’ll train my mind, Hopper.”
“Good, baby,” he muttered, his face soft and God, God.
He was definitely getting to me.
I looked back to my sandwich, took a bite and chewed while I put it down and reached for my chips.
I swallowed my bite.
“So, what’s the deal with their mom?”
Yes, this came out of my mouth.
“Say again?”
That came out of Hop’s.
My eyes went to him and my mouth backtracked. “Sorry, not my business.”
“I asked,” Hop stated slowly. “Say again?”
“I really—”
“Babe, if you mean Mitzi, it is your business. You mean Mitzi?”
I stared at him.
Was he seriously, openly, without hesitation, going to talk about his ex?
“Well, yeah. I meant Mitzi, but I shouldn’t have asked. It isn’t my business.”
“Fuckin’ you, intend to keep fuckin’ you, want to know more about you, pleased as fuck you asked about me, so it is your business. To answer your question, the deal with Mitzi is, she’s a fuckin’ bitch.”
I blinked.
“No, a cunt,” he amended casually and my chest depressed.
“That isn’t very nice,” I told him.
“Nope. But it’s true,” he told me.
“Women don’t like that word, Hop,” I educated.
“Then women shouldn’t act like cunts,” he returned.
I didn’t like that.
Maybe he wasn’t getting to me.
“That’s unbelievably harsh,” I said softly.
He took his boots off my desk, dumped his bag of chips and sandwich on the desk, and leaned toward me, wrists to the desk, giving me all his attention.
“She is not a good woman, Lanie. Always on my ass when we were together, tough as hide, hard as nails. Don’t speak to her and, if I can help it, don’t look at her. I hate her.”
“That’s harsh…” I hesitated than finished with emphasis, “er.”
“Yep, but it’s also true.”
“Wow, Hop. I don’t know what to say,” I replied.
“Nothin’ to say. I do not not like her. I hate her. Can’t stand the sight of her.”
This was not good.
“How does that, um… affect your kids?” I asked cautiously.
“They feel it, I know it, and it sucks. Kids feel everything. Even if you’re careful, you can’t hide shit from kids. They suck stuff up like a sponge. Struggled with that, did what I could, burned in my gut every time I had to pretend to be nice to her, realized I wasn’t teachin’ them a good lesson by not bein’ true to me. I’m not a dick to her. I don’t get up in her face. I just avoid her. This has the added bonus of not givin’ her the opportunity to get up in mine.”
I had a feeling I knew what that meant.
“So she’s not a big fan of yours either?”
“She wasn’t. She’s learned. Took a while but she figured out what she had and lost. Tried to be friends. ’Way she fucked me, I wasn’t down with that. She wasn’t stupid enough to try to get back together. She knew that was a no fuckin’ go in a big fuckin’ way. Now, she just avoids me like I do her ’cause she doesn’t like to be faced with what she created.”
“What did she have and, erm… lose?”
His head cocked to the side. “Babe. Me.”
I studied him, thinking I knew what that meant too.
“So, you loved her?” I asked.
“Made a family with her,” was his answer, which I thought was an answer but it also was not.