Kristen Ashley - Fire Inside

“You can’t promise that,” I told him.

“Yes, I can,” he told me.

“You think Tack promised that to Tyra before they took her and stuck her until she almost bled to death?”

His face got soft and his voice was cautious but tender when he returned, “I think you don’t wanna go there since it wasn’t Tack who got Tyra stuck.”

It was my turn to clench my jaw and, unable to turn my head away, I closed my eyes tight.

He was right, it was Elliott who did that and, through Elliott, me.

“Lady, look at me,” Hop ordered gently.

I opened my eyes.

“Take a chance on me,” he whispered.

“No,” I whispered back.

“Take a chance on me,” he repeated.

“No,” I repeated too.

“Baby,” his lips dropped to mine but his eyes didn’t let mine go, “Christ, I’m beggin’ you, let me in. Let me help. Let me in so I can untie that shit you got wound up inside you.”

I held his eyes.

Then I pushed my head in the pillows. He got my message, lifted his lips from mine and I announced, “I stepped in front of those bullets.”

I felt his body jerk then still.

I wasn’t done.

“He let me,” I shared.

He closed his eyes and murmured, “Fuck me, Lanie.”

“Look at me, Hopper.”

He opened his eyes and God, God, they were so intense it was a wonder they didn’t burn two holes straight through me.

“I’m not taking a chance on you,” I declared. “I am not taking a chance on anybody.”

His eyes started burning a different way.

“He was alive, I’d fuckin’ kill him,” he clipped.

“Well then, it’s good he’s dead. Now get off me,” I returned.

“Seven years, Lanie, you’ve held that monster inside and, I’ll repeat, it’s eatin’ you alive.”

“I know that monster, Hop, I understand it,” I sort of lied. I knew it before. Since I propositioned Hop at a hog roast, it was acting unpredictably. “It’s the world outside I don’t understand,” I finished and that was the honest to goodness truth.

“Then come full into Chaos, Lanie. Our world is simple. You got nothin’ to understand but family.”

God! He had an answer for everything.

“Please listen to me. That’s not going to happen,” I stressed.

He went quiet.

So did I.

He ended the silence.

“I’ll wear you down,” he proclaimed.

“No, you won’t,” I denied.

“You won’t let me in, I’ll break in, sneak in, blast in,” he promised.

“You won’t get in,” I contradicted.

He shut up again and stared at me.

After long moments, I watched as suddenly, weirdly and, most of all, scarily, he saw something in me that made his face clear.

I didn’t think that was good.

I would find out I was right.

“Let you in on a secret, babe, and you think on this,” he told me.

I was not going to think on anything.

“Hop… get… off… me,” I snapped.

His body pressed into mine so he could lift his hands up and frame my face.

“I’m already in. Just gotta wait for you to realize it.”

This, unfortunately, was a scary statement because, more unfortunately, I suspected he was not wrong. Furthering my misfortune, he’d read that in my face, which meant he knew or was learning how to read me.

This was not good.

At all.

Hiding my discomfiture, I advised, “Don’t hold your breath.”

He dropped his head, touched his lips to mine then lifted, shifting to plant his forearms in the bed at my sides. “You want me to take you back to your car?”

“Not on your life,” I answered.

His mouth twitched.

Then he asked, “Want me to ask one of the boys to do it?”

“Absolutely not,” I answered.

His mouth curved.

“Wanna fuck real quick before you go?”

I didn’t “wanna fuck real quick”. I actually wanted to fuck real slow.

I didn’t tell him that.

I demanded, “Get off me.”

He rolled off me.

I tried not to feel disappointment and rolled the other way.

As I hastily dressed, I informed him, “I’m stealing your tee since you messed up my blouse.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said from the bed.

“Don’t bother,” I muttered, then felt it important to note, “And I’m not stealing your tee because it’s yours.”

It was his turn to mutter and when he did, he muttered, “Right.”

“I’m not,” I declared, zipping up my skirt.

“I believe you, lady,” he stated like he absolutely did not.

I decided to let that go and get out of there.

Sandals in hand, I moved to his jeans on the floor and yanked out my phone before I moved to my purse in his easy chair. I grabbed it and walked to the door barefoot.

I did this intent on leaving, intent on not looking at him. Just as, when he left me, he didn’t look at me.

So intent, I didn’t think when he called my name when I was at the door, and I looked at him.

He was lying naked across the bed, up on an elbow, head in his hand, eyes on me, looking so amazing I had absolutely no idea how I didn’t throw my stuff aside, rush across the room, take a flying leap and join him.

“See you tonight,” he stated. My head jerked because I was focused on my thoughts, so his words came as a surprise.

“What?” I asked.

“See you tonight,” he repeated.

I finally got it together and therefore was able to lie. “I’m busy tonight.”

He didn’t say anything.

“So I won’t see you,” I went on.

“You’ll see me,” he declared and my eyes narrowed on him.

“Hop—”

“Tack’s comin’ down the mountain, lady. You wanna be gone before he gets here or any boys around get up, you better haul ass,” he advised.

Damn!

“Careful of High,” Hop went on. “He’s curious so he’s gonna be lurking.”

Double damn!

“You sure you don’t want me to take you to your car?” he asked.

“I don’t want anything from you,” I answered.

He grinned.

I glared.

This went on for some time before he prompted, “Babe, you don’t want anything from me, why are you standing in my room staring at me?”

Gah!

“I’m not staring, I’m glaring,” I countered.

“What you’re doin’ is hangin’ on to an argument that’s long since over ’cause you don’t wanna leave me,” he shot back.

God.

I gave him one last glare, opened the door and shot through it.

I didn’t slam it.

I walked as quietly as I could through the Compound, calling a taxi service while I made my way to the door. I then walked as quickly as I could through the forecourt of Ride while I ordered my taxi. Last, I sat on the bench of a bus stop a block away to wait for my taxi and, while I waited, I put my sandals on my now filthy feet.

And I did all this not thinking that I was looking forward to seeing Hop that night.

No, I wasn’t thinking that.

Definitely not thinking that.

Absolutely not.

Even though I was.

Damn.

I was in my office at work.

I had taken the morning to fight back the overwhelming craving the promise of seeing Hop that night caused, created a plan to avoid him and put it in action.

Therefore, I had not hung at home or at Tyra’s, went out to get a pedicure, or done anything I normally did on a Saturday.

I had bought a big sub, a bag of chips, a six pack of diet cherry 7Up and a huge chocolate chip cookie, and went to my office in downtown Denver. I picked my office as shelter from the storm because I had a strict rule that I didn’t work weekends. My weeknights might end at nine, ten, even ten–thirty, but my weekends were my own so no one would think I’d be there. I also picked my office because it had a good security system, the kind where you could arm the door but move around the offices without tripping it.

In other words, no one could breach my sanctuary without me knowing it.

I had also packed a bag and made a reservation at Hotel Monaco for two nights. I’d always wanted to stay there even though it was located in the same city where I lived. I often thought of booking a weekend, getting away, doing nothing but being in a cool hotel in the heart of a beautiful city and just vegging. I’d just never found the time.

To escape Hop, I decided now was the time.

So my overnight bag was on the floor beside the couch in my office and I was seeing the silver lining of the situation.

I was getting my shot at Hotel Monaco and I’d been at the office for five hours. Five hours without the phone ringing, emails coming through, or any of my ten employees walking into my office. This meant I got to do things I never did, like clean up my email inbox, tidy my desk, organize my files and concentrate on work without distractions. This also meant I did ten hours of work in that five hours and not only would I hit my organized desk on Monday, I’d do it ahead of the game.

I thought this was fabulous. The first hint of fabulousness I’d had in weeks.

No, months.

No, years.

And this was the thought I was having when I heard the warning beep of the security system that said the door was opened and you had a minute to put in the code or the call was going to Dispatch.

My body jerked, my eyes went to the wall of windows that looked into the interior office, and my mouth dropped open.

Hop, in deliciously faded jeans, his black motorcycle boots, his black leather cut with his hair falling appealingly in his face, and his jaw not shaved since that morning, was just inside my office. He was carrying a white plastic bag that looked like it held Chinese food containers.

He was also with a Native American man who had his gorgeous, glossy black hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape. The guy was standing at my beeping security console.

Without me telling them to do so, my feet pushed back my chair, my body straightened from it and, woodenly, I walked across my office to come to a halt just inside the door.

Hop watched me do this. When I stopped, he called casually, “Hey, babe.”

I stared at him, then my eyes drifted to the Native American guy who was working at the wires he’d pulled out of my console. The beeping stopped. He twisted his neck and took me in then aimed a slow, shit-eating, unbelievably sexy grin at me.

A shiver shook me from top-to-toe; his grin was that good. Not to mention, he was shockingly handsome. He also had a very wide, gleaming gold wedding band on his finger, beaming so bright against his luscious brown skin, I could see it from across the interior office.

“Yo,” he called.

“Uh…” I mumbled.

His shit-eating grin got bigger and sexier.

A tremor shook me.

“This is Vance Crowe,” Hop introduced, jerking a thumb at Vance and telling me something I already knew.

Vance Crowe worked for Lee Nightingale of Nightingale Investigations. He was famous. All the Nightingale men were famous. This was because newspaper articles and books were written about them. And newspaper articles and books were written about them because they were all talented private investigators who had a knack for the business and a way of finding trouble. Bad trouble. And that trouble usually had to do with a fantastically beautiful damsel in distress who would, in the end, find herself married to one of the Nightingale men.

I looked back at Vance to see my console again looked normal with no wires hanging out and he was turned to me.

“Manual override,” he stated, “Very manual,” he went on. “It’s good now. When you leave, just set it like normal.”

I blinked.

Vance turned to Hop. “Later, man.”

Hop stuck out a hand and they did a complicated, jerky, manly, completely cool and weirdly hot handshake as Hop stated, “Marker.”

“You got it,” Vance replied as they broke contact. “I need you, I’ll call.”

“Right,” Hop said, jerking up his chin.

Vance jerked up his, turned to me, and gave me another grin. I got a chin jerk then he turned and disappeared through my door.

Hop moved to it, locked it and then turned to me.

He started talking as he walked toward me.

“Took some work, had to ask around and be cool about it but got it from Big Petey. Kung pao shrimp.”