Fire Inside:A Chaos Novel(46)

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.