Fire Inside:A Chaos Novel(80)

I didn’t do right.

He knew that. I knew that. Tyra knew it.

He was just being nice.

Forgiveness is beautiful and it feels good when someone gives that gift to you.

But it’s one thing for someone you wronged to forgive you.

It was another to forgive yourself.

Too much was lost. Rivers of it. Rivers of Ty-Ty’s blood on the floor of a house I’d never been to and she’d only been there once. That blood flowed because of me.

It could have meant we lost everything, Tack and me.

But, the way he loved her, mostly Tack.

He forgave me.

I just didn’t forgive myself.

I didn’t tell him any of this.

I just said, “Okay.”

He nodded. “Okay, darlin’. Have a good night.”

“You too. Tell Ty-Ty I said hi.”

“Will do. Later.”

“Later, Tack.”

He lifted a hand to flick it out and then I watched him walk out of my office, thinking yet again my best friend was very lucky.

Then again, so was Tack.

I looked at the clock on my computer and realized to be in time for pizza, I wasn’t going to be able to get home and change.

I shut it down, pulled out my phone and called Hop to tell him I might be a bit late.

Then I got out of my office to live my life.

* * *

I heard a Harley. Lying on my couch, reading and drinking a glass of wine after a fun dinner with Hop and his kids, conditioned to that roar meaning good things, I listened absentmindedly but contentedly thinking about that night’s dinner.

I thought about how Molly’s exuberance was catching. About how nice it felt when a little girl told you she liked your outfit. About how Cody might not look like his dad but he acted exactly like him. About how Hop deftly negotiated Molly’s severe dislike for all things sausage, “The juice leaks across the side, Dad!”, and Cody’s demand that we get a meat lover’s since, “Pizza doesn’t matter if it don’t got meat,” by buying two Beau Joe’s pizzas and muttering, “Leftovers for a week.”

He was not wrong, though he was understating it. One Beau Joe’s pizza could feed half a battalion.

So that Harley roar outside not only reminded me of all good things Hop and a great night with his kids that, after it was over, I knew I had nothing to be nervous about, but it made me smile.

I kept listening, not absentmindedly, when the roar stopped at the back of my house.

I aimed my eyes over my couch to the sliding glass doors and was shocked to see Hopper’s tall body materialize through the dark there.

“Open up, babe,” he called through the glass, and I set my Kindle aside and got up, quickly moving to the door, unlocking and opening it.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, shifting back as he slid through and shut the door. “Where are the kids? Is everything all right?”

He turned to me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Great.

I’d had this beginning conversational gambit once already from a biker that night when Tack visited me, and from the look of concern and inquisitiveness on Hop’s face, I was thinking I wouldn’t like this one much better.

“What are you talking about and where are the kids?” I asked.

“Kids are asleep and Sheila’s with ’em. You showed at dinner, still wearin’ your work gear, acting funny, not meeting my eyes so I called her, she came over, I hopped on my bike and hauled my ass over here. What’s up?”

“Nothing I couldn’t tell you over the phone,” I explained. “You didn’t have to drag Sheila over to your house.”

“You don’t meet my eyes during dinner, it’s somethin’ that you don’t get into over the phone. Now, Lanie, one more time. What’s up?”

Usually, I rejoiced that Hop was a man who paid attention. This meant he did things and said things and, it’s important to repeat, did things, good things, because he paid attention.

Sometimes, like now, it was annoying.

I decided this discussion would go better with wine so I walked to my wineglass.

Once I’d grabbed it and taken a sip, I looked back at Hop to see he hadn’t moved except to cross his arms on his chest.

Leather jackets, especially beat up, black biker ones with a patch on the back, were not my thing when it came to guys.

Hopper worked that cut like no other.

“Lanie,” he prompted, his voice a warning low and I stopped appreciating Hop in his cut.

“Tack talked to Mitch and Brock. They’re setting me up on a date with a cop,” I announced.

I did this because I thought it best just to get it out there and over with.

Anyway, it was no big deal. Hop had to know I was into him. We both knew we were working on something important. I’d just had dinner with him and his kids so that was plain.