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, f**k, if anything, our fire is blazing brighter; that’s bullshit.”
Oh God.
“Hop—”
“Or I thought so until your f**kin’ 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 f**k? 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 f**kin’ self. Why, Lanie? Why the f**k would you pull out all the f**kin’ 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 h*ps 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, f**k, 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 f**kin’ 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.”