“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, fuck, 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 fuckin’ 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.”

I dropped my head, my forehead hitting his shoulder, and I admitted, “I can’t do this.”

“You won’t,” he returned.

“I can’t,” I parried.

“You won’t,” he repeated.

I pulled in breath then did what I had to do.

For me.

For my protection.

For my sanity.

I stated, “Okay then, Hopper, I won’t.”

I felt his whiskers prickle against my neck harder than normal as he shoved his face deep before he lifted his head and looked in my eyes.

“Okay, lady, so you won’t. But we got tonight.”

We had tonight.

Tonight.

Just tonight.

I could do that.

I could give myself tonight.

One more night of not being alone. One more night of not being lonely.

One more night of the drug that was Hop.

“We’ve got tonight,” I agreed.

His head dipped forward, his forehead coming to rest on mine as he closed his eyes and I felt it coming from him, the same thing I felt deep inside me, and my stomach hollowed out again in a way I knew it would never, ever feel full.

And it was then I realized I’d felt hollow a really fucking long time.

It was just that I really didn’t need to know that Hop felt the same way.

I had this realization for about a second before his mouth moved to mine and he kissed me—not hard, but deep, wet, long and unbearably, excruciatingly sweet.

Hop pressed his torso to mine, taking me to my back, kissing me sweet the entire time, his hands moving on me, under my nightie, whisper-soft against my skin, making me shiver, making my skin tingle, and then he did to me what he’d never done to me. He took his time. He was thorough. It lasted forever and it was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’d ever experienced.

Beyond the best I’d ever had. It was the best I’d ever have.

And what it was was Hopper Kincaid making love to me.

After, when my mind was shut down, my body languorous, my limbs wound around the sheets, the pillow he’d tucked under me held tight, I watched him walk to the bathroom and then I watched him walk back.

He didn’t grab his jeans.

He didn’t grab me for another go.

He switched off the light and I felt the sheets tugged gently away, the pillow pulled out and thrown to the head of the bed, his warm, long, lean, strong body sliding into bed beside mine, the sheets and comforter pulled up and, finally, he tugged me close and held tight.

“Hop—” I whispered the start of my objection into his chest where my cheek lay.

His arm tight around my back gave me a squeeze. “We’ve got tonight.”

I shut up.

Hop’s hand found mine, curled around it and pulled it up his chest where he rested it, and I could feel his heart beating, strong and true, against the back of my hand.

I closed my eyes tight.

“One more thing I want from you, Lanie,” he said into the dark and I closed my eyes tighter.

I’d give him one thing. I’d give him a million things. I’d give him anything.

I knew that in my bones.

That wasn’t about great sex.

That was about him tucking the covers around me before he turned out the lights.

I didn’t tell him that.

I didn’t say anything.

Hop didn’t need me to.

His arm again squeezed and, this time, stayed tight. “Those bullets tore through you, baby,” he said gently and I felt my body tense. His other hand let mine go, came up and slid into the side of my hair, holding my head to his chest as he kept talking. “But you didn’t leak out. You’re still here. You lost blood, Lanie, and someone you loved. But you’re still here. Give me one more thing before this is over and promise me you’ll try to find it in you to remember that.”

So he would stop talking, I gave him what he wanted even if it was a lie.

“I promise, Hop.”

“Good,” he muttered, his hand pressing lightly against my head then sliding out of my hair, his palm gliding against my cheek before it fell away and he finished, “Sleep, lady.”

Sleep, lady.

I memorized his deep voice wrapping around those soft words as I replied, “Okay.”

My cheek rose as his chest rose to take in a deep breath.

My body relaxed as his chest fell when he let it out.

I paid attention and I kept doing it until I fell asleep and I knew I fell asleep before Hopper did.

But I slept deeply.

I knew this because, hours later, when I woke up, he was gone.

* * *

That night, I sat on the couch, heels to the edge, knees to my chest, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, staring at it.

Staring hard.

I didn’t ever look at it. I didn’t even know why I’d put it there. I didn’t know why I didn’t hide it away. Pack it up in a box and shove it into the back of a closet so when I moved or when I died and someone went through my stuff, they’d find it and wonder. Wonder what it was. Who it was. And if they knew, they’d wonder why I kept it.

I stared hard.

Then my feet came out from under me, hitting the floor as I straightened out off the couch, walked to it, and snatched it off the shelf.

I brought it to my face.

Elliott and me. Arms around each other, my head on his shoulder.

Smiling.

Happy.

I stared at the picture.

I brought it closer, my eyes moving over his face in the only place it could ever be anymore, contained in a frame, and I found my lips whispering, “You got yourself killed, nearly got me the same way, got Tyra stabbed for… fucking… flowers.”

Elliott had no reply.

“You fucking asshole,” I hissed.

Elliott made no response.

My body twisted, my arm going with it, and the frame flew across the room, slamming against the wall, the glass shattering before the frame fell and the shards tinkled to the ground.

I glared at it for long moments before I stomped to my purse, yanked out my iPod, and stomped to my stereo. I shoved the little thingie on the cord that led to my stereo into the little thingie on the top of the iPod, turned on the stereo, bent my head and moved my thumb on the pad until I found it.