“That it can, lady,” he agreed.

“So anyway,” I moved to change the subject. “I take it you confiscated your dad’s guitar.”

Hop thankfully, but not surprisingly, went with me but he did it while both of his hands drifted up my back, gathered my hair away from my face and one hand held it bunched at the back of my head while the other one moved to stroke my spine.

This felt nice too.

Or, nicer.

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Dad got sick of drivin’ Mom ‘round the bend and I was curious. Picked it up. To this day, don’t know how it happened but I just took to it. No lessons, nothing. Just started strumming and made music. Dad was fuckin’ thrilled. Thought it was the shit. Mom was pissed. Thought it’d give me ideas of bein’ a juke box hero. I didn’t care what either of them thought. Two things took me out of the shit that was my life with them and that was bein’ at a bike shop with my dad or sittin’ in the garage, fuckin’ around with that guitar.”

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Twelve,” he answered.

“Wow, that’s young,” I remarked and it was Hop’s turn to shrug. “That’s also really cool,” I continued.

That was when Hop grinned. “I thought so too. When I was fourteen, met Danny from last night. He took lessons, his parents wanted him to play classical guitar but it was all about the rock riff with him. They were disappointed but he didn’t give a shit. That bug bites you, no cure for it.”

“Obviously there was a cure for you,” I said and his hand stopped stroking my spine as he wrapped his arm tight around me.

“For me, it wasn’t about the same thing as it was for Danny,” Hop shared. “He feeds off what you saw last night, standin’ in front of a mic, makin’ music, women pressed to the front of the stage, shouting, dancing. He gets high off that vibe and he works through that high in a hotel room later with a couple of bottles of bourbon, some grass and as many warm, soft bodies as he can get. When we recruited the guys and formed a band, if he turned up for rehearsals, it was a miracle. But he never missed a show.”

“What was it about for you?” I asked.

“The poetry,” Hop answered and I was so surprised by this answer, I blinked.

“What?”

“Music is poetry, babe. Each note is a word that’s uniquely crafted to go with the next note. For me, the only way it gets better is if you put that to lyrics. You take them apart, any good song tells a story separately, through the music and through the lyrics. What makes it grab you by the balls is when you put them together. I didn’t have a lot of beauty in my life. Found it in that.”

This was deep, another revelation about Hop that didn’t surprise me but I felt my brows draw together.

“So why did you quit?”

“I quit because I had a way with notes. Bog, the bassist we had back then who now lives in LA and produces records with some pretty big fuckin’ names, had a way with words and Danny didn’t want to move from covers. He didn’t think we could compete with the likes of Seger and Springsteen. He didn’t think, the bars we were playing, we’d draw crowds with original music. He said people wanted to hear what they knew.”

I thought this kind of made sense but I didn’t share that because Hop continued.

“Under all that, he was shit scared. We started to play gigs in high school, which, by the way, did not make my mother happy. We were good, even better back then. Didn’t have the practice but we had the passion. We had a good thing and people felt it. We got more gigs. We made money. We did some traveling. Saw a lot of bars, a lot of road and laid a lot of women. He didn’t want to fuck that up. Didn’t have it in him to take a risk. He didn’t get it wasn’t about besting the rock gods. Seger, Clapton, the greats laid down such fantastic tracks, nothing, no one, no matter how talented they are, would outshine that. Music isn’t about competition. It’s about communication. There are countless stories to be told, lady, and even if your story isn’t so fantastic it will live for eternity, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be told.”

I had to admit, he was right about that and that also was deep.

And cool.

Hop kept talking.

“Bog got frustrated then pissed, took off, formed his own band. That didn’t work but at least he tried. I figure he’d prefer to be makin’ his own music now but he isn’t complaining since he lives his life in the life. And Bog takin’ off pissed me off. I couldn’t do much with words but I could with music and without a lyricist, I was stuck. Loved music. Loved playing. Didn’t like that it was the same thing every night. Danny and I were tight, us playin’ together since we were kids were some of the only good times I had. I figured, I kept goin’ with that and my world being so narrow, I’d begin to resent it and I’d lose what I had with Danny. So to preserve that, I took off too.”

“Did you join another band?”

Hop shook his head. “Auditioned for a couple of them but that band with Danny was my band, our band and,” he grinned, “I’m not a man who follows, who likes to be told what to play, what to do so I knew it wouldn’t work for me and I gave it up.”

“That’s kind of sad,” I told him. “If last night is any indication, you’re really, really good.”

He gave me a soft smile in appreciation of the compliment but did it shaking his head again.

“Not sad,” he returned. “Danny’s livin’ the same life, babe. No growth. Nothin’ to show for it. They got a loyal following that’s a fuckuva lot bigger than what we had back then which means they have a decent manager who keeps them in gigs and they can pay two roadies so they don’t have to lug equipment. But every night it’s a different bar, a different body in his bed, a different hotel. Every day it’s back in the RV, on the road, headin’ to more of the same. His life is still narrow. I think he digs it and if he’s down with that, cool. But he and me are both forty. In ten years, fifteen if he’s lucky, those broads up front are gonna look as tired as he is. It won’t matter how great he can sell “Feel Like a Number”, fresh pussy is gonna dry up and the gigs are gonna be fewer and farther between and, I guarantee you, lady, he’s gonna find himself at a time where he’ll look back and reflect and he’ll have regrets.”

I nodded because this was likely true.

Hop carried on.

“I gave it up and found Chaos. I got kids. I got brothers. I got a home. I got work I like doin’ at the garage, the store, with my Club. I got family.” His arm gave me a squeeze and his lips tipped up. “I got a beautiful woman in my bed and I’ve had her enough times, I know what to do to make her moan for me. If I don’t fuck that up with her, I keep that and no matter what women think, a real man wants to know how to make his woman moan and takes up the challenge of keepin’ that up and makin’ it better. Not starting that shit up time and again with another bitch. What I’m sayin’ is, I landed in a good place, baby, and I never looked back. I got no regrets.”

His words about me, how he knew how to make me moan, how a real man wants to keep that up and make it better meant everything to me.

Everything.

If I could give him words to say to make me know my heart and gut led me straight to where I should be, naked in Hop’s waterbed, they might not have been exactly the same since I wasn’t a badass biker.

But they’d have the same meaning.

Therefore, I found myself whispering, “I love the song you sang for me.”

His face got soft but his smiling mouth said, “I think I got that when you stood on a chair and screamed I was the shit then jumped me the minute we got in your front door. Seriously, babe, I think I got carpet burns on my ass and shoulder blades, you rode me so hard.”

I smiled back but still gave his shoulder a puny slap and returned, “You don’t have carpet burns.”

He kept smiling through his muttered, “Feels like it.” I kept smiling too and Hop went on, “Good you got a rug inside your front door, lady. You rode me like that with my back on your tile, I wouldn’t be able to walk but that would be the least of my worries seein’ as I’d probably have a concussion.”

“Shut up,” I mumbled, still smiling and his smile got bigger. “Dad knows about us.”

Yes, that was what I blurted. I knew it actually came out when Hop’s eyebrows shot up.

“Come again?” he asked.

I pulled in a breath.

I said it. I said it in Hop’s bed. I said it after making the unconscious but undeniable decision to let him in so I decided it was time to give him more.

“That was what that thing was about in Vail,” I admitted.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” I muttered back, and his hand slid out of my hair to wrap around the back of my neck.

“Can’t say that’s too surprising, baby,” he said gently. “We were shit at hiding it.”

“Yeah,” I repeated.

“He’d have to be stupid and blind and your old man is neither. Caught your mom givin’ us looks too and, I don’t know, not gonna go there with her until you and me decide it’s time but I don’t think it escaped Molly either,” he told me and my stomach lurched.

“Really? Molly?” I asked.

“She loves her dad. She pays attention. She’s a girl. Even at her age, she swoons over boy band crap and guys on TV she thinks are cute. Romantic fantasy is ingrained in chicks. It might come out slow but it’ll always come out. You look great. You dress great. You smile at her like she’s the only girl in the world and you make her old man happy. She’s gonna get ideas. In this instance, they just happen to be the right ones.”

“This is true,” I murmured, and he grinned then his grin faded.