“I’m beginning to think your childhood was worse than mine,” I shared and watched Hop’s face get warm and intent.

“How long’s she been at the bottle?” he asked quietly.

“One year, she tripped and spilled a glass of red wine on my fabulous gypsy Halloween costume,” I answered instantly. “Since it wouldn’t do for me to go out in a wine-stained gypsy costume, no matter how fabulous it was, Dad had to cut holes out of a sheet from the guest bedroom so I went as a blue paisley ghost. The sheet was so huge I tripped on it and chipped my front tooth on the sidewalk outside our neighbor’s house. My tooth is capped. I was nine.”

“Babe,” he murmured, his voice low and gruff, filled with feeling.

Feeling for me.

That feeling coming from Hop felt nice, but the reason he was giving it to me didn’t, so I shrugged. “Something life has taught me over and over, it can suck.”

“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 f**kin’ 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, f**kin’ 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 f**kin’ 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 f**k 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.