“Don’t sweat it, Dred,” he slurred, hands raised in surrender by his chest. “She’s all yours.”
Viggo turned, but Dred yanked him back. “Apologize to the lady.”
It was the second time he’d been her hero today, first when Bill from Boise had shoved his phone at her, and now, the thought helping her regain some of her composure. It was all too close to the night she left home. Too close to the hands of a stranger ripping her shirt open while her stepdad laughed drunkenly.
“Sorry,” Viggo mumbled before stumbling away.
“Fucking asshole.” Dred took her hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”
She let him lead her through a maze of corridors, away from the crowds hanging around the stage area. The walls were closing in around her, and she was relieved Dred ignored the shouts of greeting. Dressed head to toe in black with biker boots on his feet, he was intimidating. People moved out of his way without question or hesitation. A blue door came into view and he slammed it open.
Nikan jumped to his feet. “Hey, Pix, how are—” He stopped in his tracks and looked her over before turning to Dred. “What happened?”
Dred didn’t break his stride. He simply yelled over his shoulder. “Viggo.”
Mumbled curses broke out and a quick glance over her shoulder revealed Nikan and Elliott steaming out of the room.
Dred reached a second door, this one with his name on it, and he opened it for her, encouraging her inside. Her legs felt like Jell-O, her thoughts scattered. Dred ushered her to an oversized armchair and left her for a moment, returning with two glasses, a large bottle of water, and a bottle of whiskey.
“I know which I’d rather have, but which do you want?”
Pixie pointed to the scotch, something to warm her from the inside. Somewhere between Viggo’s actions and Dred’s proximity, her stomach didn’t know which way was up. And now she was in a room with a man. Alone.
“Good choice.” He poured them both a large measure. “There you go.”
Pixie sipped the peaty Lagavulin. Dred took a swig of his and placed the bottle on the table.
He crouched in front of her, his anger having ceded into concern. “You okay, Pix?’ He took her hand, rubbed his thumb gently across it. It was comforting, reassuring even.
Adrenaline surged through her, yet her skin tingled where he touched her. You okay, Pix? It was a simple question, but Pixie struggled to answer it.
* * *
Dred stood at the side of the stage, like he had a thousand times before. The roar of the crowd chanting Preload’s name never got old. The smell of beer, sweating bodies, and high expectations permeated the air. He gripped Pixie’s hand tightly. Color had finally returned to her face. Her skin had been so fucking translucent when she’d sat down in his dressing room. He’d wanted to pulverize Viggo. Nothing had been added to his criminal record in well over a decade, but one more comment out of Viggo’s mouth and he’d have willingly carried the assault charge. The icepack Nikan held over his knuckles showed it had been taken care of.
When she’d finally collected herself and laughed at one of his jokes, the tight elastic band around his chest had snapped.
Their favorite warm-up song, “Master of Puppets” by Metallica, played. Chop your breakfast on the bathroom mirror. Yeah, he’d witnessed his mom do that more times than he could remember. Usually she chopped all the breakfast money on that stupid fucking counter. The number of days he’d gone to school hungry was impossible to count.
“This is incredible, Dred.”
He loved the way Pixie stood on her tiptoes, resting her hand on his forearm, to shout in his ear.
“I want you to stay here. Right by the curtain.” The rest of the Second Circle guys were behind them. He knew she’d be safe enough with Trent, Cujo, and Eric.
“You need a muse?” she asked playfully.
Dred kissed the tips of her fingers. “You already inspire me.”
“It’s time to go,” yelled a man in a tight-fitting black polo shirt.
The guys walked on ahead of Dred. They always did. He’d been the driving force behind the band, they had argued when he’d suggested switching up the order. So as usual, he would go last. The telltale screams from the fans echoed around the arena.
He let go of her hand and followed them toward the stage but paused as he reached the edge of the curtain.
“Hey, Pix,” he shouted. “So we progressed, right? We hung in my room and I kissed your pretty little fingertips. When are you finally going to agree to go on a date with me?”
Pixie shooed him on to the stage. “Go, your fans are waiting.”
“Not stepping onstage without an answer, gorgeous.”
He could hear the crowd.
“Dred! Dred! Dred!”
Pixie shook her head and looked up at him through her bangs. “When I’m a millionaire.”
Dred threw his head back and laughed. “Good one, Pix. I could probably make that happen.”
He turned and walked onto the stage. What had started out as pure sexual interest was quickly developing. Her quirky musical tastes, the easy way she took care of people, and the fact she hadn’t fallen at his feet all added up to something that scared him a little. He wasn’t really equipped to deliver on anything more than bedtime fun and hot conversation, but for once, he considered trying.
Grabbing his guitar off one of the roadies, he raised his other hand in the air. The crowd erupted, moving en masse toward the stage. A wave of energy surged over him. To his left, Elliott stood, his signature Schecter guitar on a shorter strap to give him easy access to the upper frets. To his right, Nikan was jumping on the balls of his feet, yelling at the crowd, while Jordan stood further back, away from the brightest lights and pyrotechnics.
Dred took a deep breath. He lived for this. For this moment when they could pour their souls out to nearly twenty thousand people.
The lights flashed toward the audience, and his fingers found their place on the strings. Lennon cracked his sticks together, the timing of the four count set his own heart pounding. On the first beat, all four guitars strummed the opening chords of a song they’d written in his bedroom twelve years ago. Dred leaned into the microphone and growled out the guttural vocals.
As he reached the chorus, he turned toward Pixie, more relieved than he should be to find her staring at him. She held his gaze as he let out a high scream. Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. Shit, what was the next line? He flicked through the lyrics in his head, heard Elliott come in with harmony, and picked it up from there.
Pixie looked like she was giggling, and he smiled at her before he faced the crowd.
Performing for thirteen years, not once had he forgotten his lyrics. Nikan laughed like an idiot next to him and waited for the instrumental break for him to step away from the mic so they could play their guitars together.
The mass of bodies in front of the stage turned into a surging swaying mass. He kept an eye on the crowd. A bit of moshing was one thing, but no way would he let a wall of death fly. He wanted everyone to leave the stadium in one piece.
They blew through the rest of the set, and before he knew it, their main playlist was done.
“It’s time for us to go,” he yelled. The crowd screamed. “Thanks for coming out tonight. This tour has been fucking crazy, see you soon, Miami.”
A young woman with dark hair and a red bra poking out of a black leather vest held up a sign. CALL ME. Her cell phone number was listed underneath. He smiled at her, but his mind was somewhere offstage where Pixie was surrounded by the rest of the Second Circle crew. They were her family, like the band was his. Lennon came from behind the drum kit, and they put their arms round each other.
Pyrotechnics went off all the way around the stage as the crowd screamed and cheered. He hugged each of the guys, then ran off the stage to pull Pixie from Harper and Drea. The break between the end of the act and the encore was approximately four minutes, and he had plans to use them wisely.
Pixie looked at him, her eyes wide in shock as he grabbed her hand.
“Quick,” he said to her, tugging her down the stage steps. There was no way he could make it back to his dressing room in time, so he hurried them along the black curtain that surrounded the stage into a darkened corner. He pushed her gently against the wall, trapping her in his arms.
“Watching you watch me, Pix . . . drove me crazy. You going to let me kiss you?” he begged. “Please.”
Pixie looked at him and put a hand against his cheek. “Yes.”
He slid both hands into her hair and pressed his mouth against hers. Energized from the performance, Dred struggled to rein in the need to kiss her fiercely. When he heard her groan, felt her lift up on her toes to loop her arms around his neck, he was done for. She was more than he’d dreamed of, and he’d dreamed a hell of a fucking lot. And yet none of his half-asleep fantasies could match the emotions currently blazing through him. Her tongue tentatively brushed against his so gently it was almost innocent. Well, as innocent as it could be when what he really wanted to do was take her against this black curtain.
It was fucking heaven.
He slid his hands down her body. Pixie giggled when he gripped her waist to pull her close. Ticklish. He’d have to remember that.
Not that he wanted to, but he needed to get back onstage. Fucking encore. He kissed her one more time, tasted the whiskey he’d given her earlier. The telltale thump of Lennon’s bass drum started to sound. He pulled back, willing his hard-on to take it down a notch before he got back onstage.
“That was quite the kiss,” Pixie said shyly.
He took her hand and led her back to the stage, positioning her right where she had been. It was impossible to resist kissing her again, and he grinned when Trent raised an eyebrow in his direction.
“Agreed. As beginnings go, Pix, it was pretty fucking epic,” he said with a wink, and walked back onto the stage to face the screaming fans.
Chapter Three
“Good morning, good morning, we’ve danced the whole—”
“Pix, sweetheart, it’s too fucking early for Broadway.” Cujo stood in the kitchen of Second Circle watching the coffee drip into the carafe. Half an hour before opening, and the studio was still quiet.
She slapped him on the arm. “Come on, it’s from Singin’ in the Rain. The best thing to come out of 1952, you grump-bag. Hello, Cujo.”
He tugged her into his arms and gave her a hug, briefly kissing her on the top of her head. “Yeah. Hi, Pix.”
He released her and pulled another mug down from the cupboard to which he added a generous spoonful of sugar. “I could have done with a few more hours of sleep,” Cujo said with a yawn. “What time was it when we dropped you guys off last night?”
“Three-ish. Seven hours ago. I’m going to need a nap this afternoon.” God bless Trent for making the decision to open late.
Cujo filled their mugs and handed one to her. “Did you have a good night?” It was a loaded question and they both knew it.
The corner of her mouth twitched with a smile. Cujo had been her lifesaver, her benefactor, her pseudofather, and her friend. But her most favorite role he played was her big brother. They were much closer than the nearly ten-year age gap would suggest. She’d lived through more in twenty-three years than most people lived through in a lifetime. And Cujo, well, he wasn’t always known for acting his age.
“I had a great time. You looked like you were enjoying yourself when you joined Dred onstage for the final song.” While Cujo’s voice was fully up to the task of harmonizing the chorus, his moves belonged on a Seinfeld episode.
Cujo at least had the capacity to laugh at his drunken antics. “Yeah. Drea told me it’s already posted online. You can cross ‘become a meme on the internet’ off my bucket list.”
She chuckled and made a mental note to check it out.
“So, Pix. Erm, you . . . and Dred. You okay with what happened last night?”
Pixie took a sip of the steaming coffee. She’d known the question would come, expected nothing less from Cujo. He’d want to know she was okay.
It was madness to have kissed Dred like that before the encore, but it was pure recklessness to let him kiss her again before she left. She’d wanted one more moment to savour the feeling of his strong lips against hers and feel the hard lines of his muscular body.
“It was a momentary lapse of judgment,” she replied. “Heat of the moment and all that.”
Cujo let out a laugh. “You always were a crap liar. The guy isn’t an asshole, from what I know of him. I warned him off a thousand times already because I see you as a sister, but he isn’t taking the hint. Short of punching his lights out when he comes in today, I don’t think he will. And I saw your face during that concert, Pixie.”
“You’re imagining things, Cujo. It was just a bit of fun.”
“It didn’t look like nothing when he was performing a tonsillectomy on you with his tongue.”
“Oh my God, you are gross, Cujo.”
“Trust me, not too long ago, I was him.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
The studio phone rang and Pixie ran to grab it, grateful for the distraction. She was still too conflicted in her own mind. Maybe the distance that was sure to follow their kiss would be good for her. “Second Circle Tattoos. How can I help you today?”
“Pix?” The hoarse voice whispered her name.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dred.” The strangled words sounded painful.
“Did someone stay up past their bedtime last night?”
“Funny,” he coughed. “I left shortly after you . . . stuck in bed . . . feel awful.” He sounded like he’d swallowed a ball of cotton mixed with broken glass.
Compassion bubbled to the surface. “You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
“Will be . . . won’t make it today . . . sorry.”
“No, of course not. I’ll let Trent know. Stay in bed and get some rest.”
“Wanna . . . join me?” Dred erupted into a coughing fit.
“As tempting as that sounds, no. Save your voice. Get some rest.”
“Can you . . . rearrange for tomorrow?”
“Of course. Let me take a look. Do you have supplies? Vitamin C, juice, soup?”
Dred coughed, but it sounded like he moved the phone away. “No . . . band’s out with Cujo’s brother paddleboarding . . . Delano room service.”
“Trent can see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks, Pix.”
“Take care of yourself, Dred.”
They said their good-byes, and she hung up the phone. Lia arrived holding a green smoothie, and Trent followed her in with a large cup of what was likely his regular extra-strong coffee order.
“I’m getting too fucking old for this shit,” Trent groaned as he walked to the office. Pixie stifled a laugh.
She helped Lia, Cujo, and Trent set up their workstations based on their preferences, which she had memorized over the years. Lia liked her appointment calendar flat on her table. Cujo liked his taped to his mirror. Trent liked black inkpots, while Eric preferred white.
Setup was finished just as the first client approached the door, and soon the studio was jammed with eager people waiting their turn. An editor from New York wanted a Harry Potter–themed tattoo, which Pixie immediately gave to Cujo because she knew he hated doing them, but always did the best job. At least this one wasn’t the Deathly Hallows symbol or a Dark Mark. Lia was busy tattooing a B-52 Bomber with a pin-up girl as the nose art on a veteran from Maine. Trent was drawing up what would become a complex leg piece for a new local client who was turning a fifty-dollar gift certificate into a six-hundred-dollar tattoo.
It was lunchtime before she next sat down, but Dred was on Pixie’s mind.
“Hey, Trent,” she said, as he approached the desk between clients. “I know we are totally busy, but would you mind if I took a longer lun
ch break? I want to take some meds and stuff to Dred.”
“Like that is it, Pix?” He raised his eyebrow.
The mild teasing was good-natured, but it irritated her. “No. It’s not like anything. He’s away from home, and it sucks to be ill.”
“It’s okay, Pix. I get it. And my opinion doesn’t even matter. This is about you.” Gah. His eyes were full of that understanding thing he did, and guilt rushed through her.
“Of course your opinion matters. But there’s nothing for you to have an opinion about right now.” And there wasn’t. She’d wanted to know what it would feel like to be kissed by him, and now she knew it was every bit as earth-shatteringly intense as she thought it would be. That had to be enough, because she wasn’t ready to go further.
“Whatever you say, Pix. Now talk me through what’s up next before you go.”
Forty minutes later, Pixie stood in the beautiful billowy-curtained lobby of the Delano armed with Dred’s cell phone number, courtesy of Trent, and several plastic bags. The hotel epitomized her love-hate relationship with Miami. Three stunning women in matching shades of ivory tottered through the lobby in impossibly tall heels. Pixie looked down at her purple tartan kilt, black converse, and the black vest she’d sewed herself. She loved Miami. She just didn’t fit in.
No time for self-pity.
Pixie pulled her phone from her purse and dialed Dred’s number.
* * *
She really doesn’t need to see me like this.
Dred shuffled to the hotel door, and used the security bar to prop it open. His number-one fan could burst in à la Kathy Bates in Misery, and he wouldn’t give a fuck. Because broken ankles couldn’t make him feel any worse than he already did.
Sweat covered his body, and he hadn’t showered since before the concert the previous evening. He crawled back into the damp sheets.
The rest of the guys had offered to stay with him. Family and all that. But really, all he needed was sleep. And more sleep. And perhaps a little more sleep. So he’d told them to stick with their plans in the Everglades with Cujo’s brother, Connor.
The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) Page 3