The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos)

by Scarlett Cole

  There was a gentle knock at the door. “Hello.” Pixie entered the room, arms loaded with bags.

  “Hey, Pix.” It felt like the two sides of this throat stuck together when he talked, and he winced in pain.

  “Oh my. You look awful.” She placed the bags on the dresser and hurried over to him. Once again, she pressed her hand against his forehead, her fingers cool against his torturously hot skin.

  He placed his hand over hers. “Cold,” he gasped.

  “We need to get you cooled down. Do you think you could manage a cool shower?”

  The bathroom felt like a million miles away, but he pulled himself to the edge of the bed. He stunk, and his long hair was matted to his skin. Pixie stepped around the bed and helped him up. It was depressing to admit he actually needed her help, and he tried to avoid placing his full weight on her shoulder. She was so freaking tiny, he could compress her spine.

  “Want to join me, Pix?” he said with more confidence than he actually felt.

  “I think you’re being a bit optimistic about your stamina,” she laughed. “You get cleaned up, and I’ll get this bed changed. I saw housekeeping as I came in.”

  Dred showered in freakishly cold water then towelled off. He brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. Exhausted by the whole undertaking, he rested both hands on the edge of the sink.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”

  Am I decent? Great question. He wrapped the towel securely around his waist.

  “Yeah,” he answered. The door opened.

  “Gargle with this.” Pixie thrust a red Solo cup at him. “Saltwater. It’ll do your throat good.”

  He did as she instructed. When he returned to the bedroom, his bed was made up and turned down. The idea of cool, clean bedding was heaven and he wanted to collapse into it, but the delicious smell coming from the food on the desk was too tempting.

  “Come, sit. It’s chicken noodle soup. And the Styrofoam cup is freshly squeezed orange and spinach. Don’t look at it, just drink it.” Pixie perched on the edge of the desk, and he tried his damnedest to ignore the way her skirt raised up her thighs.

  Dred looked at Pixie as she pointed out everything on the table. Vitamin C and zinc tablets. Echinacea. Her beautiful purple hair, tied up in a loose ponytail, swung as she moved. Pixie could have been feeding him dog food and he wouldn’t have cared. She’d obviously gone to a huge amount of effort. Maybe it was because he was sick, but it rocked him.

  He took a large drink of the juice and it felt heavenly to his throat. It was ice cold and refreshing.

  “Let me put some pants on before I sit,” he said to her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. When he was feeling better, he’d make this up to her in some way.

  All of his belongings were neatly put away in the closet and drawers. He couldn’t stand living out of a suitcase. His entire life had revolved around the contents of the one suitcase his mother had allowed him to keep as a child. They moved so often, sometimes daily, that he was never permitted to unpack. Now, he couldn’t stand to look at them. Suitcases represented so much more to him than a place to store clothes.

  He grabbed a pair of loose track pants from a shelf. Pixie was checking out his back. He could see her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. It was cute the way she bit on the side of her thumb. Trent had warned him the previous evening that if he was serious about starting something with Pixie, he needed to go slow with her. But the look in her eyes revved his engine, even if he was too fucking ill to do anything about it.

  Watching her reflection, he dropped the towel to the ground. Pixie’s mouth opened slightly. She looked away quickly, but clearly couldn’t resist taking another quick peek.

  He pulled on the pants. Commando worked, partly because he liked the boys to have their freedom, but also the drawer containing his underwear seemed too far away. When he turned back around, Pixie jumped and pretended to inspect the bottle of Tylenol.

  He sat down in the chair. “This looks amazing,” he said. “Thank you, Pixie.”

  “It must suck to be away from home when you’re ill.”

  He took a spoonful of the perfectly seasoned soup. It tasted incredible. “Yeah, it does, but if I get you as nursemaid, Pix, I’ll get sick anywhere.”

  Pixie laughed and tapped out two Tylenol. “Take these when you’re done.”

  The soup was exactly what he needed. He hurriedly ate it and watched as she walked over to the large doors to the private balcony attached to his suite. Pixie threw them wide open. “You need fresh air when you’re sick. Not this germ-infested recycled crapola.”

  He finished the juice, but his eyes were starting to feel heavy again. With a snap, he cracked open the large water and swallowed the lineup of pills and multivitamins Pixie had set out for him. He wished he had the energy to tell her how much all of this meant. But his head was pounding, and the bed looked so fucking tempting.

  Dred used the furniture to help him toward the soft mattress and fell face-first into the pillow. He closed his eyes, feeling full, slightly dizzy, and content that Pixie was with him.

  A sound on the bedside table brought his attention into focus. Pixie had lined up all the pills and water next to him.

  “Take some more of these in about four hours. And try to drink some more water. I wrote my cell number on the notepad next to the phone. If you need more soup, let me know.”

  He felt her fingers thread through his hair. It reminded him of something Ellen would do when he couldn’t sleep. Yet unlike Ellen and Maisey, whose jobs it was to care, Pixie didn’t need to be here.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, trying his hardest to fight the call of sleep. He didn’t want to miss the feeling of her fingers on his skin. Not for a second. “When are you going to let me take you out, Pix?’ he asked reaching for her.

  And as sleep claimed him, he could swear she answered with something about George Clooney becoming president.

  * * *

  The Sound of Music on TCM for the win!

  Pixie had planned her day off meticulously. There was a bedroom to clean, some sewing to do, and a whole lot of “doe, a deer” to sing along to. Dressed in black yoga capris and a white vest, she set about collecting the sewing supplies she’d need.

  With the new sewing machine Trent and Cujo had bought her for Christmas, she flew through the new order. As Maria tore down the curtains to make the Von Trapp children matching clothes, Pixie crafted a dress for a six-year-old girl based on a sunflower. The yellow, gold, and brown fabrics she’d selected sparkled with sequins.

  For here you are, standing there, loving me. Whether or not you should. Goddamn, Julie Andrews could sing in a way that sucked you in and held you. Pixie loved the moment when Maria and the Captain shared their feelings with each other. What would it be like to be so fiercely loved? Would she find her own Captain, or Fiyero, or any other musical hero?

  And speaking of musical heroes. Dred had looked so sick when she left him in bed. She held up the skirt and fluffed out all the layers of brown and gold tulle. Hopefully he had everything he needed. After a momentary debate, she picked up her phone and typed out a quick message.

  Feeling better?

  Switching to the top of the dress, Pixie changed the sewing machine setting so she could begin smocking the yellow gingham fabric. Her foot had just touched the pedal when her phone pinged.

  Hey gorgeous. Fever broke. Still in bed. Feel like I got run over by a Zamboni.

  Not knowing what a Zamboni was, she could only assume it was painful. Maria was walking down the aisle now, and Pixie focused hard in an attempt to quell the growing need to go see him.

  Where did you get that OJ and spinach?

  From a juice place at Washington and 16th. 5 minutes walk.

  She was such a bad person, making a sick person haul their ass out of bed for something she could do. It would take a half hour maybe to go pick it up for him. The dress was coming together way faster thanks to her
new machine. And she’d seen The Sound of Music so many times, she could recite the script word for word.

  Ignoring the small voice that told her it was a bad idea, Pixie turned off the television and grabbed her purse.

  Twenty minutes later, she stood outside Dred’s suite at the Delano. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the door. She knocked and waited. When Dred didn’t answer, she pulled out her phone.

  Knock knock :-)

  She heard shuffling and the sound of the lock turning. The door opened, and Dred stood in the same pants he’d been wearing yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose red. And he still wasn’t wearing a shirt. She tried to stay focused on his eyes, but he had paint-roller abs, and tattoos, and that little trail of . . .

  “You’re an angel, Pix.” He coughed loudly, and the sound of congestion rattled through his chest.

  Pixie walked into the room and handed him the large Styrofoam cup of juice. “I should have got you more supplies yesterday.”

  “No, this is beyond good,” he said huskily. Somehow it made him sound even sexier than ever. He sat down on the sofa and drank the juice, closing his eyes and groaning.

  The bed was unmade, a pile of used tissues sat on the nightstand, the curtains were drawn, and the room smelled musty.

  Pixie dropped the bags down on the coffee table. “I got another juice for later. Apple and cucumber. There’s a salad in there, and a bag of mixed nuts and seeds because they are packed with zinc, which is good for your immune system. Put them on the salad or eat them separately.”

  She walked over to the balcony and pushed the curtains aside.

  “Fuck. Pix. You trying to blind me? A bit of notice, gorgeous, please.”

  Chuckling at Dred’s protest, she opened the balcony doors. “You get two days of being sick, then I’m calling man-flu. And you need a shower.”

  “I guess I smell, huh? So much for creating a great impression.”

  It warmed her a little that it mattered to him. “Yes, you do smell, but you need steam to loosen all that crap clogging up your lungs.”

  “You’re like a walking medical almanac.”

  “Go shower, Dred. I’ll tidy up.”

  “Okay, I’ll go, but you leave the room alone, and be sitting right there when I come out,” he said, pointing to a chair on the balcony.

  Pixie waited for the shower to start. She quickly remade the bed, cleaned up the mess, and opened more curtains. The door to the bathroom opened precisely as she threw out the last bag of garbage. Dred shook his head at her.

  “You didn’t need to come here and clean up after my sorry ass.” His hair was wet, slicked back away from his face. Water dripped down his chest, little rivulets running over his pecs, which were crying out to be licked.

  “I didn’t like the idea that you could have died and nobody would have known,” she teased.

  Dred opened the wardrobe and Pixie held her breath. Would he drop the towel as he did the day before? She fiddled with the remote for the TV, pretended to look for a place to put it. Sadly, he wiggled shorts up under his towel, but then turned and winked at her. “Disappointed, gorgeous?”

  Pixie could feel heat flood her cheeks. “What? No. About what?”

  Dred laughed, but it quickly turned into a cough. “Fucking A,” he exclaimed. “This sucks. Do you know where the rest of the guys are?”

  Pixie shook her head.

  “In Boca Raton meeting Nicko McBrain.” Dred walked toward her. “Lennon is his biggest fan, obviously, but the guy is a bona fide rock star.”

  He flopped down on the sofa and reached for her hand, tugging her down next to him. His palm was nearly bigger than her entire hand. “Nicko. Fucking. McBrain.” Dred shook his head again.

  “Would you be desperately offended if I said I didn’t know who that was?” Pixie squinted her eyes.

  “Oh my God, Pix. Seriously?” Dred started to laugh. “He’s probably the most influential heavy metal drummer in the world. Played for a small British band. Iron Maiden. You might have heard of them.”

  “Oh shut up,” she pulled her hand away. “Of course I know who Iron Maiden is. I just don’t know all the band members by name.”

  They sat silently, watching the curtains flutter in the breeze.

  “I should let you eat and get some more rest,” Pixie said, sitting up straight.

  Dred grabbed her hand again. “I don’t want you to leave yet. Stay with me a little while. We can watch a movie . . . or order shots. Whatever you prefer.”

  Pixie thought about the dress that was waiting for her at the condo, and how the last few attempts at being alone with a man had gone.

  But for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t think he would laugh at her and all the ways she was messed up.

  At least she hoped he wouldn’t.

  * * *

  Dred was beginning to feel halfway back to normal. He could finally breathe, and thank God for that because if he had to blow his nose one more time, he might fucking cry.

  Pixie sat near him on the couch. Not close enough to do anything interesting with her, like put his arm around her in the old-school cinema yawn-and-stretch move. Or drop his hand down the front of her adorable black waistcoat to see if she was actually wearing anything underneath. Yeah, he might be sick, but he wasn’t blind. Those girls were small but perky, and bounced around enough he was certain she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “You totally know she’s going to run down that alley instead of into the mall,” Pixie said. He’d talked her into staying, though why she’d agreed to hang out with his sick ass was beyond him.

  It was a beautiful day, and he was wasting it feeling shitty. “This movie’s crap, Pix. Wanna go sit outside in the sunshine with me?”

  “I should go home. I have work to do.”

  “Don’t go. Come outside with me. We can check out the ocean while I pretend my vocal chords didn’t really get shredded a day before we start recording the new album.” Songwriting as a group would be a royal pain in the ass if he couldn’t sing.

  He stood and took her hand, leading them toward a large lounge chair on the sheltered balcony. Pixie sat and folded her knees underneath her. Dred lay down next to her on his side. Unable to resist, he ran a finger along the smooth skin of her calf.

  She was still a bit of an enigma to him. Younger than his twenty-seven he was sure, yet she seemed to have a worldly-wise quality that made her seem so much older. He found himself wanting to know more. “What work do you have to do?”

  “I make dresses for little girls and sell them online.”

  “Wow. What kind of dresses?” Not that he knew jack shit about little girl stuff, having grown up with boys.

  Pixie tugged her phone out of her pocket and pulled up some photographs. “Like these.”

  Dred took the phone, surprised to see a photo of a little girl, face covered in what looked like cupcake icing, wearing the most incredible dress. “Are those peacock feathers?”

  “Yeah. All my dresses have a nature theme . . . mostly animals and insects, but sometimes flowers and plants. That’s a peacock.”

  She leaned closer to move to another photograph. Her scent was light and floral, and he wanted to lose himself in all that beautiful purple hair.

  “This one is my favorite. It’s a clown fish.”

  “These are so clever, Pix. I had no idea. I guess I assumed you’d be a tattoo artist one day.” He scrolled through pictures of a ladybug and what looked like a longhorn beetle.

  “I’ve tried—Cujo and Trent have been the best teachers—but I think I am at the point of telling them I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m okay. Not great. And Lia, Eric, Trent, and Cujo, are phenomenal. It wouldn’t be fair to saddle the studio with me.” She took the phone from his hands and slid it back into her pocket before she turned to face him. “Please don’t tell them that though. I’ve only recently decided. In fact, I don’t even know why I told you.”

  It meant she trusted him, even if it was
subconsciously, and he loved that. He drew her hand over his heart, placed it under his. “Promise.”

  Her face was ethereal, and fuck if he ever thought he’d use that word. Who knew he was a sucker for whiskey-color eyes? Especially large ones with dark eyelashes that curled upward without a trace of makeup. Hell, did she have freckles?

  Someone pounded on the door to the suite. If that was fucking housekeeping, he was going to kill them, because one second more and he was going to kiss her again, sick or not.

  “One sec, gorgeous.” He walked back into the suite and opened the door. Sam stood there, his face red.

  “Why the hell didn’t you show at McBrain’s? A golden fucking photo op and you were meant to be the money shot.”

  “Hey, Sam,” he croaked. “You know why, asshole. I feel like death on a fucking silver platter.”

  Sam marched into the suite like he owned the place. “Where is she? You got some groupie tucked away in here somewhere?”

  “Sam. You got thirty seconds to calm the fuck down.”

  “Calm down? Do you know how long it took to set up that meet and greet? The old guard of metal passing the baton to the new.”

  “I’m sorry, I think I should go.” Dammit. Pixie. He turned to see her standing nervously by the curtains.

  “A fucking groupie. I should have known it.” Sam paced back and forth across the white rug. “Shit. This is why you aren’t being taken seriously.”

  Pixie made to walk by Dred, but he placed his hand gently on her arm. “Give me a minute, please.” He didn’t want her to go. It would be a while before he’d see her again, and he didn’t want this to be his last memory of her.

  “The rest of the guys were there, you got the picture. Baton, passed.”

  “You are the band, Dred. I know you guys have this fucked-up utopian thing . . . but to the rest of the world, you’re the star.” The louder Sam’s voice got, the tighter Pixie’s hand gripped his. Sam’s reaction was disproportionate to the events, especially when there was an explanation to be had.

  “Knock off the yelling, Sam. You are scaring Pix,” Dred said, pulling her closer against him.