The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (2 page)

“Come on, Sam. You’ve known us, what, nearly ten years. These are terrible ideas,” Dred said, wading into the discussion.

“They are lucrative, Dred. You know how much you make on
Inked
. Jordan could do with the exposure. And the drum deal makes sense too.” Sam looked over toward Lennon.

“You concerned about getting your cut? Because we made you a shit load of money last year.” Dred remembered their first meeting with Sam after a small gig on the Danforth. The low turnout nearly defeated the band. Sam had approached Dred, said he wanted to help them secure better events. He even volunteered to do it for free with a view to getting a percentage when they hit it big.

“It’s not about the money,” Sam insisted.

“It’s always about the money, Sam,” Nikan said. “Dred’s right. Go find us deals that make sense. If Lennon says the drums are shit, then they’re shit. And we can’t afford for our arena tour to sound anything less than perfect. You’ve been around us long enough to know Jordan prefers hanging with us. So don’t force it, man.”

“Look.” Sam closed the file and rubbed his eyes. “The label wants me to maximize your exposure. They’re nervous, uncertain how well received your next album will be. I’m trying to make you guys as much money as I can, so you are set if it all ends tomorrow.”

“Do you really think that’s a possibility?” Nikan asked.

“There are bands who don’t have the same . . . limitations.” Sam looked toward Lennon, eyes closed while tapping on the table to the beats pounding through his headphones, and Jordan, who’d completely checked out of the conversation. “Those bands are willing to work harder. Go farther. Take more risks.”

“Our last two albums went multi-fucking-platinum. The North American leg of the tour sold out in two hours. What more can we do?” Dred slammed his hand down on the table.

“I’m just the messenger, Dred.”

Damn, Sam was right
. “Sorry.”

Nikan left his spot and went to talk to Elliot. It was one of the perks of travelling on a private jet, the freedom to move around and still work. As lead and rhythm guitarists, they often collaborated, and had brought their guitars on board.

“If you don’t like that news,” Sam said, “you are
really
going to hate this. You may need to do a DNA test.”

There was only one reason he could think of why a DNA test would be necessary, but he asked the question anyway. “Why?”

“A woman has come forward claiming she had your baby at St. Joseph’s Hospital yesterday.”

“What the fuck?” Dred leaned forward.

The baby couldn’t be his. He always wrapped it up. There was no way in hell he was bringing a kid into the world. Not until he was totally established and the band was at a point in its career where they could slow down. That was if he had any children at all. His childhood had been a series of rotating doors to flophouses, shelters, basement apartments, and foster homes. What kind of parent would he be to a child?

“She had details of your encounter that line up with the days you were in Toronto in the spring.”

“Sam. You know me. I always take precautions. Carry my own wherever I go. This has to be bullshit.”

“Okay. I’ll go back to them and say that we need a lot more information before you’ll consent.”

Shit
. It couldn’t be his. Because
if
he ever did have kids, it would be with a woman who was in love with the guy dropped off at the group home.

Not the rock star.

Pixie studied the chaos unfolding in the studio and decided to make some tough decisions. Most tattoo artists wanted to avoid clients who couldn’t take the pain, so the screamer in Cujo’s chair was driving everyone crazy. Eric had ended up with a guy who refused to admit his low tolerance for needles going in and out of his skin. Instead, he asked for a ten-minute break every half hour. Lia’s client kept adding on, and adding on, and adding on. As a result, they were running about an hour behind schedule.

Trent had lucked out. A regular from New York had swung by to get some work done on his chest piece and was taking the ink work like a pro.

Pixie looked at the booked clients and the walk-in list and knew something had to give. Collecting a couple of twenty-dollar gift cards, she approached the last two walk-ins she’d accepted. Without too much fuss, she was able to reschedule them for the next day.

Pixie wandered over to Cujo’s client, Michelle, who was having an ill-advised ribcage tattoo as her first-ever ink. It was too big, and the area too sensitive, for an ink virgin. Cujo had been straight with her about the scale and placement, but Michelle had been adamant.

“The good news is we have a bunch of options,” Pixie overheard Cujo say to her. “We can stop, and you can come back another time to get it finished, or we can change the design to make it smaller by removing these details.” Cujo pointed to parts of the sketch he’d drawn up for her.

“If you decide to stick it out,” Pixie added, joining the conversation, “you can move into the private room at the back.”

“I think I bit off more than I can chew. And I know you warned me, Cujo,” Michelle said tearily.

“Why don’t we do a mix of everything suggested? Why don’t I make the design smaller so that you leave today with a complete tattoo? Then if you decide to come back, we can finish it, or, if you decide you’re never having another needle touch this skin, it will still look cool. And we’ll move into the back to make it easier on you.”

Michelle agreed. Pixie led her away to allow Cujo time to gather his gear. Once Michelle was settled on the long black table, Pixie returned to the main room. It was getting warmer in the studio, so she walked toward the door to open it.

“Thanks for helping out, Pix. Can you find out if eardrum replacement surgery is a thing?” Cujo whispered as she walked by.

She reached for the door handle at the same time she turned to laugh at his joke and walked straight into a broad chest. Strong arms grabbed her and she looked up into Dred’s dark brown eyes, the gold flecks in them sparkling. Every time he touched her, her world tilted. She could feel the heat of his fingers against her skin. He continued to stare at her, the air hanging expectantly between them.

“Hey, Pixie.” Then he winked at her. Not just any wink. No, that was his rock star wink. The one that caused panties to drop and heartbeats to race on a global scale.

Pixie jumped out of reach. “Dred.” She stumbled backward, but he stalked closer with every retreating step she took.

“Did you miss me?” he asked huskily.

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“Not a trick question, Pix.” He grinned. “What do you think I mean?”

“Nothing . . . yes . . . no . . . I mean, sure. It’s good to see you.”
He’s turning me into a complete flake.

“Really? You don’t seem so sure.” He reached out and touched the ends of her hair.

She shivered in response. It would be so easy to cave, to fall into him, but the few times Pixie had ever come close to that with anybody else it had ended miserably. No, she couldn’t humiliate herself that way.

“Step away from the staff,” Trent said with a laugh as he interrupted them. “What’s up, bro?”

Pixie hustled quickly around to the other side of the desk and immersed herself in refilling the stapler, anything to avoid the whiskey-and-smoke sound of his voice and the dark woodsy smell of him.

“Give me twenty minutes to finish up, and I’ll be right with you,” she heard Trent say.

Damn it. She turned to face Dred. His long dark hair fell dishevelled around his shoulders, framing a strong chin and cheekbones she’d kill for. His soft smile weakened her resolve.

“Hey, Pix, I was wondering—”

“Hey, man. You’re Dred Zander, right?” A man cut him off and stepped between the two of them, shaking Dred’s hand furiously. “I’m Bill from Boise.
Screwed
is my all-time favorite album. I love ‘Dog Boy.’ Will you play it tonight?”

Dred shook his head, “Sorry. We won’t. But it’s an epic set. “

Gone were the seductive grin and the brightness in his eyes. Sure, he smiled, looked friendly even, but Pixie could see it was an act.

“Why not? You guys never play it. You wrote the sickest lyrics, man.”

The
fan
, Bill, was starting to irritate her, and by the way Dred’s jaw twitched, he felt the same.

“Thanks,” Dred said. “Means a lot. Now I was in the middle of a conversation with—”

“C’mon. Play it for me, tonight,” he whined. “It’s the last night of the tour, and it’s my birthday next week.”

“Happy birthday. And actually Jordan wrote it. He doesn’t want to sing it. So we won’t.”

“But you guys should listen to your fans more. Go on any forum, and they want you to play it live.”

Pixie coughed loudly, walked to the front of the counter, and slipped her hand into Dred’s. He squeezed it tightly, but continued to stare intently at Bill. “I can take you through to the back now.”

“Wait. Here.” Bill shoved his phone insistently into her hand, forcing her to take a step back. “Take a photo of us.”

“You wanna say please to the lady?” Dred’s voice was menacingly low.

“Oh, sorry. Please.”

Pixie looked at the screen. Bill looked as happy as a kid hopped up on Smarties, whereas Dred looked like he was about to rip Bill’s head off.

Photo taken, Pixie handed the camera back to Bill. If it weren’t the reputation of the studio on the line, she’d ask Eric to tattoo a penis on Bill’s bicep instead of the glaringly obvious copy of one of Eminem’s tattoos.

“So any chance of some VIP access, man?”

Pixie dragged Dred to the office and closed the door to stop Bill from following. “You okay?” She let go of his hand.

“Yeah,” Dred said, pulling on the silver anchor attached to black cord that hung around his neck. “Shitty flight, and that song Bill was talking about. Well, it’s too painful to play. We haven’t played it since the day we recorded it.”

Trent opened the door. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

Dred walked toward him, then turned back to her, the smile she found impossible to ignore back on his face. “So, we bonded a little more. You and me. Even held hands, right? When are you finally going to agree to go on a date with me?”

“When the Marlins win the World Series,” she answered. Though in truth, a part of her wanted to go on a date with him right now.

* * *

Dred sat back and let the drone of the tattoo gun and the bite of its needles release the pressure building inside his head. Nothing to focus on but the hum and vibration.

“Sorry we couldn’t use the private room, but believe me, it’s better for everyone’s ear drums this way. You look wrecked.” Trent didn’t look up as he spoke, he kept on shading. Dred hated the unoriginal skull he got when he’d been nineteen, but loved the design Trent had come up with to cover it up.

“Been a long few months.” His voiced cracked on the end. Bad sign.

“No time off during the tour?” Trent dipped his needles in black ink.

Dred preferred his tattoos in black and gray, although vibrant color looked sexy as hell on a woman. He glanced over at the desk where Pixie was laughing with a client.

“We tagged a couple of days here and there. Mostly on the road though, not at home. I miss my fucking bed something fierce. Managed to add a couple of days to this trip though. Hoping the warm weather will be good for the throat.”

“It’s cool here right now.” Trent moved Dred’s arm to where he wanted it.

“Cool? It’s hovering around three degrees back home.” Dred laughed, but it turned into a cough.
Crap. Coughing was really bad.

“You talking that metric shit? What’s that in real numbers? Like, forty?”

“Yeah, something like that. And what are you? Oh, that’s right, seventy, maybe even eighty. You wouldn’t know cool if it walked up and bit you.”

“You know, if you’re sticking around, you could come in tomorrow and I’ll finish off that lower sleeve we’ve been working on,” Trent said, dipping the tattoo equipment into the ink.

“I’m up for it if you’re sure you can fit it in.”

“Of course. So what else has been happening?”

“We got some kind of leak. I told you before we all grew up in a group home, right?”

Trent nodded. “Yeah, I remembered that.”

“Well, someone leaked some info about Elliot and how he ended up in the home. They didn’t get it totally right, but revealed some real personal shit. We have no idea how the media got on to it.”
Thank fuck they didn’t know it all. If they’d found out the truth, the band would have been in a whole world of hurt.

What hurt more was watching how the news had set Elliot back. The leaks were coming faster, their content cutting closer and closer to home. Each one felt like a personal attack that was getting harder to bounce back from. Fortunately Sam was all over that shit. Had retractions written within hours, but once the rumor was out there, there was no erasing it.

Dred started to cough again. “Sorry.”

“No worries, man. One sec. Pix?” Trent shouted over his shoulder.

“What’s up?” She walked toward them, her hips swinging in sexy black leggings. She rocked purple kicks on her feet that matched her hair.

“Dred needs one of your magic potions. Can you hook him up?”

Pixie felt Dred’s forehead. Such a motherly thing to do; it reminded him of Ellen. He used to push her away, but he secretly loved the fact she showed concern.

“You don’t have a fever. Okay. Gimme ten minutes. It needs to steep.”

He watched Pixie walk away, the view from the rear almost as compelling as the view from the front.

“Right, I need you to move yourself around like this.” Trent repositioned Dred’s arm on the rest. “And I think you should stop talking, seeing we’re coming to see your show later.”

Dred leaned back and closed his eyes. A couple of hours here at the studio, then a cab over to the venue. Sound check was a formality, thankfully. They were using their regular crew led by Stan, a concert veteran who worked hard to ensure a flawless set up. Even so, Dred never considered skipping it.

It felt like sixty seconds had passed when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“I have your tea.”

Pixie
. He rubbed his eyes to shake the drowsy feeling.

He took the cup from her and sniffed it. “What’s in it?”

“Try it first, then I’ll tell you.”

Dred eyed Trent. “This is safe, right?”

Trent laughed and Pixie cuffed the back of his ear. “Just try it. There’s nothing illegal, mood altering, or sleep enhancing.”

Dred nervously took a sip. It felt like heaven going down his sore throat. “Oh my God.”

“I know, right?” Trent said. “It’s a special recipe Pixie makes for all of us when we’re ill. Works like a charm.”

Dred drank some more. “What’s in this?”

“Sliced lemons, ginger, and marshmallow root steeped in hot water and honey.” Pixie placed a small glass bottle with a spray top next to him. “Echinacea and sage throat spray. Try it when you’ve finished your drink.”

She placed her hand on his forehead again. “Do you have something for a fever, in case you feel worse later on?”

“No, but I have a shitload of duty free whiskey, which’ll do the same thing.” Dred frowned when Pixie removed her hand and hurried to the desk to retrieve something.

“Here,” she said, holding out a strip of pills. “Take two of those if you have a fever before the show. They have caffeine to help you stay awake.”

He slid the strip into his jeans pocket, praying he wouldn’t need them.
Please let me get through tonight.

“Thanks, Pixie. So now, we’ve held hands, you’ve saved me from hypervigilant fans, fixed my throat, and checked my temperature like you care. Before your boss, and everyone listening in on this
private
conversation,” he said, eyeballing Bill from Boise, “when are you going to go out on a date with me?”

He wasn’t holding his breath. Not really. Well, maybe a little. There was something between them, something she was obviously nervous about exploring. Sure, her words screamed
no way in hell
. But the look from those eyes, which were the same color as a bottle of Jack, was a very definite maybe.

She looked at him as if she were figuring out a complex jigsaw.

“When there’s world peace.”

Damn it.

Every time he asked, yes was getting a little closer. Every time, her response was a little slower. And it was a long time since he’d enjoyed the chase. But it would end. Tonight at the show, he’d find out if that perfect little pout tasted as good as it looked.

* * *

Pixie was grateful for the VIP pass she wore around her neck. It magically opened doors, eliminated the need to queue with the masses, and provided drinks. Lia stood next to her sipping on a mint julep.

Raging vocals, screaming guitars, and the shouts of twenty thousand fans filled the American Airlines Arena with energy so powerful, it reverberated in Pixie’s chest. Testimony, the first of three acts, was in the middle of their set. Pixie took a sip of her beer and leaned against the table. She looked at Lia in her pretty black-and-white polka-dot dress with layers of tulle and felt the sharp bite of envy. Lia was always unapologetically herself in spite of what was going on around her. Pixie wished she could be the same instead of wanting to fade into the floor like Elphaba at the end of
Wicked
. That was why she’d dyed her hair purple. It kept her present, visible, even when she felt the need to disappear.

She fixed the hem of her black dress. The short number with only one sleeve was her favorite. Perhaps she’d made a bit more effort than usual, and the heels she wore were going to kill her feet before the night was over. While she wanted to believe she’d gone to the trouble to feel good about herself, it was pointless trying to pretend it wasn’t for Dred’s benefit.