The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (4 page)

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.

Sam turned to look at her for the first time, disdain twisting his features. “Pix? What kind of name is that? You sound like a fucking Pokémon.”

Dred felt her body jerk against his, but her voice was calm and smooth. “And you’re a jerk.”

“Better than a slut. You’ve had your fun. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Sam sneered, gesturing toward the hallway.

Blind rage consumed Dred, and he stepped forward, all the mechanisms his counsellors had taught him for keeping his anger checked, having failed. Like venom in a vein, he could feel its stinging pulse work its way through his body until he was on the balls of his feet, his hands fisted at his sides. He was going to fucking
kill
Sam.

“You don’t say that about her.” His voice came out in a growl, the only warning Sam was going to get.

Pixie pushed in between him and Sam, her tiny hand shoving against his chest with an effect so powerful it stopped him midstride.

He put his hand over hers, holding it against his chest. His heartbeat slowed, the need to fight dissipated. Just her proximity soothed him from the quick trigger he’d spent years trying to overcome after being diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder as a child.

“You know what. This is pointless. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.” Sam marched out of the room.

What the fuck?
Ten minutes ago, he’d been sitting with Pixie on the balcony, desperately wanting to kiss her, but knowing he was too sick to try. Now Sam had questioned his commitment, and likely scared Pixie away for good.

“I’m sorry, Pix.” It was hugely insufficient, but the argument had drained him of what little energy he’d recovered. Those sweet eyes of her were telling him nothing. Pixie pulled her hand out of his.

“I better go,” she said heading to the door. “You need to get some more rest.”

“Hey, Pix,” he said sadly as she reached for the handle. “I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but you’ve taken care of me, twice. We’ve kissed, twice. You’ve been alone with me in my room, twice. When are you going to go out with me?”

She turned toward him, her face unreadable. It was the last time he was going to ask, or at least it was the last time he’d get to ask her for a while. He was as committed to Preload as he had been the day Maisey put that crappy guitar in his hand, despite Sam’s accusations. But the idea of Pixie walking out of the door, and him getting on a flight in the morning burned. So he waited for the smart-aleck response, braced for the no.