The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(13)

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 f*cking 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 f*ck 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 f*cking housekeeping, he was going to kill them, because one second more and he was going to kiss her again, sick or not.