The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(16)
Pixie sighed. She’d always struggled to talk about what happened, even in rehab, and revealing her real name was an acknowledgment she had something to hide, something she wasn’t ready to talk to Dred about. She didn’t want to go back to that place and be that young girl, too scared to reveal what was going on at home, yet she realized that all those years later, that was exactly what she was still doing.
Dred looked at his phone. “Shit. I gotta go. My flight leaves in a couple of hours and I gotta pack.”
Pixie sat up and stretched. “Thank you for coming to see me.”
Dred gripped her chin. His gaze was fixed on her, the look in his eyes turned her insides to mush. “You still owe me a date,” he said quietly.
His mouth lowered toward hers, but Pixie put a hand to Dred’s chest. “Wait. You’ll get sick again.”
“Arguably I am still sick, but I’ll take my chances, gorgeous.”
His lips, soft and warm, crushed hers, and she felt the kiss to the very tips of her toes. His hands gripped the sides of her face and slid into her hair. Pixie felt as though she were swimming in a fierce riptide; just when she found her feet, he took her under again.
Dred stood and stepped away, his breathing as heavy as hers. “Come see me in Toronto, Pix. Please.”
It felt foolish and reckless to agree. It was the last thing she needed. Even the kiss had pushed her close to an edge she was scared of. He had the power to hurt her, and if she were in Canada, she’d have no easy means of escape. But then she looked into his eyes, and the pulsating fear halted.
“When?” she asked.
*
The downside of changing flights at the last minute was summed up perfectly in his seat assignment. A middle seat in economy. To his left was a douchebag who clearly believed aftershave would mask the fact he hadn’t showered for a week. The strong fragrance was giving Dred a monster headache. To his right, an admittedly hot-looking cougar was giving him the come-on. Once upon a time, he might have suggested a quick trip to the bathroom, mile-high club and all that. But his mind was on Pixie.
The way her lips had felt against his was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. She was so not his type. His phone was full of numbers belonging to supermodels and the occasional Playmate. Yet when her petite-frame had pressed up against his, he had the compelling urge to pick her up and press her against the wall. She’d be as light as a feather. And he’d bet money she was flexible. His cock started to stiffen at the thought of her, legs wide open for him.
The plane landed, the sudden jolt stopping his stray thoughts.
He disembarked, thankful to escape his seatmates, and walked to the taxi stand, wishing he’d had the foresight to hire a limo. One of the things he loved most about Toronto was how, for the most part, people left him alone to get on with his business. In L.A. they were hounded by paparazzi as soon as they set foot in the airport terminal, but nobody had bothered him today. Traffic on the 427 and Gardiner Expressway cooperated, and he arrived home forty minutes later.
Dred dropped his bags in his room, grabbed his lyrics notebook, and went to the kitchen for some hot water. The dry air on the plane had aggravated his throat. He followed the low rumble of music coming from the recording studio in the basement. The soundproofing had cost them a small fortune, but it meant they could record individually or as a band whenever the mood struck, without worrying about their neighbors.
The music stopped as Dred approached and pushed the soundproof doors open.
“Yo, yo.” Lennon called out from behind his session kit.
Dred lifted his favorite Fender Stratocaster off the rack. The black and white Eric Clapton Signature model would play the perfect kind of tones he was in the mood for. “You guys making good progress?”
He sat down on his usual stool, placing the notebook on the small table next to it.
“Yeah.” Elliott jumped in. “What about you? Did you make good progress?”
Lennon sounded the classic bah-dum-dum on the drums.
Dred rolled his eyes as Elliott laughed. “Pix is coming to visit in a week or so.”
“No shit. That’s . . . unusual,” Jordan said.
“Yeah, it is,” Dred replied.
He wondered if he was being unfair to Pixie. The more time he spent with her, the more he found to like. So naturally caring, and surprisingly funny. But the timing was off. Hell, the timing might never be right. He had no intention of taking his foot off the career gas until he was at least thirty-five. At some point, he’d move into the place he owned, an incredible Rosedale home that looked over the ravine. Not until Jordan could deal, naturally. And Pixie lived in Miami, the most impractical place for someone like him who split his time between L.A. and Toronto. Oh, and someone who also filmed a reality TV show eight weeks a year. And toured. What the f*ck am I thinking?
He wondered if he should call her and bail on their plans, give her some reason about last-minute gigs. Given the logistical nightmare that surrounded them, it might be better to call it quits before he was even more into her. The idea eviscerated his insides.
“You want to talk about it?” Nikan asked.
Dred shook his head. “What the f*ck is this, therapy?”
“Well, if that’s a no, maybe we should show you what we’ve been working on today.” Nikan hoisted his guitar back over his shoulder.
On Lennon’s count, the guitars came in. The sound was dense, the notes tight. The fuzzy distortion of Jordan’s base an anchor to Nikan’s aggressive slides.