The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(2)

Pixie plugged in her phone and let the playlist she’d built blast from the speakers. It contained songs from some of the greatest musicals and films. Up first, Idina Menzel. Rent, Wicked, and Frozen, were all on there. Once done, she’d move onto Elaine Paige classics. Evita, Chess, and Sunset Boulevard. It was such a contrast to the usual metal and heavy rock everyone listened to during business hours.

Standing in front of the large studio mirror, she pulled her bobbed purple hair up into a ponytail. It was the first time she’d allowed it to grow since she’d chopped it all off the day after leaving home. She wondered briefly if her mom was still there. Or even alive. Too scared to call home in case she got Arnie, Pixie had no way of knowing what had become of her. But staying clean was more important than chasing the past, and she knew speaking to Arnie would be a trigger.

Pixie decided to start with inks. She pulled all the boxes out of the cupboard, but kept them organized by brand and color. The inside of the cabinet needed a good clean, so she got supplies from the closet and got to work.

A couple of hours, and nearly a full pot of coffee later, Pixie was buzzed, and finished. Inventory was done, workstations were set up for the day, and appointment calendars were printed. Pencil in hand, Pixie sat at the desk, doodling ideas for her latest order. Ladybugs were her favorite party dresses to make, and she tried to make each one different.

The studio phone rang, and Pixie glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was still forty-five minutes before opening.

Voice mail could take it. Pixie sketched the little antennae, but the ringing bothered her.

Unable to ignore it, she picked up the phone.

“You’ve reached Second Circle. How can I help you today?”

“Pix?”

She knew that voice. It was the only one that wrapped around her ribs and squeezed tight. “Hey, Dred.” Dred Zander was a fellow judge with Trent on the reality TV show Inked. He also rocked every metalhead girl on the planet as lead singer of Preload. They’d met on a few occasions. And maybe she’d thought of him a few times in between.

“Hi, gorgeous. Why aren’t you home? Trent being a slave driver?”

“No, I’m doing inventory.”

“This early?” His voice was filled with concern.

“It’s quiet. I’m fine,” she whispered. For the first time that morning, being alone felt kind of shitty. The silence hung between them for a moment until she shook it off. “What can I help you with?” she asked as cheerily as she could muster.

“Oh, I was going to see if Trent could fit me in next week before the show.”

The North American leg of Dred’s tour was coming to an end in Miami, and she’d heard from Trent that they had a brief break to record a new album before starting the European leg.

“Why didn’t you call his cell?” Pixie pulled up the appointment schedule on the computer she’d just started up.

“Because if I call here and leave a message, you have to call me back.”

Despite herself, she laughed. “Yeah, he can do any time from midmorning.”

“Put me in for noon. So when I’m down there, are you finally going to agree to go on a date with me?”

Pixie smiled. He always asked, and she always replied the same way. “Not until it snows on the Sahara.”

Dred laughed.

It felt as though a butterfly was trapped inside her chest.

“You’ll cave eventually Pix. I give good date, among other things,” he said suggestively.

“I’m sure you do. See you next week, Dred.”

“Count on it, Pixie.”

The phone went silent. She knew the day would come when he stopped flirting with her, but a relationship with him was simply impossible.

And she f*cking hated her stepfather for that.

*

The way the sun cut through the clouds, only hitting parts of the earth . . . focused . . . could you chase the brightness . . . move from place to place and stay in its rays . . . or would the sun always find you if you stood still?

“What do you think, Dred?”

Dred returned his attention from the view out of the Cessna’s window and finished scribbling the thoughts into his lyrics notebook. He closed it with a snap and looked over to Sam, Preload’s manager.

“What?” he asked calmly.

“We only have another hour left on the flight and we still have a lot to get through. Could I get your attention please?”

“Cut him some slack,” Nikan said. As the eldest of them growing up in the group home together, Nikan, guitarist and back-up vocals for the band, had always taken on the role of protector. “If you hadn’t committed us to getting the new album out so f*cking quick, he wouldn’t need to be thinking about lyrics twenty-four seven.”

Dred appreciated the intervention, but the truth was, the lyrical ideas came to him when they were ready. He could no sooner turn them off than he could stop blinking. Can you turn off the sun? . . . Does love burn like the sun? And if so, could you avoid love, the way you avoid the sun?

“Dred.” Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts.

They were two hours into the early morning flight to Miami, and business was the order of the day even though his mind was on the inspiration outside the window. Dred unwrapped a lozenge, and caught the flight attendant’s eye for another cup of hot water. The last thing he needed was a sore throat, but the telltale irritation and dryness said one was on its way.