The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(21)
Her goofy smile in place, she turned to go back into the shop when a motion caught the corner of her eye. She stopped and watched as a man shifted on the other side of the street. Head down, he turned and walked toward the corner, his back to her. For one second her heart stopped, plummeted, before beating faster. What if it was Arnie? Pixie shook her head. He had a few pounds on Arnie, and less hair. And while the clothes were the same, the slight limp wasn’t. It had been years since she’d seen him outside of her dreams. The man turned to face her just as a delivery truck hurtled down the street, blocking her view.
Yet once the van had passed and the road empty again, the man was no longer there.
*
“So I have no choice?” Dred looked out over Runyan Canyon. The L.A. house had all the warmth and personality of a subway station. But the view and the trails that weaved their way around it were something else. Those small pockets of beauty in L.A. were hard to come by, and were usually surrounded on all sides by bloated commercialism and people with overinflated egos.
“We now have a legal request to surrender for a paternity test. If you respond now, the mother has agreed she won’t make it public.” Sam sat on the white leather sofa wearing a burgundy suit. He swirled the solitary ice cube in his single malt like an extra from Mad Men.
“Let me think about it,” Dred said, stepping away from the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“You can think all you want, Dred, but she has photographs of that night. Compromising ones. Not sex-tape stuff, but clearly the two of you getting it on.”
“Fuck.” Dred pressed his forehead to the glass. This was so not what he needed right now. He couldn’t possibly be a father. Safety was his number-one priority as far as sex was concerned. With the kind of childhood he’d had, he was starting to think that procreating was not for him. In all good consciousness, he couldn’t bring a child into the world and saddle them with the kind of father he’d be. Keeping his anger in check was a daily thing, and a child would only exacerbate his lack of control.
Playing Daddy Day Care would certainly mess up his plan of focusing the shit out of his career. Seven more years of writing, performing, investing, and saving. There’d be no slowing down until he was certain he’d never want for anything the rest of his life. Memories from his past spurred him on to his goals. Like walking to school in deep winter snow wearing sneakers because his mom never had the money for boots.
“Look, I’m sorry, Dred. But if you lead the kind of lives you guys do, then these things—”
“Shut up, Sam.” He didn’t need to hear a moral lecture. “I’m going to shower and get ready for tonight’s pantomime.”
He headed for his room, and entered the en-suite bathroom. The shower had a million and one settings, but he always used the exact same one. Hot. As hot as his skin could stand.
Once undressed, he stood under the steaming spray. Why the hell were they even going to a pop awards show anyway? Another messed-up publicity stunt by Sam to keep them current? Because, yeah, showing up at these events would find them a new audience. Not.
He washed his hair. It’s not like they were nominated for anything, so why give up a day and a half of recording time to spend one night and fly out again? Seemed like they were being booked for a whole bunch of shit that had nothing to do with them or their music. He needed to talk to the guys. Perhaps Sam was the issue, not the record label. Shouldn’t it be his job to shut this kind of thing down? In many ways, he was an incredible manager, and had kick-started their careers, but in others . . . well.
Rinsing his hair, he thought about the people he’d met at the record label. What happened to simply expecting a band to show up and make great f*cking music? Now it was all social media this, and publicity event that. These fluff events killed him. He’d bet good money on being seated next to some pop princess with an album to promote, and that by tomorrow they’d be press fodder as the next big yet strange couple. It happened every time.
Normally all this shit was a minor inconvenience. And face it, half of the pop-princess stories were true for one night. They were all too happy to jump into bed with a tattooed rocker to dirty up their polished images, and he was always willing to tarnish a couple of tiaras. But more photos in the tabloids tomorrow would upset Pixie. The paparazzi had impeccable timing, and could turn the most innocent greeting into a sordid affair.
For Pixie’s sake, he didn’t want that. His skin had thickened over the years. Ellen said he was developing the hide of a rhino. Pixie’s was still tender, pale, and tattooed with swirls of flowers. His cock stirred at the thought of how soft that skin felt under his callused fingertips. Enjoying the sensation, he allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of their kiss, and the way her ass felt as he squeezed it. Firm and round despite her petite frame. He felt compelled to keep it monogamous between them until they’d figured out what was going on. For a guy with his appetites, it was way too f*cking long.
He grabbed his cock and squeezed, running his palm up and down as he recalled more images of the time they’d spent together. The way her breasts had bounced around under her vest, the soft sigh she often gave when he kissed her, how he’d been able to see the smallest hint of her black panties when she’d sat next to him on the balcony at the hotel. Yeah, who the f*ck needed porn when he had those mental snapshots of Pixie? His imagination took over, and suddenly she was lying naked on her front, that pert ass in the air and the curve of her back so f*cking hot.