The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(5)

Damn it. She turned to face Dred. His long dark hair fell dishevelled around his shoulders, framing a strong chin and cheekbones she’d kill for. His soft smile weakened her resolve.

“Hey, Pix, I was wondering—”

“Hey, man. You’re Dred Zander, right?” A man cut him off and stepped between the two of them, shaking Dred’s hand furiously. “I’m Bill from Boise. Screwed is my all-time favorite album. I love ‘Dog Boy.’ Will you play it tonight?”

Dred shook his head, “Sorry. We won’t. But it’s an epic set. “

Gone were the seductive grin and the brightness in his eyes. Sure, he smiled, looked friendly even, but Pixie could see it was an act.

“Why not? You guys never play it. You wrote the sickest lyrics, man.”

The fan, Bill, was starting to irritate her, and by the way Dred’s jaw twitched, he felt the same.

“Thanks,” Dred said. “Means a lot. Now I was in the middle of a conversation with—”

“C’mon. Play it for me, tonight,” he whined. “It’s the last night of the tour, and it’s my birthday next week.”

“Happy birthday. And actually Jordan wrote it. He doesn’t want to sing it. So we won’t.”

“But you guys should listen to your fans more. Go on any forum, and they want you to play it live.”

Pixie coughed loudly, walked to the front of the counter, and slipped her hand into Dred’s. He squeezed it tightly, but continued to stare intently at Bill. “I can take you through to the back now.”

“Wait. Here.” Bill shoved his phone insistently into her hand, forcing her to take a step back. “Take a photo of us.”

“You wanna say please to the lady?” Dred’s voice was menacingly low.

“Oh, sorry. Please.”

Pixie looked at the screen. Bill looked as happy as a kid hopped up on Smarties, whereas Dred looked like he was about to rip Bill’s head off.

Photo taken, Pixie handed the camera back to Bill. If it weren’t the reputation of the studio on the line, she’d ask Eric to tattoo a penis on Bill’s bicep instead of the glaringly obvious copy of one of Eminem’s tattoos.

“So any chance of some VIP access, man?”

Pixie dragged Dred to the office and closed the door to stop Bill from following. “You okay?” She let go of his hand.

“Yeah,” Dred said, pulling on the silver anchor attached to black cord that hung around his neck. “Shitty flight, and that song Bill was talking about. Well, it’s too painful to play. We haven’t played it since the day we recorded it.”

Trent opened the door. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

Dred walked toward him, then turned back to her, the smile she found impossible to ignore back on his face. “So, we bonded a little more. You and me. Even held hands, right? When are you finally going to agree to go on a date with me?”

“When the Marlins win the World Series,” she answered. Though in truth, a part of her wanted to go on a date with him right now.

*

Dred sat back and let the drone of the tattoo gun and the bite of its needles release the pressure building inside his head. Nothing to focus on but the hum and vibration.

“Sorry we couldn’t use the private room, but believe me, it’s better for everyone’s ear drums this way. You look wrecked.” Trent didn’t look up as he spoke, he kept on shading. Dred hated the unoriginal skull he got when he’d been nineteen, but loved the design Trent had come up with to cover it up.

“Been a long few months.” His voiced cracked on the end. Bad sign.

“No time off during the tour?” Trent dipped his needles in black ink.

Dred preferred his tattoos in black and gray, although vibrant color looked sexy as hell on a woman. He glanced over at the desk where Pixie was laughing with a client.

“We tagged a couple of days here and there. Mostly on the road though, not at home. I miss my f*cking bed something fierce. Managed to add a couple of days to this trip though. Hoping the warm weather will be good for the throat.”

“It’s cool here right now.” Trent moved Dred’s arm to where he wanted it.

“Cool? It’s hovering around three degrees back home.” Dred laughed, but it turned into a cough. Crap. Coughing was really bad.

“You talking that metric shit? What’s that in real numbers? Like, forty?”

“Yeah, something like that. And what are you? Oh, that’s right, seventy, maybe even eighty. You wouldn’t know cool if it walked up and bit you.”

“You know, if you’re sticking around, you could come in tomorrow and I’ll finish off that lower sleeve we’ve been working on,” Trent said, dipping the tattoo equipment into the ink.

“I’m up for it if you’re sure you can fit it in.”

“Of course. So what else has been happening?”

“We got some kind of leak. I told you before we all grew up in a group home, right?”

Trent nodded. “Yeah, I remembered that.”

“Well, someone leaked some info about Elliot and how he ended up in the home. They didn’t get it totally right, but revealed some real personal shit. We have no idea how the media got on to it.” Thank f*ck they didn’t know it all. If they’d found out the truth, the band would have been in a whole world of hurt.