The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(57)

Dred cocked his head to one side. “Hmm,” he said, running the tips of his fingers along her collarbone. “I think we should decide on a forfeit.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, we can decide at the time one of us wants to quit.” He took her hand and led her over to one of the large sofas that flanked the fireplace. They sat down facing each other, and Dred’s finger slipped inside the top button of her sheer black blouse, tracing the skin underneath lazily. “I have a question. Where were you born?”

An easy question to start, one that wouldn’t give too much away. “On the outskirts of The Muck. Also known as Pahokee, Florida.”

“Sounds like a real must-see kind of place,” he said, making short work of the rest of her buttons. She was glad she’d worn the somewhat sexy camisole underneath. Dred slipped the sleeves down her arms and threw the shirt on the sofa behind her. “My turn. Ask me.”

She tried to ignore the way Dred’s fingers slid under the thin strap of her camisole and focused on what question to ask. It would set the tone for the kinds of questions he would ask her. And while she desperately wanted to know why the band still lived together and what Dred’s life was like in foster care, she played it safe. “What would you be if you weren’t a rock star?”

Dred nudged the camisole strap off her shoulder.

“That’s cheating,” she said, pulling it back up.

“Spoil sport.” Dred laughed. “Hmm. What would I be? I don’t know. Can I say songwriter for other people? Because I love lyrics. Writing the songs is as important to me as performing them.”

It was an easy answer, but she let it fly in the hope he wouldn’t press her too hard later. “Your T-shirt,” she said, dipping her fingers under the hem, feeling the tight clench of his abs as she rubbed against them. He let her pull it over his head, then leaned back against the sofa, draping his arm along the back of it. He was obviously way more comfortable half-naked than she was.

“My turn,” Dred said with too much excitement for her liking. “Why did you move to Miami?”

Pixie forced the smile to remain on her face as she floundered for an answer. Because I killed a man. But she couldn’t say that. She wasn’t ready to explain what she ran away from. It was too soon. Too early. She’d never told Cujo and Trent in all the years they’d known her. It felt odd to fight the urge to share everything with Dred. “I think you need to visit Pahokee to understand that,” she said with a tight smile.

Dred frowned and held her gaze until she had to turn away and pretend to look out over the water. The look told her he knew she was avoiding answering. He took hold of her hand.

“On a scale of one to ten, how high is your panic right now, Pix?”

She turned to face him. “My what?”

“You know . . . the churning inside, your heart rate. How high is it? My psychologist told me to give it a number and embrace it before I dealt with it.”

“Eight.” Because nine was reserved for her stepdad, and ten was reserved for the man she killed. She breathed deeply. “Why did you have a psychologist?”

“Wait. You can ask me that next. But can you give me some kind of real answer? It doesn’t have to be everything, then take off that top before I get inspired and rip it?”

She looked into his eyes. He wasn’t making fun of her. Wasn’t even blowing it off. He was giving them both a way through it.

“I did something I shouldn’t have done and I needed to get away.”

Dred nodded, and with a quick look down to the camisole and back to her eyes, he encouraged her to strip.

“Don’t you want to know what I did?”

“Not today. We should build up to that, right?”

Pixie nodded and whipped the camisole over her head before she could second-guess herself.

Dred’s hand gripped her waist, before sliding upward until his thumbs brushed her nipples. He bent forward and sucked one into his mouth. Pixie placed her hands on his head and weaved her fingers though his hair.

His mouth was warm on her skin; the way his tongue moved against her felt like heaven. He let her nipple go with a pop. “I could do that all day,” he said, sitting back against the sofa. “You asked why I saw a psychologist. I had issues as a kid. My mom . . . she had . . . problems. I lived through some frightening shit. As a result, I could never control my temper. So when shit got tough, I would deal with it the only way I knew how. Fighting or destroying stuff.”

“Oh, Dred, that sounds—”

“No. Don’t feel sorry for me. It is what it is.” Dred removed his boots. “Okay. Why haven’t you told Cujo and Trent you don’t want to be a tattoo artist?”

This question felt safer. “Because I don’t want to let them down. They’ve been my only family for years. It’s hard to explain. They’re all I have.”

“I never had to worry about that. There was nobody for me to impress,” Dred said sadly.

“Why are we doing this, Dred? These questions. They’re upsetting both of us. You’re only here for a few more hours. I don’t want to spend what little time we have together feeling sad or angry.”

Dred pulled her across his lap and hugged her to his chest, the feel of his skin against hers a delicious comfort. “I want to get to know you. There’s so much we haven’t talked about. I don’t know what we have to work through to get to a place where we both feel comfortable and trust each other.”