Chapter Two
Pixie studied the chaos unfolding in the studio and decided to make some tough decisions.
Most tattoo artists wanted to avoid clients who couldn’t take the pain, so the screamer in Cujo’s chair was driving everyone crazy.
Eric had ended up with a guy who refused to admit his low tolerance for needles going in and out of his skin.
Instead, he asked for a ten-minute break every half hour.
Lia’s client kept adding on, and adding on, and adding on.
As a result, they were running about an hour behind schedule.
Trent had lucked out. A regular from New York had swung by to get some work done on his chest piece and was taking the ink work like a pro.
Pixie looked at the booked clients and the walk-in list and knew something had to give. Collecting a couple of twenty-dollar gift cards, she approached the last two walk-ins she’d accepted. Without too much fuss, she was able to reschedule them for the next day.
Pixie wandered over to Cujo’s client, Michelle, who was having an ill-advised ribcage tattoo as her first-ever ink. It was too big, and the area too sensitive, for an ink virgin. Cujo had been straight with her about the scale and placement, but Michelle had been adamant.
“The good news is we have a bunch of options,” Pixie overheard Cujo say to her. “We can stop, and you can come back another time to get it finished, or we can change the design to make it smaller by removing these details.” Cujo pointed to parts of the sketch he’d drawn up for her.
“If you decide to stick it out,” Pixie added, joining the conversation, “you can move into the private room at the back.”
“I think I bit off more than I can chew. And I know you warned me, Cujo,” Michelle said tearily.
“Why don’t we do a mix of everything suggested?
Why don’t I make the design smaller so that you leave today with a complete tattoo?
Then if you decide to come back, we can finish it, or, if you decide you’re never having another needle touch this skin, it will still look cool.
And we’ll move into the back to make it easier on you. ”
Michelle agreed. Pixie led her away to allow Cujo time to gather his gear. Once Michelle was settled on the long black table, Pixie returned to the main room. It was getting warmer in the studio, so she walked toward the door to open it.
“Thanks for helping out, Pix. Can you find out if eardrum replacement surgery is a thing?” Cujo whispered as she walked by.
She reached for the door handle at the same time she turned to laugh at his joke and walked straight into a broad chest. Strong arms grabbed her and she looked up into Dred’s dark brown eyes, the gold flecks in them sparkling.
Every time he touched her, her world tilted.
She could feel the heat of his fingers against her skin.
He continued to stare at her, the air hanging expectantly between them.
“Hey, Pixie.” Then he winked at her. Not just any wink. No, that was his rock star wink. The one that caused panties to drop and heartbeats to race on a global scale.
Pixie jumped out of reach. “Dred.” She stumbled backward, but he stalked closer with every retreating step she took.
“Did you miss me?” he asked huskily.
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Not a trick question, Pix.” He grinned. “What do you think I mean?”
“Nothing . . . yes . . . no . . . I mean, sure. It’s good to see you.” He’s turning me into a complete flake.
“Really? You don’t seem so sure.” He reached out and touched the ends of her hair.
She shivered in response. It would be so easy to cave, to fall into him, but the few times Pixie had ever come close to that with anybody else it had ended miserably. No, she couldn’t humiliate herself that way.
“Step away from the staff,” Trent said with a laugh as he interrupted them. “What’s up, bro?”
Pixie hustled quickly around to the other side of the desk and immersed herself in refilling the stapler, anything to avoid the whiskey-and-smoke sound of his voice and the dark woodsy smell of him.
“Give me twenty minutes to finish up, and I’ll be right with you,” she heard Trent say.
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 fucking 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 fuck they didn’t know it all. If they’d found out the truth, the band would have been in a whole world of hurt.
What hurt more was watching how the news had set Elliot back.
The leaks were coming faster, their content cutting closer and closer to home.
Each one felt like a personal attack that was getting harder to bounce back from.
Fortunately Sam was all over that shit. Had retractions written within hours, but once the rumor was out there, there was no erasing it.
Dred started to cough again. “Sorry.”
“No worries, man. One sec. Pix?” Trent shouted over his shoulder.
“What’s up?” She walked toward them, her hips swinging in sexy black leggings. She rocked purple kicks on her feet that matched her hair.
“Dred needs one of your magic potions. Can you hook him up?”