Chapter Two #3
Adrenaline surged through her, yet her skin tingled where he touched her. You okay, Pix? It was a simple question, but Pixie struggled to answer it.
* * *
Dred stood at the side of the stage, like he had a thousand times before.
The roar of the crowd chanting Preload’s name never got old.
The smell of beer, sweating bodies, and high expectations permeated the air.
He gripped Pixie’s hand tightly. Color had finally returned to her face.
Her skin had been so fucking translucent when she’d sat down in his dressing room.
He’d wanted to pulverize Viggo. Nothing had been added to his criminal record in well over a decade, but one more comment out of Viggo’s mouth and he’d have willingly carried the assault charge.
The icepack Nikan held over his knuckles showed it had been taken care of.
When she’d finally collected herself and laughed at one of his jokes, the tight elastic band around his chest had snapped.
Their favorite warm-up song, “Master of Puppets” by Metallica, played.
Chop your breakfast on the bathroom mirror.
Yeah, he’d witnessed his mom do that more times than he could remember.
Usually she chopped all the breakfast money on that stupid fucking counter.
The number of days he’d gone to school hungry was impossible to count.
“This is incredible, Dred.”
He loved the way Pixie stood on her tiptoes, resting her hand on his forearm, to shout in his ear.
“I want you to stay here. Right by the curtain.” The rest of the Second Circle guys were behind them. He knew she’d be safe enough with Trent, Cujo, and Eric.
“You need a muse?” she asked playfully.
Dred kissed the tips of her fingers. “You already inspire me.”
“It’s time to go,” yelled a man in a tight-fitting black polo shirt.
The guys walked on ahead of Dred. They always did. He’d been the driving force behind the band, they had argued when he’d suggested switching up the order. So as usual, he would go last. The telltale screams from the fans echoed around the arena.
He let go of her hand and followed them toward the stage but paused as he reached the edge of the curtain.
“Hey, Pix,” he shouted. “So we progressed, right? We hung in my room and I kissed your pretty little fingertips. When are you finally going to agree to go on a date with me?”
Pixie shooed him on to the stage. “Go, your fans are waiting.”
“Not stepping onstage without an answer, gorgeous.”
He could hear the crowd.
“Dred! Dred! Dred!”
Pixie shook her head and looked up at him through her bangs. “When I’m a millionaire.”
Dred threw his head back and laughed. “Good one, Pix. I could probably make that happen.”
He turned and walked onto the stage. What had started out as pure sexual interest was quickly developing.
Her quirky musical tastes, the easy way she took care of people, and the fact she hadn’t fallen at his feet all added up to something that scared him a little.
He wasn’t really equipped to deliver on anything more than bedtime fun and hot conversation, but for once, he considered trying.
Grabbing his guitar off one of the roadies, he raised his other hand in the air.
The crowd erupted, moving en masse toward the stage.
A wave of energy surged over him. To his left, Elliott stood, his signature Schecter guitar on a shorter strap to give him easy access to the upper frets.
To his right, Nikan was jumping on the balls of his feet, yelling at the crowd, while Jordan stood further back, away from the brightest lights and pyrotechnics.
Dred took a deep breath. He lived for this. For this moment when they could pour their souls out to nearly twenty thousand people.
The lights flashed toward the audience, and his fingers found their place on the strings.
Lennon cracked his sticks together, the timing of the four count set his own heart pounding.
On the first beat, all four guitars strummed the opening chords of a song they’d written in his bedroom twelve years ago.
Dred leaned into the microphone and growled out the guttural vocals.
As he reached the chorus, he turned toward Pixie, more relieved than he should be to find her staring at him.
She held his gaze as he let out a high scream.
Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. Shit, what was the next line?
He flicked through the lyrics in his head, heard Elliott come in with harmony, and picked it up from there.
Pixie looked like she was giggling, and he smiled at her before he faced the crowd.
Performing for thirteen years, not once had he forgotten his lyrics. Nikan laughed like an idiot next to him and waited for the instrumental break for him to step away from the mic so they could play their guitars together.
The mass of bodies in front of the stage turned into a surging swaying mass. He kept an eye on the crowd. A bit of moshing was one thing, but no way would he let a wall of death fly. He wanted everyone to leave the stadium in one piece.
They blew through the rest of the set, and before he knew it, their main playlist was done.
“It’s time for us to go,” he yelled. The crowd screamed. “Thanks for coming out tonight. This tour has been fucking crazy, see you soon, Miami.”
A young woman with dark hair and a red bra poking out of a black leather vest held up a sign.
CALL ME. Her cell phone number was listed underneath.
He smiled at her, but his mind was somewhere offstage where Pixie was surrounded by the rest of the Second Circle crew.
They were her family, like the band was his.
Lennon came from behind the drum kit, and they put their arms round each other.
Pyrotechnics went off all the way around the stage as the crowd screamed and cheered. He hugged each of the guys, then ran off the stage to pull Pixie from Harper and Drea. The break between the end of the act and the encore was approximately four minutes, and he had plans to use them wisely.
Pixie looked at him, her eyes wide in shock as he grabbed her hand.
“Quick,” he said to her, tugging her down the stage steps. There was no way he could make it back to his dressing room in time, so he hurried them along the black curtain that surrounded the stage into a darkened corner. He pushed her gently against the wall, trapping her in his arms.
“Watching you watch me, Pix . . . drove me crazy. You going to let me kiss you?” he begged. “Please.”
Pixie looked at him and put a hand against his cheek. “Yes.”
He slid both hands into her hair and pressed his mouth against hers.
Energized from the performance, Dred struggled to rein in the need to kiss her fiercely.
When he heard her groan, felt her lift up on her toes to loop her arms around his neck, he was done for.
She was more than he’d dreamed of, and he’d dreamed a hell of a fucking lot.
And yet none of his half-asleep fantasies could match the emotions currently blazing through him.
Her tongue tentatively brushed against his so gently it was almost innocent.
Well, as innocent as it could be when what he really wanted to do was take her against this black curtain.
It was fucking heaven.
He slid his hands down her body. Pixie giggled when he gripped her waist to pull her close. Ticklish. He’d have to remember that.
Not that he wanted to, but he needed to get back onstage. Fucking encore. He kissed her one more time, tasted the whiskey he’d given her earlier. The telltale thump of Lennon’s bass drum started to sound. He pulled back, willing his hard-on to take it down a notch before he got back onstage.
“That was quite the kiss,” Pixie said shyly.
He took her hand and led her back to the stage, positioning her right where she had been. It was impossible to resist kissing her again, and he grinned when Trent raised an eyebrow in his direction.
“Agreed. As beginnings go, Pix, it was pretty fucking epic,” he said with a wink, and walked back onto the stage to face the screaming fans.