Chapter Three
“Good morning, good morning, we’ve danced the whole—”
“Pix, sweetheart, it’s too fucking early for Broadway.” Cujo stood in the kitchen of Second Circle watching the coffee drip into the carafe. Half an hour before opening, and the studio was still quiet.
He tugged her into his arms and gave her a hug, briefly kissing her on the top of her head. “Yeah. Hi, Pix.”
He released her and pulled another mug down from the cupboard to which he added a generous spoonful of sugar. “I could have done with a few more hours of sleep,” Cujo said with a yawn. “What time was it when we dropped you guys off last night?”
“Three-ish. Seven hours ago. I’m going to need a nap this afternoon.” God bless Trent for making the decision to open late.
Cujo filled their mugs and handed one to her. “Did you have a good night?” It was a loaded question and they both knew it.
The corner of her mouth twitched with a smile.
Cujo had been her lifesaver, her benefactor, her pseudofather, and her friend.
But her most favorite role he played was her big brother.
They were much closer than the nearly ten-year age gap would suggest. She’d lived through more in twenty-three years than most people lived through in a lifetime.
And Cujo, well, he wasn’t always known for acting his age.
“I had a great time. You looked like you were enjoying yourself when you joined Dred onstage for the final song.” While Cujo’s voice was fully up to the task of harmonizing the chorus, his moves belonged on a Seinfeld episode.
Cujo at least had the capacity to laugh at his drunken antics. “Yeah. Drea told me it’s already posted online. You can cross ‘become a meme on the internet’ off my bucket list.”
She chuckled and made a mental note to check it out.
“So, Pix. Erm, you . . . and Dred. You okay with what happened last night?”
Pixie took a sip of the steaming coffee. She’d known the question would come, expected nothing less from Cujo. He’d want to know she was okay.
It was madness to have kissed Dred like that before the encore, but it was pure recklessness to let him kiss her again before she left. She’d wanted one more moment to savour the feeling of his strong lips against hers and feel the hard lines of his muscular body.
“It was a momentary lapse of judgment,” she replied. “Heat of the moment and all that.”
Cujo let out a laugh. “You always were a crap liar. The guy isn’t an asshole, from what I know of him.
I warned him off a thousand times already because I see you as a sister, but he isn’t taking the hint.
Short of punching his lights out when he comes in today, I don’t think he will.
And I saw your face during that concert, Pixie. ”
“You’re imagining things, Cujo. It was just a bit of fun.”
“It didn’t look like nothing when he was performing a tonsillectomy on you with his tongue.”
“Oh my God, you are gross, Cujo.”
“Trust me, not too long ago, I was him.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
The studio phone rang and Pixie ran to grab it, grateful for the distraction. She was still too conflicted in her own mind. Maybe the distance that was sure to follow their kiss would be good for her. “Second Circle Tattoos. How can I help you today?”
“Pix?” The hoarse voice whispered her name.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dred.” The strangled words sounded painful.
“Did someone stay up past their bedtime last night?”
“Funny,” he coughed. “I left shortly after you . . . stuck in bed . . . feel awful.” He sounded like he’d swallowed a ball of cotton mixed with broken glass.
Compassion bubbled to the surface. “You sound terrible. Are you okay?”
“Will be . . . won’t make it today . . . sorry.”
“No, of course not. I’ll let Trent know. Stay in bed and get some rest.”
“Wanna . . . join me?” Dred erupted into a coughing fit.
“As tempting as that sounds, no. Save your voice. Get some rest.”
“Can you . . . rearrange for tomorrow?”
“Of course. Let me take a look. Do you have supplies? Vitamin C, juice, soup?”
Dred coughed, but it sounded like he moved the phone away. “No . . . band’s out with Cujo’s brother paddleboarding . . . Delano room service.”
“Trent can see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks, Pix.”
“Take care of yourself, Dred.”
They said their good-byes, and she hung up the phone. Lia arrived holding a green smoothie, and Trent followed her in with a large cup of what was likely his regular extra-strong coffee order.
“I’m getting too fucking old for this shit,” Trent groaned as he walked to the office. Pixie stifled a laugh.
She helped Lia, Cujo, and Trent set up their workstations based on their preferences, which she had memorized over the years. Lia liked her appointment calendar flat on her table. Cujo liked his taped to his mirror. Trent liked black inkpots, while Eric preferred white.
Setup was finished just as the first client approached the door, and soon the studio was jammed with eager people waiting their turn.
An editor from New York wanted a Harry Potter–themed tattoo, which Pixie immediately gave to Cujo because she knew he hated doing them, but always did the best job.
At least this one wasn’t the Deathly Hallows symbol or a Dark Mark.
Lia was busy tattooing a B-52 Bomber with a pin-up girl as the nose art on a veteran from Maine.
Trent was drawing up what would become a complex leg piece for a new local client who was turning a fifty-dollar gift certificate into a six-hundred-dollar tattoo.
It was lunchtime before she next sat down, but Dred was on Pixie’s mind.
“Hey, Trent,” she said, as he approached the desk between clients. “I know we are totally busy, but would you mind if I took a longer lunch break? I want to take some meds and stuff to Dred.”
“Like that is it, Pix?” He raised his eyebrow.
The mild teasing was good-natured, but it irritated her. “No. It’s not like anything. He’s away from home, and it sucks to be ill.”
“It’s okay, Pix. I get it. And my opinion doesn’t even matter. This is about you.” Gah. His eyes were full of that understanding thing he did, and guilt rushed through her.
“Of course your opinion matters. But there’s nothing for you to have an opinion about right now.
” And there wasn’t. She’d wanted to know what it would feel like to be kissed by him, and now she knew it was every bit as earth-shatteringly intense as she thought it would be.
That had to be enough, because she wasn’t ready to go further.
“Whatever you say, Pix. Now talk me through what’s up next before you go.”
Forty minutes later, Pixie stood in the beautiful billowy-curtained lobby of the Delano armed with Dred’s cell phone number, courtesy of Trent, and several plastic bags.
The hotel epitomized her love-hate relationship with Miami.
Three stunning women in matching shades of ivory tottered through the lobby in impossibly tall heels.
Pixie looked down at her purple tartan kilt, black converse, and the black vest she’d sewed herself.
She loved Miami. She just didn’t fit in.
No time for self-pity.
Pixie pulled her phone from her purse and dialed Dred’s number.
* * *
She really doesn’t need to see me like this.
Dred shuffled to the hotel door, and used the security bar to prop it open. His number-one fan could burst in à la Kathy Bates in Misery, and he wouldn’t give a fuck. Because broken ankles couldn’t make him feel any worse than he already did.
Sweat covered his body, and he hadn’t showered since before the concert the previous evening. He crawled back into the damp sheets.
The rest of the guys had offered to stay with him. Family and all that. But really, all he needed was sleep. And more sleep. And perhaps a little more sleep. So he’d told them to stick with their plans in the Everglades with Cujo’s brother, Connor.
There was a gentle knock at the door. “Hello.” Pixie entered the room, arms loaded with bags.
“Hey, Pix.” It felt like the two sides of this throat stuck together when he talked, and he winced in pain.
“Oh my. You look awful.” She placed the bags on the dresser and hurried over to him. Once again, she pressed her hand against his forehead, her fingers cool against his torturously hot skin.
He placed his hand over hers. “Cold,” he gasped.
“We need to get you cooled down. Do you think you could manage a cool shower?”
The bathroom felt like a million miles away, but he pulled himself to the edge of the bed.
He stunk, and his long hair was matted to his skin.
Pixie stepped around the bed and helped him up.
It was depressing to admit he actually needed her help, and he tried to avoid placing his full weight on her shoulder.
She was so freaking tiny, he could compress her spine.
“Want to join me, Pix?” he said with more confidence than he actually felt.
“I think you’re being a bit optimistic about your stamina,” she laughed. “You get cleaned up, and I’ll get this bed changed. I saw housekeeping as I came in.”
Dred showered in freakishly cold water then towelled off. He brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. Exhausted by the whole undertaking, he rested both hands on the edge of the sink.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you decent?”
Am I decent? Great question. He wrapped the towel securely around his waist.
“Yeah,” he answered. The door opened.
“Gargle with this.” Pixie thrust a red Solo cup at him. “Saltwater. It’ll do your throat good.”
He did as she instructed. When he returned to the bedroom, his bed was made up and turned down. The idea of cool, clean bedding was heaven and he wanted to collapse into it, but the delicious smell coming from the food on the desk was too tempting.
“Come, sit. It’s chicken noodle soup. And the Styrofoam cup is freshly squeezed orange and spinach. Don’t look at it, just drink it.” Pixie perched on the edge of the desk, and he tried his damnedest to ignore the way her skirt raised up her thighs.