Chapter Three #3
“Oh my God, Pix. Seriously?” Dred started to laugh. “He’s probably the most influential heavy metal drummer in the world. Played for a small British band. Iron Maiden. You might have heard of them.”
“Oh shut up,” she pulled her hand away. “Of course I know who Iron Maiden is. I just don’t know all the band members by name.”
They sat silently, watching the curtains flutter in the breeze.
“I should let you eat and get some more rest,” Pixie said, sitting up straight.
Dred grabbed her hand again. “I don’t want you to leave yet. Stay with me a little while. We can watch a movie . . . or order shots. Whatever you prefer.”
Pixie thought about the dress that was waiting for her at the condo, and how the last few attempts at being alone with a man had gone.
But for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t think he would laugh at her and all the ways she was messed up.
At least she hoped he wouldn’t.
* * *
Dred was beginning to feel halfway back to normal. He could finally breathe, and thank God for that because if he had to blow his nose one more time, he might fucking cry.
Pixie sat near him on the couch. Not close enough to do anything interesting with her, like put his arm around her in the old-school cinema yawn-and-stretch move.
Or drop his hand down the front of her adorable black waistcoat to see if she was actually wearing anything underneath.
Yeah, he might be sick, but he wasn’t blind.
Those girls were small but perky, and bounced around enough he was certain she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“You totally know she’s going to run down that alley instead of into the mall,” Pixie said. He’d talked her into staying, though why she’d agreed to hang out with his sick ass was beyond him.
It was a beautiful day, and he was wasting it feeling shitty. “This movie’s crap, Pix. Wanna go sit outside in the sunshine with me?”
“I should go home. I have work to do.”
“Don’t go. Come outside with me. We can check out the ocean while I pretend my vocal chords didn’t really get shredded a day before we start recording the new album.” Songwriting as a group would be a royal pain in the ass if he couldn’t sing.
He stood and took her hand, leading them toward a large lounge chair on the sheltered balcony. Pixie sat and folded her knees underneath her. Dred lay down next to her on his side. Unable to resist, he ran a finger along the smooth skin of her calf.
She was still a bit of an enigma to him. Younger than his twenty-seven he was sure, yet she seemed to have a worldly-wise quality that made her seem so much older. He found himself wanting to know more. “What work do you have to do?”
“I make dresses for little girls and sell them online.”
“Wow. What kind of dresses?” Not that he knew jack shit about little girl stuff, having grown up with boys.
Pixie tugged her phone out of her pocket and pulled up some photographs. “Like these.”
Dred took the phone, surprised to see a photo of a little girl, face covered in what looked like cupcake icing, wearing the most incredible dress. “Are those peacock feathers?”
“Yeah. All my dresses have a nature theme . . . mostly animals and insects, but sometimes flowers and plants. That’s a peacock.”
She leaned closer to move to another photograph. Her scent was light and floral, and he wanted to lose himself in all that beautiful purple hair.
“This one is my favorite. It’s a clown fish.”
“These are so clever, Pix. I had no idea. I guess I assumed you’d be a tattoo artist one day.” He scrolled through pictures of a ladybug and what looked like a longhorn beetle.
“I’ve tried—Cujo and Trent have been the best teachers—but I think I am at the point of telling them I don’t want to do it anymore.
I’m okay. Not great. And Lia, Eric, Trent, and Cujo, are phenomenal.
It wouldn’t be fair to saddle the studio with me.
” She took the phone from his hands and slid it back into her pocket before she turned to face him.
“Please don’t tell them that though. I’ve only recently decided.
In fact, I don’t even know why I told you. ”
It meant she trusted him, even if it was subconsciously, and he loved that. He drew her hand over his heart, placed it under his. “Promise.”
Her face was ethereal, and fuck if he ever thought he’d use that word. Who knew he was a sucker for whiskey-color eyes? Especially large ones with dark eyelashes that curled upward without a trace of makeup. Hell, did she have freckles?
Someone pounded on the door to the suite. If that was fucking housekeeping, he was going to kill them, because one second more and he was going to kiss her again, sick or not.
“One sec, gorgeous.” He walked back into the suite and opened the door. Sam stood there, his face red.
“Why the hell didn’t you show at McBrain’s? A golden fucking photo op and you were meant to be the money shot.”
“Hey, Sam,” he croaked. “You know why, asshole. I feel like death on a fucking silver platter.”
Sam marched into the suite like he owned the place. “Where is she? You got some groupie tucked away in here somewhere?”
“Sam. You got thirty seconds to calm the fuck down.”
“Calm down? Do you know how long it took to set up that meet and greet? The old guard of metal passing the baton to the new.”
“I’m sorry, I think I should go.” Dammit. Pixie. He turned to see her standing nervously by the curtains.
“A fucking groupie. I should have known it.” Sam paced back and forth across the white rug. “Shit. This is why you aren’t being taken seriously.”
Pixie made to walk by Dred, but he placed his hand gently on her arm. “Give me a minute, please.” He didn’t want her to go. It would be a while before he’d see her again, and he didn’t want this to be his last memory of her.
“The rest of the guys were there, you got the picture. Baton, passed.”
“You are the band, Dred. I know you guys have this fucked-up utopian thing . . . but to the rest of the world, you’re the star.” The louder Sam’s voice got, the tighter Pixie’s hand gripped his. Sam’s reaction was disproportionate to the events, especially when there was an explanation to be had.
“Knock off the yelling, Sam. You are scaring Pix,” Dred said, pulling her closer against him.
Sam turned to look at her for the first time, disdain twisting his features. “Pix? What kind of name is that? You sound like a fucking Pokémon.”
Dred felt her body jerk against his, but her voice was calm and smooth. “And you’re a jerk.”
“Better than a slut. You’ve had your fun. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Sam sneered, gesturing toward the hallway.
Blind rage consumed Dred, and he stepped forward, all the mechanisms his counsellors had taught him for keeping his anger checked, having failed.
Like venom in a vein, he could feel its stinging pulse work its way through his body until he was on the balls of his feet, his hands fisted at his sides. He was going to fucking kill Sam.
“You don’t say that about her.” His voice came out in a growl, the only warning Sam was going to get.
Pixie pushed in between him and Sam, her tiny hand shoving against his chest with an effect so powerful it stopped him midstride.
He put his hand over hers, holding it against his chest. His heartbeat slowed, the need to fight dissipated. Just her proximity soothed him from the quick trigger he’d spent years trying to overcome after being diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder as a child.
“You know what. This is pointless. I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.” Sam marched out of the room.
What the fuck? Ten minutes ago, he’d been sitting with Pixie on the balcony, desperately wanting to kiss her, but knowing he was too sick to try. Now Sam had questioned his commitment, and likely scared Pixie away for good.
“I’m sorry, Pix.” It was hugely insufficient, but the argument had drained him of what little energy he’d recovered. Those sweet eyes of her were telling him nothing. Pixie pulled her hand out of his.
“I better go,” she said heading to the door. “You need to get some more rest.”
“Hey, Pix,” he said sadly as she reached for the handle. “I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but you’ve taken care of me, twice. We’ve kissed, twice. You’ve been alone with me in my room, twice. When are you going to go out with me?”
She turned toward him, her face unreadable.
It was the last time he was going to ask, or at least it was the last time he’d get to ask her for a while.
He was as committed to Preload as he had been the day Maisey put that crappy guitar in his hand, despite Sam’s accusations.
But the idea of Pixie walking out of the door, and him getting on a flight in the morning burned.
So he waited for the smart-aleck response, braced for the no.
“When you’re feeling better,” she said with a shy smile that made his fucking year.