Chapter Seven #3
Pixie couldn’t help but laugh. When she’d first seen Dred fill the doorway of Second Circle, his size had intimidated her, which was strange, because she was so used to being around Trent and Cujo.
Now she felt secure in his embrace. “I’ll take that as a compliment.
It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I don’t gain weight.
I hated being scrawny when I was younger. ”
“Yeah, well, you’re not scrawny now.” Dred rubbed his hand down her side, tracing the indent of her waist and sliding his hand under the hemline of her blouse. He reached for the remote and turned on the wall-mounted television “What do you feel like?” he asked, pulling up the movie menu.
It was hard to make a decision with him touching her. He dragged the tips of his nails, which she’d noticed were filed at funny angles, lazily across her skin. Painfully aware of the way his body surrounded hers, it was a wonder she could remember her own name.
“Action? Horror? . . . I’m drawing a line at chick flicks”
“Musical? You don’t want to watch Pitch Perfect? Or Les Miserables? Will you join in our crusade? Who will be strong and stand with me?”
Dred put a hand over her mouth, cutting off one of her most favorite songs. “I’d rather eat my own arm,” he deadpanned.
She giggled and put him out of his misery. “Old-school horror. Well, old school for me. Nightmare on Elm Street, Poltergeist, Hellraiser. Something like that.”
“Aren’t you a constant surprise?” Dred scrolled through the list. “How about The Shining?”
“Perfect.”
Dred started the movie and settled back into the sofa, and Pixie got comfortable leaning against him.
She could hear his heart beat. A slow-and-steady throb that beat in time to the haunting melodic notes of the opening scene.
The camera panned across the lake, and caught up with a vehicle winding its way through a dense Colorado forest, but Pixie could barely pay attention.
What was it about this man’s fingers? Perhaps it was the heat from the fireplace that was warming her, or the way Dred’s teasing strokes had moved from her back to an inch beneath the waistband of her jeans.
Maybe if she focused more on Kubrick’s exceptional directing and the symbolism of room 237, the arousal she felt would diminish.
Or maybe if she dissected Jack Nicolson’s performance as Jack Torrance, it would drive away the need to slide her hands across Dred’s chest to feel if those pecs were as hard as she imagined.
Pixie sat up and reached for her whiskey—maybe the sharp bite would quell the feelings.
It felt strange to end their first date in his arms, or even his bed for that matter, but with Dred it felt different.
She turned the stout crystal tumbler in her hand.
Dred leaned forward and took the glass from her, placing it back on the table.
Like he did with the fire, he stoked flames within her. She turned to face him, and he cupped her cheek.
When his lips meshed against hers, they carried none of the softness she’d experienced over the course of the day, instead they reminded her of all of the pent-up energy he’d unleashed the night of the concert. A vital expression of his hunger.
“Fuck,” he growled against her mouth.
His kiss consumed her and turned her inside out, leaving her all kinds of raw.
He tugged her to him and she fell forward, hands pressed against the contours of his solid chest. Strong hands ran down her back, the sensations too overwhelming to consider the implications of where they were heading.
He reached under her butt and lifted her so that she straddled him.
She’d never been with such a physically intimidating man before, and his raw strength turned her on.
She forced away feelings of guilt, attempted to sever the past and present.
Dred pulled away from her. “Sorry, Pix, I . . . Fuck . . . Ten more seconds.”
Pixie fought against the riptide he created. Just when she felt like she had her head above water, Dred groaned against her lips, his muttered curses of desire pulling her back under. She was drowning. Pixie pushed against his chest, torn between the fear and desire of continuing.
“Sorry, Pix. Being around you is . . .”
“Yeah. I know.” She sighed, collecting her emotions that seemed to have run all over the floor like errant marbles. She fidgeted on his lap.
“As good as that feels, Pix, I’m trying to ignore the way your ass feels pressed against my cock.” He looked down at her, his eyes giving none of his feelings away, but the hard ridge of his erection said enough.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Dred lifted her off him and lay down lengthways on the sofa. He held out his hand to her. “Come back here, Snowflake.” She liked the way he called her that. It had a purity to it she wasn’t sure she possessed.
She lay down in front of him, her back up against his chest Dred wrapped his arms around her and pulled her a little higher so her head was on the cushions.
He smoothed her hair back and kissed her gently on the neck.
“I’m more than willing to wait for you, Pix, because I think when you and I finally sleep together, it’s going to be unlike anything I’ve experienced.
But don’t for a second think that I’m not desperate to strip you naked and take you right here. ”
And his words made her want that, too.
* * *
Fuck me, it’s bright.
Dred squinted one eye open and tried to focus. Shit. They were still on the family room sofa. Someone had thrown a blanket over them. Likely one of the guys when they’d come home last night. He was so freaking hot, and his mouth felt like something had died in it.
If he didn’t know better, he’d swear an octopus was clamped around him. He lifted his head to look at Pixie. She was still very much asleep, her mouth slightly agape yet still beautiful.
His balls were probably bluer than the Blue Jay’s mascot, but that didn’t stop his cock having a mind of its own.
He looked toward the kitchen counter to see Jordan munching away on the only breakfast cereal he’d eat, Lucky Charms. He had six boxes in the cupboard, always fearful he’d run out. There were provisions in their contract to have them on hand at every gig. Christ, they were a fucked-up bunch.
“Morning, brother,” he said quietly.
Deftly, he untangled their limbs and managed to climb over the back of the sofa. Sure, he had a crick in his neck, but he’d had the best night’s sleep he’d had in months.
The thought of Pixie going home today was like a kettlebell to the balls.
Not only had she accepted what he’d told her about living with the guys, she’d told him she respected him for it.
The kinds of girls that had stayed over in the past were more interested in fucking the rock star, and in some cases, rock stars.
Groupies who wanted to land them all at some point or another.
They never thought to question why the band all lived in the same house.
What if she went home and decided to not come back? Or worse, what if his anger issues scared her away? Wasn’t it a fait accompli that she would leave? Would she give up on him like his nine sets of foster parents had? The only people who hadn’t were Maisey, Ellen, and the men in this house.
He grabbed a piece of paper from next to the fridge and scribbled as more of the song he’d started the previous night came to him.
I can’t write this song without you. What am I going to do?
Dred tapped his pen against the paper. The other words were ideas. Images. Nothing that he could settle into place.
Jordan pushed a cup of coffee across the counter. He’d not even seen him get up.
“You look like you need this,” he whispered.
Dred looked over to where Pixie was still sleeping.
Part of him wanted to carry her upstairs and keep her in bed for the day.
But he felt the shift in her when they were kissing on the sofa.
She’d been right there with him one minute, then something got into her head and she’d pushed him away.
He wanted to push her, not into sex because he would never do that, but he wanted to challenge her into understanding what had come between them in that moment so they could address it.
“Thanks.” Dred took a sip. Sure it was manlier to drink it straight up black, but he preferred it sweeter than sweet.
“Did you guys have a good night?”
“Yeah. Almost too good.” Dred replied with a smile.
Footsteps entered the kitchen behind him. “Must have been a shitty fuck given the state of you, all cuddled up on the sofa like you’re still in high school.”
What happened to the stool he was sitting on or the coffee in his hand, he’d never know. Nor would he ever recall the steps he took across the kitchen floor. Because all that mattered right now was choking the shit out of Lennon for his hugely disrespectful comments.
He’d take a night, fully dressed, on the sofa with Pixie over every faceless groupie that had walked through the front door and fucked him senseless.
“Shut the fuck up, Lennon.”
Lennon grinned as Dred pushed his arm further across his neck. “Just messing with you,” he choked.
Dred shoved Lennon into the fridge, causing the contents to shake and rattle. “Asshole.”
“Thanks for the backup, Jordan,” said Lennon, bending over from the waist, winded by the sudden move.
“You dug your own hole.” Jordan calmly took another drink.
It was a long way from the first, and equally as distant from the last, fight the house would see. They fought constantly, always brushing up against the intersection of their tempers and fears.
“Looks like he didn’t dig any hole last night. Wouldn’t be wound up so tight if he—oof!” Lennon collapsed to the floor as his stomach made contact with Dred’s fist. Dred was preparing to pull him up and hit him again, when Jordan stepped in.
“Okay, you owed him that, but it’s done, Dred. And as for you”—Jordan turned to Lennon who was on his knees, winded—“you need to get back upstairs and get ready. Rehearsal starts in half an hour.”
Dred pushed away from Lennon to see Pixie, who had woken up at some point during the interaction and was now sitting up on the sofa, staring at him wide eyed.
“But I wanted to get—”
“No. You didn’t,” said Jordan, cutting him off. “Grab something on your way back down.”
Dred could hear the tap, the banging in the sink, and the sound of the dishwasher door being opened, but he never took his eyes off her.
“Catch you once we’ve got the tunes down,” Jordan said, and Dred heard the footsteps fade in the direction of the stairs to the basement.
Her hair was mussed up, and she pulled the blanket tight around her.
He’d hit Lennon because he made a stupid joke that anyone of them would have made on any other day. But because it was about her, he’d been out of the chair and at his throat, literally, before Jordan had finished his sentence.
There was no clear explanation why Lennon’s words bothered him so much.
Just as there was no explanation for how this woman was starting to mean so much to him.