“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.