“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.”