“You’re the luckiest bastard.” Elliott said, thumping him in the shoulder as he walked by.
Lennon opened the fridge and pulled out the juice. “Better suction than a Dyson. That’s all I’m saying.”
“She also neighed like a fucking horse,” Jordan said, joining them in the kitchen. “Could hear her through the floor.”
“She didn’t neigh.” Lennon laughed.
“Sorry, must have been you then, while you were getting your cock vacuumed.”
Dred choked on his coffee as the guys broke into laughter. It should be a good day in the studio.
“Speaking of cock vacuuming, you still getting yours shake n’ vac’d at the weekend, bro?” Lennon asked him.
“Seriously. Do I ask what your fucking plans are? Pun intended.” Dred shook his head.
“Just asking. Wondered how Pix took the whole magazine cover, that’s all.”
Dred slammed his coffee cup down onto the counter. Please. No. Not a fucking trash mag already.
“You didn’t see it?” Lennon reached across for Nikan’s laptop and pulled up the website.
Shit. That was one hot pic. Pixie looked killer in that short black dress. As sexy as he’d remembered her. Thank God he didn’t pick her up and push her against the wall like he’d thought about doing. His cock twitched at the idea.
He scanned the article. They didn’t know her name, but they’d connected her to Trent—shit. Named Second Circle. Dred grabbed the anchor that hung on the leather cord around his neck and pulled on it. Maisey had bought it for him. She thought wearing it might give him a symbol to hold on to to help rein in and diffuse his anger, to hold him down when he wanted to go off and punch the living shit out of something.
“Fuck.”
Pixie must hate it, and it was probably the reason why she hadn’t replied. Yet another reason why pursuing her like this was stupid. What kind of man would subject her to this for a couple weeks of fun?
He yanked his phone out of his pocket and raced up the stairs to his bedroom, slamming the door so hard the artwork on the walls vibrated.
Dred pulled up Pixie’s number and was about to hit dial when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were wild, and he was about to lose his nut over a stupid article. He’d always suffered from a short fuse. The psychologists he’d seen when he was taken into care said it was a result of his upbringing. Call it what you would, he was cursed with a never-ending fight cycle that was exhausting.
He walked to the window and opened it before he sat down on the sofa. The room temperature dropped suddenly. Fucking April. What happened to the start of spring and all that shit? Snowflakes drifted in gently and settled on the wood floor before melting into little drops of water. Their swirling path captivated him as they switched direction randomly. Kind of like his feelings for Pixie.
Phone in hand, he dialed her. It was nearly ten. She might already be at the shop.
“Hello?”
Dred tugged his fingers through his hair, uncertain what to say. “Hey, gorgeous. I was thinking about you.”
There was a pause, which was rarely a good sign.
“You were?” Pixie sounded as uncertain as he felt, but the one thing he knew for sure, talking to her was taking the edge off and bringing him down.
“I haven’t heard from you. Was wondering if I was going to get the chance to see that sweet face of yours over the weekend? And I wondered if you’d seen the cover of Richter Magazine.”
“One second.” He heard her mumble something and a door close. “I saw it.”
“I’m sorry. I only just found out. . . . Are you okay with it?”
Another snowflake fluttered into the window, falling slowly, like his heart rate. There was a rare beauty in it, and he wished he had his lyrics notebook with him. The flake wouldn’t survive longer than a couple of seconds in the heat.
He waited for Pixie to show him that whatever they were starting was more resilient.
*
Pixie closed the front door to the studio and sat down on the narrow sill of the large glass window that showcased the circular Second Circle Tattoos logo with a heart being eviscerated by a tornado in the middle.
She’d thought about the question a lot since the previous day. Poring over every single line of the article a thousand times, she realized that short of not wanting to advertise her whereabouts to her family, being connected to Dred was not an altogether horrible thing.
Not knowing whether her mom and stepdad were alive or dead didn’t help. But she hadn’t lied to Trent about who she was. Her paycheck was in her real name, Sarah-Jane Travers. All the government agencies knew where she was. The IRS, the Florida Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles, heck, even her bank. She’d stopped worrying about the police knocking on her door years ago.
So did it matter that she’d appeared in a clinch in the arms of a rock star? “That kind of publicity is not really anything I ever wanted.”