“I think I bit off more than I can chew. And I know you warned me, Cujo,” Michelle said tearily.
“Why don’t we do a mix of everything suggested? Why don’t I make the design smaller so that you leave today with a complete tattoo? Then if you decide to come back, we can finish it, or, if you decide you’re never having another needle touch this skin, it will still look cool. And we’ll move into the back to make it easier on you.”
Michelle agreed. Pixie led her away to allow Cujo time to gather his gear. Once Michelle was settled on the long black table, Pixie returned to the main room. It was getting warmer in the studio, so she walked toward the door to open it.
“Thanks for helping out, Pix. Can you find out if eardrum replacement surgery is a thing?” Cujo whispered as she walked by.
She reached for the door handle at the same time she turned to laugh at his joke and walked straight into a broad chest. Strong arms grabbed her and she looked up into Dred’s dark brown eyes, the gold flecks in them sparkling. Every time he touched her, her world tilted. She could feel the heat of his fingers against her skin. He continued to stare at her, the air hanging expectantly between them.
“Hey, Pixie.” Then he winked at her. Not just any wink. No, that was his rock star wink. The one that caused panties to drop and heartbeats to race on a global scale.
Pixie jumped out of reach. “Dred.” She stumbled backward, but he stalked closer with every retreating step she took.
“Did you miss me?” he asked huskily.
“What . . . what do you mean?”
“Not a trick question, Pix.” He grinned. “What do you think I mean?”
“Nothing . . . yes . . . no . . . I mean, sure. It’s good to see you.” He’s turning me into a complete flake.
“Really? You don’t seem so sure.” He reached out and touched the ends of her hair.
She shivered in response. It would be so easy to cave, to fall into him, but the few times Pixie had ever come close to that with anybody else it had ended miserably. No, she couldn’t humiliate herself that way.
“Step away from the staff,” Trent said with a laugh as he interrupted them. “What’s up, bro?”
Pixie hustled quickly around to the other side of the desk and immersed herself in refilling the stapler, anything to avoid the whiskey-and-smoke sound of his voice and the dark woodsy smell of him.
“Give me twenty minutes to finish up, and I’ll be right with you,” she heard Trent say.
Damn it. She turned to face Dred. His long dark hair fell dishevelled around his shoulders, framing a strong chin and cheekbones she’d kill for. His soft smile weakened her resolve.
“Hey, Pix, I was wondering—”
“Hey, man. You’re Dred Zander, right?” A man cut him off and stepped between the two of them, shaking Dred’s hand furiously. “I’m Bill from Boise. Screwed is my all-time favorite album. I love ‘Dog Boy.’ Will you play it tonight?”
Dred shook his head, “Sorry. We won’t. But it’s an epic set. “
Gone were the seductive grin and the brightness in his eyes. Sure, he smiled, looked friendly even, but Pixie could see it was an act.
“Why not? You guys never play it. You wrote the sickest lyrics, man.”
The fan, Bill, was starting to irritate her, and by the way Dred’s jaw twitched, he felt the same.
“Thanks,” Dred said. “Means a lot. Now I was in the middle of a conversation with—”
“C’mon. Play it for me, tonight,” he whined. “It’s the last night of the tour, and it’s my birthday next week.”
“Happy birthday. And actually Jordan wrote it. He doesn’t want to sing it. So we won’t.”
“But you guys should listen to your fans more. Go on any forum, and they want you to play it live.”
Pixie coughed loudly, walked to the front of the counter, and slipped her hand into Dred’s. He squeezed it tightly, but continued to stare intently at Bill. “I can take you through to the back now.”
“Wait. Here.” Bill shoved his phone insistently into her hand, forcing her to take a step back. “Take a photo of us.”
“You wanna say please to the lady?” Dred’s voice was menacingly low.
“Oh, sorry. Please.”
Pixie looked at the screen. Bill looked as happy as a kid hopped up on Smarties, whereas Dred looked like he was about to rip Bill’s head off.
Photo taken, Pixie handed the camera back to Bill. If it weren’t the reputation of the studio on the line, she’d ask Eric to tattoo a penis on Bill’s bicep instead of the glaringly obvious copy of one of Eminem’s tattoos.
“So any chance of some VIP access, man?”
Pixie dragged Dred to the office and closed the door to stop Bill from following. “You okay?” She let go of his hand.
“Yeah,” Dred said, pulling on the silver anchor attached to black cord that hung around his neck. “Shitty flight, and that song Bill was talking about. Well, it’s too painful to play. We haven’t played it since the day we recorded it.”