“Dred,” she cried out and dropped her fingers to her clit.
The sight of it sent him over the edge. “Ah . . . fuck . . .” he shouted as he came, drowning in emotion as she followed him over the edge.
*
Between the giant lighting system that had been installed around Second Circle and everyone involved in filming the show all crammed into the small space, the temperature had risen twenty degrees in the studio. Pixie had kicked the air conditioning into gear, but it was struggling to make any real impact.
It was strange to see Trent and Dred in show mode. Dred had more makeup on than she did, and she’d watched him grumble as it was applied.
Close to wrapping for the day, the final sequence needed for the next episode of Inked was underway. Trent and Harper were filming a personal segment on why tattooing over scars meant so much to them. The episode contained a challenge where each competitor had to tattoo over a scar on their volunteer. Watching the way Trent held Harper’s hand, the way he looked at her when she was speaking, the way he’d taken her to one corner to whisper how proud he was of her, made her heart feel whole.
“Kinda beautiful, isn’t it?” Dred whispered as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.
“Yeah. I remember her first appointment,” she said quietly. “She sat on that bench outside for ages before she could walk in. I kept telling Trent to start someone else, but he was having none of it. I think he knew then.”
“Knew what?”
“I think he knew she was it for him.”
Pixie wanted that. She looked down at the tattooed arms holding her securely, and realized she might already have found it.
They’d talked some more the previous evening as they’d lain in bed. She’d considered telling him the truth. About her father and what he’d done. But how could he want her after that? After she’d . . . No. She hadn’t been able to tell him, or even find the words. So instead, she’d told him she felt out of control and needed the freedom of her hands to feel comfortable.
Dred had been sympathetic, and they talked at length about exploring their respective limits. It had been no surprise that Dred was incredibly liberal when it came to sexual preferences. “Try anything once,” seemed to be his motto. She wondered if she could be that girl, with all of her hang-ups. She loved the idea of broadening her experiences with him, yet was terrified by where it might lead.
“And . . . cut,” shouted a young man with a clapperboard.
Trent stood and pulled Harper against him, burying his face in her dark brown hair. Harper rubbed his back gently, whispering sweet words with a smile. Pixie coughed and looked away. It was a deeply intimate moment. She turned in Dred’s arms and he pulled her closer.
“Yo, *. Can we get on with this shit?” Cujo slapped Trent on the back of the head, making everybody laugh. His status of guest judge had him on his A-game. Drea rolled her eyes at his behavior, but everyone knew that as best friends, only Cujo could get Trent to wrap up his emotions.
Pixie lifted her face to Dred. There was something different between them today. A good thing. Likely caused by their conversation the previous evening, but there was an undeniable frisson.
“Want to go to the New Music Press Awards with me in two weeks?” Dred asked.
“The . . . what. The NMPs?”
“Yeah. It can be a date. I’ll meet you in L.A. from wherever I am. It’s kinda boring, but I think it would be fun with you.”
“You want me. To go to the awards. With you?”
He’d said it like he was asking her to meet him at Denny’s for breakfast.
“Yes, Snowflake. Come with me, in all the possible connotations of the word, to the New Music Press Awards.”
Pixie nodded. She was going to the freaking NMPs. “Yes.”
He kissed her slowly.
“Oh my God, Drea!” Cujo yelled. “Everybody is kissing. I think I just barfed in my mouth. Pass me some water.”
Dred couldn’t contain the laugh. “You’re an asshole,” he shouted to Cujo.
Cujo tutted. “You got your hands on my goddamn sister’s ass, and I’m the asshole.”
“That’s a wrap for today, let’s clear out,” clapperboard-guy shouted over the ribbing.
Pixie noticed the garbage can was overflowing and needed emptying. “I got some work to do,” she said, slipping out of Dred’s arms. She laughed when he pouted at her. “Go take all that crap off your face.”
She tied up the garbage bag and took it out back, flinging it into the giant Dumpster.
“Have you got my money?”
Her stepfather slinked out from a small gap between the tattoo studio and the place next door. Pixie’s heart raced as she looked back toward the rear exit of the studio. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered to him. “I told you, I’m not giving you money.” It was a risk, calling his bluff, testing him to see exactly how far he’d really go. But her suspicion was that he didn’t want to end up in trouble anymore than she did.