“Sliced lemons, ginger, and marshmallow root steeped in hot water and honey.” Pixie placed a small glass bottle with a spray top next to him. “Echinacea and sage throat spray. Try it when you’ve finished your drink.”
She placed her hand on his forehead again. “Do you have something for a fever, in case you feel worse later on?”
“No, but I have a shitload of duty free whiskey, which’ll do the same thing.” Dred frowned when Pixie removed her hand and hurried to the desk to retrieve something.
“Here,” she said, holding out a strip of pills. “Take two of those if you have a fever before the show. They have caffeine to help you stay awake.”
He slid the strip into his jeans pocket, praying he wouldn’t need them. Please let me get through tonight.
“Thanks, Pixie. So now, we’ve held hands, you’ve saved me from hypervigilant fans, fixed my throat, and checked my temperature like you care. Before your boss, and everyone listening in on this private conversation,” he said, eyeballing Bill from Boise, “when are you going to go out on a date with me?”
He wasn’t holding his breath. Not really. Well, maybe a little. There was something between them, something she was obviously nervous about exploring. Sure, her words screamed no way in hell. But the look from those eyes, which were the same color as a bottle of Jack, was a very definite maybe.
She looked at him as if she were figuring out a complex jigsaw.
“When there’s world peace.”
Damn it.
Every time he asked, yes was getting a little closer. Every time, her response was a little slower. And it was a long time since he’d enjoyed the chase. But it would end. Tonight at the show, he’d find out if that perfect little pout tasted as good as it looked.
*
Pixie was grateful for the VIP pass she wore around her neck. It magically opened doors, eliminated the need to queue with the masses, and provided drinks. Lia stood next to her sipping on a mint julep.
Raging vocals, screaming guitars, and the shouts of twenty thousand fans filled the American Airlines Arena with energy so powerful, it reverberated in Pixie’s chest. Testimony, the first of three acts, was in the middle of their set. Pixie took a sip of her beer and leaned against the table. She looked at Lia in her pretty black-and-white polka-dot dress with layers of tulle and felt the sharp bite of envy. Lia was always unapologetically herself in spite of what was going on around her. Pixie wished she could be the same instead of wanting to fade into the floor like Elphaba at the end of Wicked. That was why she’d dyed her hair purple. It kept her present, visible, even when she felt the need to disappear.
She fixed the hem of her black dress. The short number with only one sleeve was her favorite. Perhaps she’d made a bit more effort than usual, and the heels she wore were going to kill her feet before the night was over. While she wanted to believe she’d gone to the trouble to feel good about herself, it was pointless trying to pretend it wasn’t for Dred’s benefit.
Pixie adjusted the shoulder of her dress.
“Stop fussing. You look lovely, Pix. At least a certain singer will think so. He tracked your ass in those leggings like a guided missile today.”
Cujo waved as he walked toward them. With him were Drea, Eric, Trent, and Trent’s fiancée, Harper.
“Starting early, girls?” Cujo kissed them both on the cheek.
“Can you believe this?” Drea, Cujo’s girlfriend, hugged Pixie tightly. “I swear I saw M. Shadows when we arrived.”
“You did not. Where? Show me,” Lia insisted, tugging Drea away.
“I need the washroom, honey. Help me find it?” Harper said to Trent.
“Eric and I’ll get the drinks in,” said Cujo, disappearing off to the bar.
Pixie laughed at the absurdity of it. Surrounded by her friends for a moment, then alone all of a sudden to watch the table.
A young man with long blond hair walked over. “What’s a cute little thing like you doing by yourself?” His accent sounded European, Swedish maybe. It was hard to tell with all the slurring.
“I was just asking myself that same question. My friends left me as quickly as they arrived.”
“I’m Viggo,” he said, the air around her suddenly ripe with lager and cigarettes. “My band, Ant?nda, is on next.”
Pixie moved farther around the table. “That’s great. Shouldn’t you be getting in the zone or something?” And sobering up, maybe?
Viggo tracked her, sidling up even closer. “I’m the drummer. I am the zone. Without me, the rhythm would be skit.” Pixie looked for signs of the others returning, but she couldn’t see any of them. Viggo wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed the back of her neck. “I have time,” he offered suggestively, “for you to test out exactly how good my beats are before I go onstage.”
The feel of his fingers on her neck, clammy against her skin, made her feel ill. Pixie stepped out of his reach and knocked his arm off her shoulder. “Please don’t touch me.”