The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos)

by Scarlett Cole

  Yet once the van had passed and the road empty again, the man was no longer there.

  * * *

  “So I have no choice?” Dred looked out over Runyan Canyon. The L.A. house had all the warmth and personality of a subway station. But the view and the trails that weaved their way around it were something else. Those small pockets of beauty in L.A. were hard to come by, and were usually surrounded on all sides by bloated commercialism and people with overinflated egos.

  “We now have a legal request to surrender for a paternity test. If you respond now, the mother has agreed she won’t make it public.” Sam sat on the white leather sofa wearing a burgundy suit. He swirled the solitary ice cube in his single malt like an extra from Mad Men.

  “Let me think about it,” Dred said, stepping away from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “You can think all you want, Dred, but she has photographs of that night. Compromising ones. Not sex-tape stuff, but clearly the two of you getting it on.”

  “Fuck.” Dred pressed his forehead to the glass. This was so not what he needed right now. He couldn’t possibly be a father. Safety was his number-one priority as far as sex was concerned. With the kind of childhood he’d had, he was starting to think that procreating was not for him. In all good consciousness, he couldn’t bring a child into the world and saddle them with the kind of father he’d be. Keeping his anger in check was a daily thing, and a child would only exacerbate his lack of control.

  Playing Daddy Day Care would certainly mess up his plan of focusing the shit out of his career. Seven more years of writing, performing, investing, and saving. There’d be no slowing down until he was certain he’d never want for anything the rest of his life. Memories from his past spurred him on to his goals. Like walking to school in deep winter snow wearing sneakers because his mom never had the money for boots.

  “Look, I’m sorry, Dred. But if you lead the kind of lives you guys do, then these things—”

  “Shut up, Sam.” He didn’t need to hear a moral lecture. “I’m going to shower and get ready for tonight’s pantomime.”

  He headed for his room, and entered the en-suite bathroom. The shower had a million and one settings, but he always used the exact same one. Hot. As hot as his skin could stand.

  Once undressed, he stood under the steaming spray. Why the hell were they even going to a pop awards show anyway? Another messed-up publicity stunt by Sam to keep them current? Because, yeah, showing up at these events would find them a new audience. Not.

  He washed his hair. It’s not like they were nominated for anything, so why give up a day and a half of recording time to spend one night and fly out again? Seemed like they were being booked for a whole bunch of shit that had nothing to do with them or their music. He needed to talk to the guys. Perhaps Sam was the issue, not the record label. Shouldn’t it be his job to shut this kind of thing down? In many ways, he was an incredible manager, and had kick-started their careers, but in others . . . well.

  Rinsing his hair, he thought about the people he’d met at the record label. What happened to simply expecting a band to show up and make great fucking music? Now it was all social media this, and publicity event that. These fluff events killed him. He’d bet good money on being seated next to some pop princess with an album to promote, and that by tomorrow they’d be press fodder as the next big yet strange couple. It happened every time.

  Normally all this shit was a minor inconvenience. And face it, half of the pop-princess stories were true for one night. They were all too happy to jump into bed with a tattooed rocker to dirty up their polished images, and he was always willing to tarnish a couple of tiaras. But more photos in the tabloids tomorrow would upset Pixie. The paparazzi had impeccable timing, and could turn the most innocent greeting into a sordid affair.

  For Pixie’s sake, he didn’t want that. His skin had thickened over the years. Ellen said he was developing the hide of a rhino. Pixie’s was still tender, pale, and tattooed with swirls of flowers. His cock stirred at the thought of how soft that skin felt under his callused fingertips. Enjoying the sensation, he allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of their kiss, and the way her ass felt as he squeezed it. Firm and round despite her petite frame. He felt compelled to keep it monogamous between them until they’d figured out what was going on. For a guy with his appetites, it was way too fucking long.

  He grabbed his cock and squeezed, running his palm up and down as he recalled more images of the time they’d spent together. The way her breasts had bounced around under her vest, the soft sigh she often gave when he kissed her, how he’d been able to see the smallest hint of her black panties when she’d sat next to him on the balcony at the hotel. Yeah, who the fuck needed porn when he had those mental snapshots of Pixie? His imagination took over, and suddenly she was lying naked on her front, that pert ass in the air and the curve of her back so fucking hot.

  Cupping his balls with his other hand, he stroked faster, let out a huff of air as the tingling down his spine increased. Yeah, like that.

  He imagined spreading her legs, running his hands up the back of her thighs, and sliding into her. Christ, she’d be so wet for him, and, given his size, he’d physically cover her. The reel played in his mind. Pixie turned toward him, her face spectacular in the throes of orgasm. He pumped faster, imagining taking her harder, until he came.

  Head spinning, Dred took a moment to catch his breath. It had been a long time since jerking off had felt that good. If only Pixie was there in the flesh. He wanted to talk to her, find out if she was feeling the same frustration.

  Dred made plans to call her as soon as he got out of the shower. Hopefully the studio was closed because he wanted her alone for what he wanted to say.

  And he wasn’t going to make it easy on her.

  * * *

  “I’ll finish up. You guys need to go.” Pixie shoved Trent and Harper out the rear door. Thanks to some strategic thinking, Trent had decided to start closing the shop earlier Monday through Wednesday, but stay open longer on the weekend.

  “I don’t want to leave you here, Pix. Let me just—”

  She cut Trent off. “Nope. No. Nada. I am fed up of you two looking at each other all sexy-eyed. We’re done. It’ll take me ten minutes to get everything finished. Please, go.”

  Harper hugged her. “Thanks, Pix.”

  Pixie laughed as Trent rolled his eyes at her. She shooed him away.

  “Have a good night, Pix. See you tomorrow.”

  Pixie heard the rear door of the studio close. With a quick change of music, this time Sarah Brightman’s “Think of Me” from The Phantom of the Opera came over the speakers. Fortunately, Trent kept a really tidy workspace, and Lia had cleaned hers before she had headed out, so straightening up didn’t take long. With the stations returned to the clinical state she preferred, Pixie was almost ready to go home.

  She let out a yawn. It had been a long day. An exciting one. E-tickets had arrived for her trip to Canada. Trent had encouraged her to take an extra day if she wanted to, but she was happy coming home on Monday. The trip was just long enough to get a sense of where her feelings were really at.

  As she waited for the computer to shut down, her phone pinged.

  Go somewhere private.

  Dred.

  Pixie looked around the studio and decided on the office. Within moments, her phone buzzed and she opened the video chat.

  “Hey, Snowflake.”

  Holy guacamole. Talk about not playing fair. Dred was naked. At least, as much as she could see was uncovered. He was sitting at a table or desk in a really bright room. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face, which was shadowed with scruff. Water dripped down his body like it had the first time she’d seen him at the hotel.

  “Hi.” Her voice cracked and she coughed to clear her throat that suddenly seemed drier than the Sahara. “How are you?”

  Dred’s simple smile tugged at her. “Better now I can talk to you. How was your day?”

&nbs
p; Nothing remotely interesting. “Went to yoga this morning before work. Came here. Nothing very exciting. You?”

  “Don’t play that down. The idea of you doing yoga is very exciting. How flexible are you?” he teased.

  “Very.” During drug withdrawal, hot yoga had been a blessing. It occupied her mind when she was itching to find something to take the edge off.

  Dred reached out of sight of the camera, and then returned to the screen with a bottle of beer. “Wanna play a game with me, Pix?” He tipped his head back and took a drink.

  “What kind of game?” If he was about to ask her to take her clothes off and get naked, that was a definite no. Because, well, work . . . and she really wasn’t ready for that kind of thing.

  “I want to know more about you. So we exchange. I ask you a question, and if you answer it, I have to answer it, too.” Dred placed the beer bottle back out of sight and ran a hand through his hair. The dark lengths were starting to dry, and it was falling over his shoulder. His brown eyes were clear of the black eyeliner he wore to perform, and wholly focused on her.

  “Okay. Why don’t you go first?” Pixie offered.

  “Let’s keep it simple. Favorite movie?”

  “Oh, easy. The Sound of Music and The Wizard of Oz. You?”

  “The Shawshank Redemption. Your turn.” Dred grasped his hands behind his head, his biceps flexed, his shoulders were . . . gah! What was the right word? Jacked? She closed her eyes for a minute and looked away.

  She gazed back at him, and tried to ignore his grin. “What place would you most like to visit?”

  Dred paused thoughtfully. “I want to go skiing in the Alps. Or maybe travel around Australia. Really see the country and not just tour it. Where do you want to go?”

  “Easy. London’s West End or Broadway. I’d see as many shows as I could possibly squeeze in.”

  “I sense a theme. Okay. I’m changing gears. Favorite part of your own body?”

  Pixie narrowed her eyes at him. Uncertain of where he was going with it, she was reluctant, but a small part of her was curious.

  “Not doing anything more than talking, Snowflake. Favorite part of your own body?”

  Taking a mental inventory, Pixie thought about her better assets, critiquing and dismissing them until she settled. “I don’t know. My arms, maybe. I have tiny wrists.”

  “No comment. Yet. My favorite would be my fingers. I couldn’t play piano or guitar without them. Now you have to ask me the reverse of the question.”

  “What’s the least favorite part of your body?” Pixie asked.

  Dred laughed loudly. “No. Which is your favorite part of my body?”

  “Really?”

  Dred raised both eyebrows and nodded.

  “Okay. Which is your favorite part of my body?”

  “Where to start?” Dred sat up straight in the chair and leaned toward her. “Honestly, Pix. Straight up, you’ve got the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen. When I kissed you the day I left, I swear to God you stripped me bare. It was the most honest expression of emotion I have ever seen. I want to drown in them.”

  Pixie’s hand went to her mouth. Dred’s intensity was overwhelming.

  He sat back suddenly. “So, what’s your favorite part of me?” he asked with a smile.

  The statue of freaking David couldn’t hold a candle to Dred. But she wanted to play the game. It felt safe to flirt with him this way with all those miles between them.

  “Keep looking at me like that, Pix, and I’m on the next flight to Miami,” he said, his voice low and rough.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked.

  “Not at all. You realize all you have to say is yes, right?”

  “It’s only four days until I’m there. Three and a half really.”

  “I didn’t mean about the flight. I meant say yes, and we can take this conversation to a totally different place.”

  A loud knocking sounded, and Dred looked to his right.

  “Limo’s leaving in fifteen,” she heard someone say in the background.

  “Fine,” he snapped to whoever it was. “Fucking timing. I gotta go. Sorry, Snowflake.”

  Pixie let out a whoosh of breath. The intensity lifted, and a sense of relief that the conversation hadn’t gone further washed over her. “Limos sound fancy. Where are you off to?” she asked, hoping to steer him away from their game.

  “An industry awards thing in L.A. Maybe next time, you can come with me. Then it wouldn’t be so incredibly dull.”

  “You’re going tonight? Oh my God. I was going to go home and watch it.”

  “Nah, don’t waste your time. Go home and think about saying yes to this kind of conversation, and I’ll spend the night thinking about the things I’ll say to you if you do.” With a wink, he disconnected.

  Damn. Now she was all hot and bothered. In a way it was a good thing that he wasn’t there with her, because the temptation to go further was killing her.

  And if they did, he’d quickly figure out exactly how sexually messed up she was.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  “Okay, let’s take it from the top again. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”

  Dred read the lyrics off his notepad. Something wasn’t quite right at the end of the first verse. He sang it, awkwardly. It didn’t roll right. They played the song, warts and all. A dropped note here, a miscue there. The middle eight worked perfectly, the chorus anthemic. Nikan withheld his proclivity to ad lib until they had the song down.

  Thank God it was Thursday, finally. Home-based for several days. At their insistence, Sam had changed their flight from commercial to a private red-eye after the awards show.

  They’d been up for hours. Hunger was closing in, and they needed to take a break soon.

  Jordan and Elliot sat on their stools, Nikan stood, as he always did. The guy had more energy than he knew what to do with.

  “What do you think?” Nikan asked.

  “It sounds better without the instrumental solo, much as I enjoyed playing it,” Elliott offered.

  “Phraseology of the last line in the first verse isn’t working, but I can fix that later.” Dred opened his bottled water and took a sip.

  “That’s not for the album, is it?” Sam walked into the studio. Giving him a key had seemed like a good idea at the time. He could pop in when they were away and look out for the place. When they’d first bought the house, he’d hinted that he wanted to move in, but the five of them had a relationship Sam would never understand. And some of the things they handled once they closed the front door to the world weren’t for sharing.

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” Dred asked.

  “It’s too Zeppelin, too early metal. Not progressive enough.” Sam helped himself to bottled water from the small fridge. “You need to build on the last album. Heavier, darker.”

  “What were you expecting? A little thrash metal maybe?” Dred tore into the opening riff of a song by Sodom. His fingers flew over the strings.

  Nikan joined in for kicks.

  “All right!” Sam yelled over the guitars.

  Dred and Nikan both stopped at the end of the next stanza.

  “All I’m saying is that you have an almost cultlike following among nu metal and funk metal fans.” Sam leaned against the desk. “This sounds like a drift toward heavy rock.”

  Dred stood and put his guitar away. “So what if it is? It’s the music we feel like making. And some of the songs we wrote in the past, we don’t feel that way anymore.” It was true. Each of them had received counselling as part of their daily life in the home. Maisey had seen to that. The obstacles they’d had to overcome as children had shaped who they were today. But the scar tissue was so deep, so painful, and the songs they’d written during that time came from a place so dark, it was impossible to perform some of their early songs today without being transported back to a time none of them wanted to return to.

  “I’m sharing an opinion,” Sa
m snapped. “As your manager, I am still entitled to one, right?”

  “Chill the fuck out, Sam,” Nikan said patting him on the shoulder. “You can tell us what you think, but it’s still our music to write and play.”

  Lennon jumped up from his drum kit. “Need a piss, then food. In that order.”

  The guys traipsed out until only Dred and Jordan were left.

  “You thought anymore about that DNA test?” Jordan asked, placing his bass back in Dred’s rack.

  “I still don’t believe it’s true. Maybe I’m still in denial.” Dred put his guitar away too. “I always wrap it up. It’s a fucking cruel world if I am the one in a million it fails for.”

  It was another reason to consider what he was doing with Pixie. He didn’t want to have the conversation with her about it. No, he needed to hope that he wasn’t the father and that this was all some elaborate hoax to extort money from him. He laughed to himself.

  “What’s funny?” Jordan asked.

  “Just thinking it would be better if this was a setup to get money, and how that felt like the better option.”

  “Rock and a hard place,” Jordan said, sitting back on his stool. “You know what you got to do if this is true though, right?”

  “Jordan, I can’t think about—”

  “I’m not discussing. I’m stating. If that baby is yours, you owe it to him or her, and all of us, to give it a better start than we had.”

  Dred gripped his anchor. Took a deep breath, or seven. “What kind of parent would I be? My mom fucking OD’d in my arms and I did nothing to help her. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  Dred closed his eyes and gripped the anchor harder. He thought of the day they got their record deal. When Schecter offered to sponsor the tour. Their first apartment with two bedrooms on the Danforth. Pixie kissing him backstage. The look in Pixie’s eyes when she looked at him. Good things in his life. His breathing slowed, his heart rate decelerated.