The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos)

by Scarlett Cole

  “I have no clue where to begin,” he said calmly. “I wasn’t able to look after my mom. I sure as shit can’t look after a kid.”

  Jordan stood and walked over. “You won’t lock them in a room to freeze and starve. You aren’t a junkie who only cares about the high. You won’t abandon them if you have issues out of your control. You won’t slit your wrists in front of them. And you sure as fuck won’t abandon the kid to . . . well, you won’t. And we won’t let you.”

  Jordan slapped him on the arm, then left the studio.

  Their lives had been a crapshoot, but somehow they functioned as adults. Jordan was right.

  Dred went back to his guitar rack and pulled his favorite acoustic from its spot. There was no make or model on it. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure it wasn’t handmade. He remembered the day he’d returned from school and found it in his room, lying there on the bed. A gift from Maisey. It made him suspicious. No one had ever bought him a gift before. Not on Christmas, or his birthday, and especially not in the middle of March for no apparent reason.

  The guitar was tuned, and he strummed the opening chords to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge.” The lyrics had spoken to him at a time nothing else did.

  What kind of man was he? That he could contemplate not finding out whether this baby was actually his? Shit. Even learning the mom’s name hadn’t helped him figure out which of the nameless and faceless women he’d slept with in the last year she was. And Pixie, sweet fucking angel that she was. She deserved a better man. Perhaps he should cancel her trip.

  Who was he kidding? He’d take the time to see her this one weekend, and no matter how badly he wanted to, he’d keep his dick in check.

  Then he’d pull away.

  * * *

  Pixie tightened her brakes, pulling her bike to a stop outside the back of the studio and removed her helmet. Ninety minutes until opening and a long to-do list awaited her inside. Chaining the bike to the metal railing, she went through the things she wanted to get done before everyone else arrived.

  She grabbed her helmet and walked to the door. There were three locks, and she systematically unlocked them all. Warm air washed over her as she stepped inside.

  A sudden shove sent her tripping into the hallway near the kitchen. The door to the studio closed with a slam. Pixie gathered her wits and pulled out her phone. She managed to dial nine-one-one but didn’t have time to press send before her attacker stepped into view.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I was you Sarah-Jane. Go turn the alarm off.”

  Arnie. He was here. In the shop. Her fingers hovered over the one. The beeping of the alarm continued. Self-preservation first. “What are you doing here?” She glanced up at the security cameras they’d installed after Harper, Trent’s fiancée, had been abducted.

  “Go turn the alarm off,” he repeated.

  Should she? Or should she let it go, let the police come?

  “Turn it off, Sarah-Jane. Remember, you aren’t necessarily the one who gets hurt if you don’t do as I say.”

  Her mom. He always threatened her mom. The mom who always took his side. Part of her wished she didn’t care quite so much.

  Quickly, she hurried over and entered numbers into the keypad. She glanced at the photo next to the alarm. Opening day, just the four of them, before Eric joined. No. She’d worked too hard in recovery and here to have it blown apart by Arnie and his threats.

  “That’s better. Now. Aren’t you happy to see your dad?” he asked with a licentious smile.

  “You were no father to me.” It had been Arnie she’d seen when she was on the phone with Dred. He’d gained a little weight, but was still fit for a guy of forty-six. His hair was thinning a little, his skin parched, and the sickening smell of cigarettes permeated the air.

  “Now, Sarah-Jane. That’s all water under the bridge, because you and I are going to get to know each other again.”

  He walked past her into the studio, and she noticed the limp again. “You did well for yourself, Sarah. Nice little job with a TV star.” She cringed as he started to pick up things from her desk, study them, and put them down again. He’d always made her wait. In silence. And like one of Pavlov’s dogs, her mind and body were responding to his cues. Pixie wanted desperately to break the cycle, but knew only too well what would happen if she did.

  He sat down in one of the chairs, pushed on the arms as if testing its sturdiness.

  “So, I’m wondering, how well do you do here?”

  “It’s none of your business,” she hissed.

  “Oh, but it is. You see, imagine my surprise when my girlfriend brought home a copy of a magazine, and there you were on the front of it.”

  “Girlfriend? What happened to mom?” she asked without thinking.

  He got up and stalked toward her, his eyes dark and hooded, until he was inches away. “I’m speaking. I can see you’ve forgotten how to behave around me. Do you need reminding?”

  Pixie shook her head.

  Arnie looked up at the ceiling, searching for something until his eyes rested on the black dome in the ceiling. He moved to her left, putting his back to the camera.

  “And I find out that she not only works for a TV celebrity in his tattoo shop, hours away from our home, but she’s fucking a very wealthy man.” He finished the sentence on a crescendo of spittle.

  He trailed his finger along her chin before gripping it tightly. “No need to ask how you afford to live in such an expensive apartment building.”

  He knows where I live. “What . . . what do you want?” Pixie asked.

  “What do I want, Sarah-Jane?” His tone was insidiously calm. “To know how much all of this is worth to you.”

  “Worth to me? What do you mean?” Pixie pried his fingers off her chin, but Arnie leaned in further, gathering the hair at the base of her neck, just like he used to.

  “How much is it worth for me not to ruin your life? You want me to share photos of you high? Sitting on the stool for me like a good girl? You want me to tell them all the different drugs you took?”

  Her stomach roiled at the thought. “They already know I was an addict. The day they found me I was already in withdrawal.”

  “Have you told them why? Have you told them what you did to earn them? Have you told them why you needed to take them?”

  “Have I told them you threatened to kill my mom in her sleep if I didn’t? Have I told them the number of times you held a knife to her throat when she was high, or put your hands around her neck when she was unconscious?”

  Arnie laughed. “Seriously, that’s what you tell yourself to help you sleep better at night? I have photos that tell a different story, and you’re the one who comes across as the cheap tease you are, not me. And I can be very persuasive.”

  Tears pricked her eyes, but she swallowed hard. “So what do you want?” she asked. Arnie ran a finger down her arm causing a shudder of revulsion.

  “We’re going to become friends again,” he said, while studying her mouth. He brought his eyes to hers. “I’ll see you soon, Sarah-Jane.”

  Footsteps faded away and the door to the studio closed.

  Pixie leaned against the wall and let out a whoosh of air. This must be how Dorothy felt when she was swept up inside that tornado, only instead of landing in Oz, she’d arrived in her own personal hell. She slid down the wall until her butt hit the floor. Her mind scrambled, trying to put everything together.

  Taking deep breaths, Pixie tried to clear her head. “You are fine,” she exclaimed out loud to the room, grateful no one else had arrived. “Fine. Fine. So very fine.”

  Her first reaction, to run home and hide in bed for a week, was replaced by more practical considerations. What he’d done was intimidating. Threatening, even. But with his back to the camera, and no sound recorded, their interaction would look like nothing other than a reunion between father and daughter, even if it wasn’t a particularly happy one. Her word against his, and she’d lost that battle once
before.

  Pixie stood and picked up her bike helmet, placing it on the hook Cujo had drilled into the wall for her. She wondered what he would think if he knew the whole of what had happened to her. Sure, Arnie had never raped her, but the revulsion from being used, from being touched by him filled her with a sickening dread.

  Over time, her stepdad had started to provide her samples of the drugs he sold to stop her from freaking out. Searching for a way to escape, she took whatever he gave her. Opiates, sedatives, heavy-duty painkillers. Anything to take the edge off the raw fear, and to try to kill the feelings of being worthless and alone.

  Tell her, I’ll kill her. Tell anyone, I’ll kill her. Refuse, I’ll kill her. Leave here, I’ll kill her.

  She’d done what she needed to do. As a young girl, she’d believed his threats. The mom she’d known before Arnie was drifting away from her. Gone were the Sunday mornings they’d watch old movies together, or the evenings they’d spend listening to show tunes. They’d never been able to afford to go to the theater, but they’d watch snippets on her mom’s phone, and make up the stories to go with the songs they heard.

  Pixie, certain that it was only time before his voyeuristic tendencies and inappropriate touches turned to something even darker, had tried to get her mom to leave. She’d even gone as far as getting her mom to sign the paperwork allowing her to leave school at sixteen to earn money to help them get out. No amount of encouragement had worked. She’d suggested moving to another town or state, but her mom had wanted to stay with her stepdad. He paid his way, which helped with the cost of the trailer, and he fed her habit.

  Pixie stopped short at telling her mom the truth, because she believed Arnie’s threats.

  Until that night.

  * * *

  The two innocuous, sterile packages sat on the kitchen counter, but to Dred they might as well have been nuclear bombs. He didn’t want to touch them, didn’t want to open them, and certainly didn’t want to follow the instructions from the woman in the navy-suit standing next to him.

  The hour before her visit, he’d abstained from eating, drinking, or chewing gum. Thank heavens for in-house visits. “Discretion” was the ultimate keyword in his life.

  “Please, Mr. Zander, if you’d open the packet and complete the swab of your left cheek,” she said, her perky voice full of encouragement.

  Dred grabbed the first package and ripped the paper. He stuck the end of the swab inside his mouth. Up and down he swept, rotating the stick as instructed.

  “You’re doing great, Mr. Zander. Just a couple more seconds.”

  At least it didn’t hurt. He repeated the actions a couple more times and held out the stick. The woman took it from him and pressed it between two foam pads attached to a card. Dred swallowed the need to reach over, grab the swab, and set fire to it. Where was Elliot when you needed him? He’d torch it in a second.

  Why was he panicking? There was no way the baby was his.

  “Okay, right cheek now.” The woman handed him the other packet.

  Dred repeated the process, the monotonous up and down, all the while thinking of a little baby in St. Joseph’s hospital. In one regard, Jordan was right. If he was in fact the father, then he needed to learn more about the mother of his child. What kind of person was she? Was she capable of being a good mom? If she was, and she wanted to keep the child, he’d give her whatever she needed to provide an amazing life for her and their daughter. But if she wasn’t . . . the thought sent a chill down his spine. If she wasn’t, she’d have a fight on her hands because it would be a cold day in hell before he’d let any child of his have the upbringing he had. What confused him was how to stop it. There was no way he was equipped to raise a child. And he couldn’t force an adoption if the mom wanted to keep the baby. And they all knew from Lennon’s experience, that even babies adopted into wealthy families couldn’t expect a happy ever after.

  He handed the final swab to the woman. Shit, he couldn’t even remember her name.

  “Thank you, Mr. Zander. If you could sign these papers.”

  She handed him a pen and he scrawled his signature.

  “Perfect. Okay, we’ll have these results to you within about five business days.”

  They said their good-byes and Dred showed her out.

  Dred closed the door and tugged on his anchor. A kid. Him, a father. It couldn’t happen.

  He headed down to the studio and started to annotate a melody that had been playing through his mind. It was so unlike anything he’d ever written or sung before, but it was blocking his creativity. The rhythm was slow. Slower than Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day.” More soulful. Shit, was he writing a freaking gospel song? Either way, it needed to come out, because until it did, the other tunes behind it couldn’t get by.

  The rest of the guys bounded into the studio, followed by Sam. Nikan dropped a brown paper bag on the small table next to him. No doubt his favorite Nanaimo bars were inside. He pulled one out of the bag and took a bite. Graham crumbs and chocolate and custard-flavor buttercream. So simple, yet so good.

  “Okay. Quick business update.” Sam set his coffee on the top of the piano, and Dred removed it immediately. “Great sales in the first quarter. The box set of the first three albums with bonus materials did really well over the holidays, boosting January’s numbers.

  “Sales of the rest of the back catalogue received a boost because of it,” Sam continued without missing a beat.

  Well, that was good news at least. Dred was fed up with the “it’s not enough” spiel that Sam was constantly spouting. After all, the box set had been his own idea. They could work twenty-four hours a day and it still wouldn’t be enough for their manager.

  Dred looked around. Lennon was changing the head on one of his drums. Elliot actually had headphones on and was listening to something on his laptop. Nikan was perched on a stool, tapping on the edge of the seat, and Jordan was on his knees fiddling with one of the amps. Sam was losing them. For the first time, it struck Dred, that they might be outgrowing their manager.

  “Sam, did you hear back from Miami about who took the photo of me and Pix at the Miami gig?” Dred asked.

  “I didn’t. I’ll follow up. Okay. Saturday afternoon, there’s a new metal radio station starting up in the Distillery District. Dred, I said you and Lennon would swing by on Sunday afternoon.”

  “No can do,” Dred said. “Pix is in for the day. Told her I had it free.”

  “This is the kind of crap I meant on the plane about commitment. You should jump at the publicity.” Sam stood and banged his hand on the top of the piano.

  “What publicity? A brand-new station. They don’t even have a broad listener base. And what’s with all the last-minute activities? It’s less than forty-eight hours away. I’m sure they’ve been opening for months, and we’re likely the biggest band they could score who lives in the city. Why is this about us, and our flexibility?” Dred stood too. “Why isn’t this about you and your shitty planning?”

  “Dred. You know better than anyone that any publicity is good publicity. If you want this as badly as you say, you’ll make time to go.”

  Nikan stood.

  Why the fuck was everyone getting on their feet?

  “I’ll go instead of him,” Nikan said. “It’s not a big deal. Just let them know.”

  “Fine. But you guys need to realize this egalitarian shit you keep pulling isn’t what the fans want. They want Dred. I know you all think you are equal, and I respect the hell out of you for it, but it isn’t what keeps the fans happy.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but all I know is that we are platinum-selling.” Dred put his guitar away. “You don’t see Slipknot doing a small start-up radio station. I get CanCon rules for protecting Canadian content and all that shit, but why aren’t we doing international? Why aren’t we on the big radio shows in the UK? We cracked Canada five years ago.”

  Sam looked at his watch. “As much as I’d love to sit and chat with you about all the w
ays you think I’m fucking up, we need to shelve this. I gotta go. I’ll send Lennon and Nikan details for Sunday, and I’ll follow up with security at the arena about the photo.”

  Dred watched Sam retreat up the stairs. Needing a new manager would be one more item to add to the list of things to be worried about.

  His phone vibrated on the table and he picked it up to check his messages.

  Thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit? That’s it. I’m not coming.

  Dred laughed. Had she checked the temperature because she was packing?

  He texted back. I know all kinds of ways to keep you warm.

  There was a pause. A long one. The kind he didn’t like because it meant Pix was thinking about his comment too hard. He grabbed his anchor.

  I just bet you do ;-)

  A surge of relief flooded through him, but this time he delayed responding. Was his flirting unfair? He’d never felt so conflicted. The pile of shit on his plate kept growing. How much time would he actually have for her?

  And would she still want him if she knew it all?

  * * *

  “You keep running your hand over your head like that, Cujo, you’re going to lose hair.”

  Pixie smiled as they turned onto I-195 toward the airport. His tick gave him away. In truth, she was as nervous as he was.

  “Yeah, well, the idea of you heading to another country on your own is facilitating hair loss. I think Drea and I should come along for backup.”

  “You freaking out is not helping, Dad.”

  “Funny! I feel like your father right now. Feel like I should sit on the porch in a rocker holding a double barrel, scare the fucker off.”

  With her flight around half past seven in the morning, Cujo had insisted on picking her up shortly before five. When she first met Cujo all those years ago, it had taken her months to figure out why this guy would look out for her the way he did. His capacity to care for others was larger than anyone she’d ever met.

  “I’m fine, Cujo. Honestly.” It was an exaggeration, but there was no need for him to know she’d debated cancelling.