Even now, she could still make the call. Arnie’s visit had left her rattled. His touch had left an invisible layer of dirt on her skin, one that couldn’t be scrubbed off in the shower.
The evening after his visit, she’d kicked herself for not asking more about her mom. Questions had crowded her mind as silvery slivers of moonlight weaved their way across her bedroom ceiling. Were they still together? Or worse, was her mom aware of what Arnie was doing? Thoughts of her mom condoning his actions turned Pixie’s stomach until the cramps forced her to curl up in a tight ball. Perhaps they’d separated and her mom had finally gotten clean. Pixie knew firsthand how hard it was to come down off all the pills she’d used to numb herself. Her own first couple of weeks in rehab were excruciating. Facing memories of what she’d endured without anything to take the edge off a perpetual nightmare that wouldn’t end. She’d cried for days.
“Say the word, Pix, and I’ll hop the plane with you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not a child. I don’t need a chaperone. You wouldn’t come with me if I went on a date in Miami. This is no different. I’ll be fine,” she said, patting his shoulder.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s me. I feel like I’m taking my kid to her first day of college and I am so not fucking ready.”
Pixie laughed again. “I’m not that much younger, only ten years.”
“I’m not sure it’s the age thing, Pix. Remember my promise?”
She’d not been able to afford any kind of rehab, but Trent and Cujo had paid for outpatient treatment at a clinic. In the months that followed, it had become apparent they were both on really tight budgets while they started the studio, which made their support all the more meaningful. Trent had told her once about the moment they saw her in the doorway to the shop. She’d reminded them of Kit, his sister who had resorted to cutting herself at about the same age as Pixie was when they found her. They’d felt compelled to help.
Cujo had driven her to her first appointment. It was the kind of day you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Her mouth was drier than the sand on South Beach, and her head pounded, but she’d been determined to not take any painkillers. The only parking spot had been a block away. The walk to the rehab center felt like a death march. Self-doubt the consistency of syrup pushed its way through her veins, sluggish and dark. What if she failed?
“You can do this,” Cujo said.
How had he known what she was thinking? “I don’t know that I can,” she replied honestly.
“Yeah, you can. You aren’t alone, Pixie. I’m here for you. I promise.”
“Like my boyfriend?” she asked, sickened at the thought of what he might expect in return.
“No, Pix. I’m nowhere near good enough, and I’m too fucking old for you. But I’ll replace every shithead that let you down.”
“I remember,” she whispered.
“Well, I meant it then, and I do now.”
Pixie sat in silence. She owed Cujo and Trent more than they would ever understand. There wasn’t a way to repay them. Which was part of the reason she felt bad about wanting to start her dress business. She didn’t want to leave Trent or Cujo, but she wanted the opportunity to grow, and possibly make more money so she could get her own place. They’d tried to teach her to tattoo, both of them having the patience of Job, but she was never going to be close to their skills, and it was time they all admitted it.
Cujo pulled up at the terminal and got out of the car. Pixie dropped down from the truck as he pulled her suitcase from the back.
“Okay,” he said, setting the small case on its wheels. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white envelope. “I got you this. If you don’t use it, you can give it back to me when you come home.”
Pixie opened the envelope to find a credit card.
“It’s preloaded with six hundred dollars.”
“What is this for?” Pixie asked, pulling the card out.
“Emergencies. I want you to know you can leave Dred’s place at any time, walk into a hotel, and get a room.”
Pixie flung her arms round Cujo’s waist. She didn’t need the money, and could afford to get herself out of trouble, but that wasn’t what the card was about.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his chest.
Cujo put his hands on her arms and pushed her away from him. “Yeah. Well, Drea said don’t do anything she wouldn’t do, which knowing Shortcake like I do, doesn’t leave much. So be careful.”
“I’m only gone for thirty-six hours, Cujo,” she laughed.
“For now,” Cujo said with a grin.
As Pixie walked toward the airline check-in desk, she wondered if Cujo could possibly be right.
* * *
Something hit his ribs, hard.
“Yo, Dred. Wake up, man.”
Dred opened one eye to find Nikan standing at the side of the bed with his laptop. He squinted over to the window. It was still dark outside.
“What time is it?” he asked, reaching for his phone. Six thirty. And two texts from Pixie. She’d be at the airport, possibly on the plane. He started to read them.
Nikan whipped the phone out of his hands and flicked on the lamp.
“Asshole. Give that back,” Dred said gruffly.
“In a minute. Look at this.” Nikan handed him his laptop.
Dred blinked in a feeble attempt to focus. Preload Relapse. Nikan spins out of control. He scanned the article and winced at how much was true. Between the end of the promotional tour for the last album and starting the recording of the new one, Nikan had gone back into rehab. At the time, a whole load of shit had been pulling on the strings of Nikan’s sobriety, but he sure as hell hadn’t been found facedown in a pool of his own vomit. Dred immediately wanted to kill the “source close to the band” that had reported it that way. Nikan had made the decision with the band’s complete blessing before he’d touched a drop of alcohol and then the band was behind him one hundred percent when he’d voluntarily gone to get help.
“They’ve gone with the fucking clichéd First Nations alcohol shit again. I was four years old when we left the res. It’s got fuck all to do with that.” Nikan started to pace. Never a good sign.
The more Dred read, the angrier he became. The article didn’t just touch on Nikan’s present, but on the band’s past. It wasn’t a secret that they’d grown up in a boys’ home—not that they ever spoke outside the band about what happened before they were put there—but their files were sealed—yet somehow the magazine had gotten hold of the location of Ellen’s.
“Shit, man. We should get Sam on this. Have someone at the label force them to issue a retraction.”
“Retract what?” Nikan sounded defeated. “A fair chunk of it is true.”
“I get that. But what harm is there in talking to the team about damage control?”
“Yeah. Fuck. It’s hard enough staying sober, man.” Nikan ran his hands through his hair.
“You’re on top of this though, right? I don’t give a shit about our stupid fucking obligations. You need time away, bro, you go.”
If Dred was the leader of the band, Nikan was the head of their family. He was the oldest, was the first to be placed with Ellen, and the first to leave. He’d worked two jobs to afford the crappy two-bedroom apartment above a Greek restaurant on the Danforth for them all to stay at while they found work. Without Nikan at the helm, they were all a little adrift.
Nikan stood up and swung his arms around as if preparing to exercise. “Nah. I got this. I’ll give Sam a call.” He collected his laptop and left.
Dred flopped back on the pillow. None of the nine families he’d stayed with over the years had breathed a word about his issues. Like the time he destroyed the newly decorated bedroom of his second foster home because they wouldn’t tell him where his mom’s ashes were scattered. He wondered occasionally if any of them ever would. An exposé like that would be worth serious money. Perhaps someone would sell him out eventually, and in some way, he’d already
accepted it would happen. Maybe it was naïve to hope it wasn’t before he’d made enough money to not give a shit when it did.
Shit. Pixie. He scrambled for his phone.
On my way to the airport . . . Cujo’s driving is making me carsick :-)
It was almost laughable the way Trent and Cujo, two of the biggest guys he’d met, protected her when she could clearly kick his ass on her own.
And another message.
Boarding now. See you in a few hours if we don’t crash and burn.
Was she scared of flying? He hadn’t thought to ask.
Lying in bed thinking of you. Think about that instead.
The phone vibrated.
Sitting on a plane, possibly thinking about you (and not dying) too x
Three and a half hours later, Dred stood in the Toronto airport wearing a gray hat pulled low over his forehead. He looked down at his phone, shoulders hunched, in a feeble attempt to fade into the background. Periodically, he’d look up to check the board, and his heart sped up a little when he saw that Pixie’s flight had landed.
At his feet were two cups of Tim Hortons coffee, a double-double for him, white for her, and a bag containing his favorite honey cruller donuts.
The doors opened, and Pixie walked out pulling a bright purple carry-on. He saw her before she found him. Yeah. With sparkling eyes and a bounce to her step, excitement emanated from her. When had he last felt that outside of performing, that genuine, heartfelt optimism? Wanting to draw out the moment of anticipation a little longer, he waited for her to find him. Looking at Pixie’s figure in that fitted sweater dress and open leather jacket made his balls tighten. The smile that broke out across her face when she finally saw him lit up the terminal.
With a squeal, she let go of the case handle, and threw her arms around his waist. “I’m in Canada. And I’m alive. I feel like I should kiss the floor like the Pope does or something.”
Dred laughed and wrapped her in his arms, savoring the feeling of her pressed up against him. He sighed, enjoying the vibration he felt when they were together. Some couples felt a sense of peace, but he felt the hum of potential. Of something . . . more. “It’s good to see you, Pix.” He kissed the top of her head. That lovely shock of deep purple hair. He wondered what color her hair was naturally. So many things they didn’t know about each other. Banking all worries of recording, and DNA tests, and timelines, Dred stood and held her, turning from side to side gently as he took comfort from her very presence. Pixie moved with him, her head buried against his chest.
The exterior doors slid open and an icy blast filtered through, piercing them with its sharp fingers. Pixie shivered as she looked up at him. “I feel like I survived the plane ride but I think Canada’s lame-ass attempt at spring might kill me.”
Christ, those eyes. And those ruby lips that had KISS ME written all over them. Dred lowered his head to hers.
“I told you, I’ll keep you warm, Pix,” he murmured before pressing his mouth to hers.
Her lips were soft, and she tasted of peppermint. He threaded his fingers through her hair. The way her body fit up against his was sweeter than a two-part harmony. Lust gripped him with a fervor he’d never felt before. He couldn’t get enough of her, his hands wanted to be everywhere at once. This wasn’t a kiss. Kisses in his world were fleeting moments of enjoyment, a temporary distraction. But this. Her mouth opened against his and his tongue danced, fucking danced, with hers. It was honey crullers, an epic song lyric, and the Leafs winning the Stanley Cup all rolled up into one erotic package.
His hand tightened around her, holding her indecently close. When she moaned into his mouth, he came undone. Her hands crept up under his T-shirt, her smooth fingertips cool against his skin. An airport cart wheeled by and beeped.
Shit. They were still at the airport. Struggling to regain his composure, he ran his nose along Pixie’s jaw to her ear.
Fuck all the people going by him in a whirl. Fuck the group of tourists laughing as they walked by. And fuck the Greater Toronto Airport Authority for building the airport so far away from his fucking bed.
Chapter Seven
Holy shit. Between that kiss, and the freezing cold air they walked out into, Pixie was breathless. Any worries about their reunion being awkward were washed away by Dred’s glorious lips. Unfortunately, they were immediately replaced with worries that he would expect so much more from her while she was here. And more was the problem. Or it had been.
Pixie stopped to look up and watched the flakes swirl toward her and whip around her head. “Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,” she muttered to herself with a smile.
“You okay, Pix?” Dred asked, coffee in one hand, her case in the other. The sight of him, tall and brooding in black, carrying a small purple carry-on made her laugh.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen this much snow.” It was beautiful, and bitingly cold. She shivered and took a sip of hot coffee.
“We don’t normally have this much in April. Here.” Dred stopped as they reached the shelter of the multistory lot, put the case on the ground by the pay station, and took off his thick coat.
“What are you doing?”
He bundled it around her, taking care not to spill the coffee, and she immediately felt the warmth. “There. Was worried you were going to bite your own tongue off the way those teeth were rattling.”
“But you’re going to freeze.”
Dred dug around in his pocket and pulled out some bills and the parking ticket, and fed them into the machine. “Haven’t you seen the beer commercial? I. Am. Canadian.” Dred laughed, white wisps of air leaving his mouth. “And it’s not that cold.”
“Here, take it back.” Pixie tried to slip the coat off her shoulders. He was wearing a thick dark sweater and a hat. Nowhere near enough to stay warm.
Dred placed his hands on hers, stopping her. “I’m fine.”
Once they were safely ensconced in Dred’s black Range Rover, Pixie bit into a donut. “Oh my God. These are the best things ever.”
Dred reached across to retrieve one. She tried to ignore the feeling of the bag moving in her lap and his fingers fumbling around at the top of her thighs, but her high intentions were falling faster than the snow outside.
“It’s worth coming to Canada to get your hands on these. I miss them when we are at the house in L.A.,” he said, and took a huge bite.
They turned off the highway, and after a few minutes, pulled up alongside a frosted glass–fronted store called Mountain Equipment Co-op and snagged a street-front parking spot.
“Come on,” Dred said, getting out of the car. He walked to her side, opened her door, took her hand, and helped her out. “We’re equipping you for Canada.”
He gestured with his arm to racks and racks of outdoor gear. “My treat,” he whispered against her neck. “I have plans for the next twenty four hours and it involves being outdoors.”
In the end, she selected a waterproof parka with an inner detachable down jacket. It had a belt around the middle so she didn’t look like the Michelin tire guy. They also picked out some knee-length winter boots, a hat—which Dred kept calling a toque—and some warm gloves.
“Okay. Now you are dressed properly; let’s go have some fun.”
Five hours later as Dred pulled into the driveway of a glorious redbrick three-story home, Pixie knew three things to be true: she couldn’t ice-skate, Toronto was a beautiful city, and Dred had her turned inside out. He’d been a gentleman, except the one time an experienced skater brushed by her and knocked her over. He’d shouldered the guy to the ground when he passed by a second time.
Now, she was about to step into his house and out of her comfort zone.
“Your house is beautiful. It suits you, all gothic and moody.”
“Gothic? That’s a new one.” Dred retrieved her suitcase and guided her up the front steps, his hand pressed against her lower back.
“Oh come on. There’s a little Vlad the Impaler in you with
the hair and the scowl.”
Dred pressed his lips to her neck, then bit a little before releasing her. “If I am, do I get to do that some more?”
Pixie tilted her head to allow him better access, and savored the way his tongue slid up the side of her neck.
The front door swung open. “Hey, Pix. Great to see a smile on this miserable bastard’s face. We’re on our way out.” Nikan held his arms wide to give her a hug. The least she could do was step into them.
Jordan, Elliot, and Lennon followed him through the door, bundled up in coats and scarves.
Lennon hugged her, then turned to Dred. “There’s another crazy article. Apparently Nikan and I are coming to blows. I left it on my laptop. Sam’s dealing with it.”
They said their hellos and good-byes and Dred placed a hand on her lower back to guide her inside.
Warmth washed over her and she quickly unbuttoned her coat. The house was a collision of tall ceilings, original features, and modern furniture. The embers of a dying fire snapped in the spacious living room. Now, as they stood in the quiet of the hallway, a strange nervousness settled over her.
“I need to tell you something,” Dred said, pulling on the anchor he wore around his neck. “I live with the rest of the band. We have a house in L.A. we share, and this one.”
The idea of spending the night with Dred had taken some getting used to. The idea of being in a house with a group of men she didn’t know very well unsettled her. She thought about the credit card Cujo had given her. She didn’t need to stay. They could have a great time without her sleeping over. In fact, maybe that’s—
“Don’t look like that. Talk to me. What is it?” Dred reached for her hand and gripped it.
These men were not her stepdad. They weren’t the men he used to bring to the trailer.
“I’m sure it seems weird,” Dred said. “We’re grown men for fuck’s sake, not college kids. We grew up in a home together, but it’s not my place to share their reasons why we live like this, but trust me, they’re important.”
“I’m safe here though, right. I can trust you?”
The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) Page 9