Dred was about to stand, to help them get his daughter back, when Pixie’s grip on his hand loosened and he looked down as her eyes fluttered shut. “Fuck, Pix. Look at me. Stay awake, Snowflake.” She needed help. And the sight of his brothers putting their lives at risk to save his daughter cleaved him in two. They’d had his back since the day they’d met, but never more so than today.
The sound of a gunshot reverberated around the room, and Nikan cried out as he grabbed the top of his arm, blood oozing between his fingers.
Lennon raced to Sam and snatched Petal from his arms. Holding her to his chest, he turned his back to Sam and hurried down the hallway. Dred wanted to call out, to hold her himself, but he knew Petal was safest out of sight.
Jordan knocked Sam to the floor and followed him down, trying to wrestle the gun from Sam’s hand. It went off again, firing a hole straight through the back of the sofa. Dred bent over Pixie, and covered her head and chest in case it went off again.
Elliot stamped down on Sam’s wrist, a loud crack snapping through the air. With a cry of pain, Sam let go of the gun. With no protection, and no means of escape, Sam cowered on the floor.
“Don’t,” Sam cried out, cradling his wrist. “Please.”
“What, you honestly thought you were going to get away with this, you fucking asshole?” Jordan yelled before punching Sam so hard, his head snapped backward.
Dred looked around the room. Lennon was standing at the end of the hallway, a phone to his ear and Petal cuddled tight in his arms. She was still screaming, and Dred watched as Lennon kissed the top of her head softly.
“Police and ambulance are already on their way. Pulling up in front of the building any moment,” Lennon said.
Elliot stood over Arnie, who had started to splutter to consciousness.
He looked back down at Pixie. “Oh, Snowflake. Where did you go? Wake up, gorgeous.” He gripped her hand.
The reassuring rise and fall of her chest gave him little comfort. Head injuries were unpredictable. Dred turned angrily to Sam. “Was it all just about the money?”
Sam struggled against Jordan’s hold. “That’s all it could ever be about, because you guys never let me be anything more.”
* * *
Pixie couldn’t figure out who was speaking. There was an echo around the words, making the voices indistinguishable. Why couldn’t she hear properly? She tried to sit up, but her head spun horribly and she couldn’t force her body to move. Where the hell was she?
Someone grabbed her hand. It was warm, which was a good thing because she was freezing. Every bone in her body hurt, and she couldn’t figure out why. She was in some kind of trouble, and panic rippled through her.
“We made you a shit-load of fucking money, asshole.” The voice was closer, deeper. Dred. It sounded like him. What had happened to them? Trying to figure out what was going on was like clutching smoke. As soon has she felt like she had a thread to hold on to, it disappeared from her grip.
PETAL. She’d been trying to get to Petal, but couldn’t quite reach her. Why had she been doing that? Petal’s blanket had slipped through her hand before . . . she’d been hit . . . from behind. Which explained the blinding headache. Sam and Arnie had her.
“We were meant to make even more. Without me creating extra interest in you, you would have flopped.”
Pixie whimpered in pain. At least she thought she did. She needed help because her head hurt, but she couldn’t force her eyes open.
A hand brushed across her forehead. “I have you, Snowflake. You’re safe, I promise.”
It was definitely Dred, she could tell from the low gravelly tone of his voice.
She raised her hand off the floor, and he took it in his. He squeezed it gently. “Look at me, gorgeous.”
Everything was out of focus, the light bright as she opened her eyes and squinted.
“Thank fuck. Never been so glad to see you.” Dred kissed her gently. His lips were warm, a physical representation of everything that was safe in the world.
“What do you mean, you created extra interest?” Nikan asked, clutching his arm.
“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “All the stories. I put stuff into the press to generate interest, then got retractions and apologies, even financial settlements to keep you happy.”
Pixie’s mouth was so dry, but she needed to ask. “Why me?” she croaked.
“Because you distracted them. Distracted Dred. Without you around, he was focused. Dedicated. But around you, he was arranging additional trips, missing meetings.”
The ceiling was beginning to move in circles above her, leaving her nauseated. Pixie closed her eyes again. Her head was still spinning when additional voices flooded the room.
“Please, help her. She’s been hit about the head. She’s been in and out for at least twenty minutes,” Dred said.
“What’s her name? Please, sir, can you step out of the way for us?” a different voice said.
“It’s Sarah-Jane. Sarah-Jane Travers.”
She felt Dred’s hand slip away. Come back. She needed the connection. It gave her something to come back to, something to swim toward. She needed to do something to get Dred’s attention. She put all her effort into reaching out for him.
“Snowflake,” he said as he grabbed her hand. “I’m here, gorgeous. You need to stay calm.”
“Please, sir. We need to check her out.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to work around me, because I’m not going anywhere.”
Pixie groaned and forced her eyes open. “No . . . drugs,” she whispered.
“What Sarah-Jane? Can you talk to me?” the paramedic asked.
She tugged on Dred’s hand.
“What, Snowflake?”
“No . . . drugs.” Dred finally came into focus.
“She’s a recovering addict, but she’s been sober for over six years,” he told the paramedic while looking straight at her, his dark brown eyes red-rimmed.
“Is Petal okay?” she asked.
“She’s fine, Snowflake. Let the paramedic do what he needs to do to get you to hospital. We can talk once we’re there.”
Pixie closed her eyes again, aware that for the first time in years, there was no threat, no sword of Damocles hanging over her head. She was free to live her life with Dred.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
“Where you go, I go,” Dred replied, burying his head against her chest. “Always.”
* * *
Epilogue
Three months after that awful day, there were several sounds that Pixie had come to associate with happiness. The first was Petal’s attempts to say da-da. Dred was beside himself with joy at her first word. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she said it all the time, to everything she came into contact with. The second was the ringtone of her new phone. The one that was set up for her new clothing company called Partture, a play on “party” and “couture.” With Dred in town, but busy recording the album, and the new body-mod expert taking part of the managing load at the tattoo studio, she had time to ramp up her sewing. And the third was the sound of a key being placed in a lock, because it meant Dred was home, and they were a unit again. She loved the independence she had with her work and friends, but having never had a real family of her own, she wanted to spend as much time as she could with Dred and Petal, even if it was a slightly old-fashioned point of view.
Tonight was no exception. She’d been embroidering the hem of a polka-dot ladybug dress while half-watching Evita on television. Jonathan Pryce was wonderful as Juan Perón. Then she heard the click, and it set her body on fire.
Dred had been texting her on and off all day. Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about the things he wanted to do with her when he got home. Each more descriptive than the last, leaving her all hot and bothered, and desperate for everything he promised.
She heard the door shut, and her body shivered in response.
Dred walked into the living room, placed his g
uitar case next to the sofa, and flashed his sexy-ass grin. He was dressed head to toe in black, like he was most days. But those jeans fit him like a second skin, and the black T-shirt of some band she’d never heard of was soft as sin and tight everywhere that mattered.
“Hey, Snowflake. How was your day?” He sat next to her on the sofa, took her sewing out of her hands, and pulled her against him. She liked the way he manhandled her. It had taken several weeks for Dred to stop treating her like she would shatter. She’d Rule three’d him more times than she cared to remember. It took welcoming him home one evening in nothing but one of his Toronto Maple Leafs jerseys to force him past it.
“My day was fine. I called mom and we talked some more.” It was a slow process, rebuilding her relationship with her mother. On one hand, Pixie was smart enough to realize from her own experiences that dependency on drugs changed the very essence of who you were. But on the other, she’d been a child when Arnie abused her, and her mom hadn’t done anything to stop it, even after she’d reported it to her teacher.
“How did that go?” Dred asked, running his hand up and down her back reassuringly.
“About the same. She’s keen for us to spend a little more time together, but I’m not there yet.”
“Go at your own speed. She can wait for you.”
“The good news is that I opened the studio today to train Truly, our new body-mod expert, how do to it.”
“That can’t be her real name,” Dred said with a laugh.
She slapped his chest. “Says the guy named Theodred. If she says her name is Truly, who am I to question it? Anyway, it means fewer early mornings for me from now on.”
“Mmm . . . more time in bed sounds perfect,” Dred said, kissing the side of neck.
Pixie tilted her head to the side to give him better access. “Petal was a dream for Elisa. She had a great day—ate well, slept well, pooped well as always. I got a bunch of sewing done. And I kept getting steamy texts from this guy I know.”
“Steamy texts, huh? Any you found interesting?” He raised an eyebrow in her direction.
“At least two of them I’d like to try,” she laughed. “How was your day?”
Dred smiled. “Less fun. Lawyers, lawyers, and more lawyers. Rewriting our contracts, officially severing Sam. I’d much rather talk about which of the two messages you’d like to try.”
As the story had unfolded, it became apparent that Sam had become obsessed with making Dred and Preload world famous rock stars. It was part ego, of managing the largest act, and part greed. To do that, he tried to prove he was invaluable to them by creating messes, blaming others, then looking like the hero for resolving them. It was a complicated situation. Once he’d become aware of the band’s plans to fire him, his only goal was to ruin them. Even the exposé he’d been threatening to sell was designed to hurt them. Fortunately, somewhere over the years, Dred’s personal lawyer had insisted a confidentiality clause was added to their contract with Sam. It offered them some protection, but didn’t mean Sam wouldn’t breach it. Neither Sam nor Arnie could touch them now. Both were being held, denied bail due to the flight risk.
“How was the recording today?”
“It was really productive. Even got to rearrange a couple of the songs for the tour. But I finished one I’ve been working on for a while. I started it when I first met you. Could probably tell you the exact moment I came up with every line. Can I play it for you?”
“Won’t it wake Petal?”
“No. It’s not really for the band. It’s for you. And us. And my story to get here. And the question I am going to ask myself every single day of our lives together.”
He stood and pulled the guitar from its case, but it wasn’t one of his flash electric ones. This was a traditional acoustic guitar that was clearly old, and a little beaten-up in places. He sat on the coffee table facing her, resting the guitar on his knee. The soft blues, almost gospel-like quality to the tune shocked her. She’d expected loud and angry. A metal take on the love song. But this . . . it was spiritual, almost heavenly.
I can’t live without you
I can’t breathe without you
I can’t even sing this song without you
Lord what am I gonna do
This is crazy
So, so crazy
This is painful
So, so painful
His voice was so soulful, so melodic. No matter how much she loved him, she didn’t listen to Preload unless one of the guys played it at the studio. But this, she could listen to all day. As Dred continued to sing through a chorus that reflected on exactly how much he loved her, she was struck by the fact that this was the first time he’d played especially for her. Yes, he sang around the house, but this was a song about them, a song he was singing to her. And in that moment, she knew she was truly his.
When the heart wants what it wants
Does the heart get what it needs
When you reach rock bottom
I’ll be the savior that you need
I think I’m in love
I think I’m in love with you
I think I’m in love
I think I’m in love with you
Without saying a word, he placed his guitar on the floor and pulled her across his lap. She placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him soundly.
“I know we’ve got hurdles ahead of us. Being separated while I tour, and all that. And I know we need paperwork for me to be here, or you to be in Canada permanently. But I love you, Pix. I need to know this is leading to forever.”
“I don’t have words or a song,” she said quietly, taking his hand and placing it on her chest. “But my heart understands yours in ways I don’t think I’ll ever quite comprehend.”
Dred led out a deep breath. “I think that’s the beauty of it, Snowflake. We’re not meant to. All we can do is embrace it. And nurture it. And build something together. We had shitty role models to show us what that looks like.”
“So we build our own version of it. It’ll be perfect,” she said.
Slipping his fingers under her T-shirt, he brushed his lips against hers. “Just like you.”
Acknowledgments
As always, writing the acknowledgments reminds me how lucky I am to have people so willing to help me write the stories that I do.
Huge thanks as always to my lovely editor, Lizzie Poteet, at St. Martin’s Press. I hope readers agree with your feelings about Pixie and Dred’s story. Thank you for continuing to challenge me to write the very best book I possibly can, and for your continued faith that when I do that, readers will want to read it. Oh, and remember that time we were double RITA finalists.
My very dear Beth Phelan—thank you for being the most awesome agent with mad agenty skills. I love your audacity and tenacity. Thank you for taking my call from the wilds of wherever you were and taking a chance on me.
To my wonderful team at St. Martin’s Press . . . Amy, Marissa, Jordan, and all the other folks who help with everything from editing to covers. I’m truly grateful for your relentless efforts.
I have the best critique partner in the world. Violetta Rand is all kinds of awesome. Thank you, my lovely. Here’s hoping all your predictions come true!
An author can be a solitary occupation at times, and I am very fortunate to have a wonderful group of writers that I call friends. Sidney Halston—I love you and your stories. And a huge thank-you goes out to the wonderful De Wolfe ladies and our fearless leader, Kathryn Le Veque—you ladies offer great counsel and laughter in equal measure.
I need to thank Brett and Heather Dawson for helping me understand what life in a group home can be like. The world needs people like you who actively care for young people who find themselves alone for whatever reason. Thank you for helping me understand their stories, and thank you for helping them every day.
Thank you to medical practitioners Denise Clarke (Neonatal Nurse Practitioner) and Joanne Unsworth (midwife) for their guidance on the topi
c of Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome. I don’t want to provide spoilers in the acknowledgments, but I am grateful to you for helping me shape this story.
Thanks to Dawn Vickers and Pat Egan Fordyce for doing early reads and making sure I was on the right track.
Tanya Baikie—I owe you one massive Canadian vote of thanks for all the amazing teasers and videos you have made. You have such crazy talent.
To my fearless street team . . . Scarlett’s Stars. We may be small but we are mighty! Thanks to all of you, especially Tanya, Julie, Pat, Dawn, and Cole and Stacey (aka Laverne and Shirley), for your constant support.
As always, my girlfriends Amanda, Michelle, and Gina deserve a shout-out for keeping me sane. But especially so with this book because Amanda and Michelle convinced me (perhaps after a third bottle of wine) to combine their names to create Amanda Veitch’s name. I told you it wasn’t going to be pretty, ladies.
Dear Lollipop and Finner . . . I love you, and yes, I am going to write your name in every book, and yes, I am going to tell you just how much I love you over and over . . . even when you think you are too cool for it.
To my husband, Tim, and his masculine ways. He is a total inspiration. (And that is the first and last time I agree to let you write your own acknowledgment!) And no, I will not put #throbbing at the end! Or cowbell analogies.
This book touches on themes of abuse. There are many great organizations, like the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (R.A.I.N.N.), that offer support for those affected by this. If you are in need of advice, please find one of them. Or call the National Sexual Assault Hotline 1.800.656.HOPE (4673).
About the Original Song-Living Without You
I wanted to say a special thank-you to recording artist Bishop (Damon O’Hara) who wrote the song that Dred writes for Pixie. As a singer, songwriter, and student of the British and Irish Modern Music Institute (B.I.M.M.), I didn’t meet Bishop in a concert hall, which would be way cooler than the real story. I met him in a fish shop of all places. Yes, a place where you can procure raw fish. Yeah, we think it’s funny, too.
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