The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (18 page)

Cujo groaned beside him. “Oh my God. You made my fucking ears bleed.”

Pixie laughed and settled Dred’s bill, and, with the help of a taxi, made that happen in what felt like no time at all.

* * *

Pixie placed her key in the door to the apartment, but it swung open, ripping the key from her fingers. She tripped forward, but Dred caught her before she crashed into Lia who looked as shocked as she felt.

Pixie felt the laughter bubble up inside her. “Oh my gosh, Lia. I’m sorry.”

Lia looked over Pixie’s shoulder and obviously seeing Dred there, grinned at her. “No worries, Pix. I popped home to change. I’m going to the studio to help them catch up. Hey, Dred.”

“I shouldn’t have bailed.” She turned to Dred. “I should go back.”

“No,” Lia said gently. “We got this . . . and you got
this
.” She gave Dred a playful look up and down. “I think you got the better end of the bargain. I won’t be back for hours. Toodles.”

Dred laughed. “Well, that was subtle.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and nuzzled her neck. They stepped into the apartment and Dred closed the door. “I have an idea, want to play a game?”

As playful as he sounded, self-preservation stopped her from jumping in with a resounding yes. “What kind of game?” she asked, turning in his arms.

His lips descended on hers, taking the breath from her body as they teased hers. She opened for him and swallowed his groan.

Dred pulled away from her, dropped the bag he’d been carrying, and took his leather jacket off. “For every article of clothing we take off each other, we get to ask a question.”

Pixie’s stomach sank a little. There was so much about her past she didn’t want to revisit because doing that with him would destroy her. She could feel the blood leave her face.

“Hey,” he said, pulling her into his arms, “I didn’t mean to freak you out. We don’t have to play.”

Pixie stood for a moment looking out beyond the glass panels of the balcony. Sunlight rippled across the water. She was safe here. With him. In her own home.

“No. Let’s try it,” she said resolutely. “But if I hate it, can we stop?”

Dred cocked his head to one side. “Hmm,” he said, running the tips of his fingers along her collarbone. “I think we should decide on a forfeit.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, we can decide at the time one of us wants to quit.” He took her hand and led her over to one of the large sofas that flanked the fireplace. They sat down facing each other, and Dred’s finger slipped inside the top button of her sheer black blouse, tracing the skin underneath lazily. “I have a question. Where were you born?”

An easy question to start, one that wouldn’t give too much away. “On the outskirts of
The Muck
. Also known as Pahokee, Florida.”

“Sounds like a real must-see kind of place,” he said, making short work of the rest of her buttons. She was glad she’d worn the somewhat sexy camisole underneath. Dred slipped the sleeves down her arms and threw the shirt on the sofa behind her. “My turn. Ask me.”

She tried to ignore the way Dred’s fingers slid under the thin strap of her camisole and focused on what question to ask. It would set the tone for the kinds of questions he would ask her. And while she desperately wanted to know why the band still lived together and what Dred’s life was like in foster care, she played it safe. “What would you be if you weren’t a rock star?”

Dred nudged the camisole strap off her shoulder.

“That’s cheating,” she said, pulling it back up.

“Spoil sport.” Dred laughed. “Hmm. What would I be? I don’t know. Can I say songwriter for other people? Because I love lyrics. Writing the songs is as important to me as performing them.”

It was an easy answer, but she let it fly in the hope he wouldn’t press her too hard later. “Your T-shirt,” she said, dipping her fingers under the hem, feeling the tight clench of his abs as she rubbed against them. He let her pull it over his head, then leaned back against the sofa, draping his arm along the back of it. He was obviously way more comfortable half-naked than she was.

“My turn,” Dred said with too much excitement for her liking. “Why did you move to Miami?”

Pixie forced the smile to remain on her face as she floundered for an answer.
Because I killed a man.
But she couldn’t say that. She wasn’t ready to explain what she ran away from. It was too soon. Too early. She’d never told Cujo and Trent in all the years they’d known her. It felt odd to fight the urge to share everything with Dred. “I think you need to visit Pahokee to understand that,” she said with a tight smile.

Dred frowned and held her gaze until she had to turn away and pretend to look out over the water. The look told her he knew she was avoiding answering. He took hold of her hand.

“On a scale of one to ten, how high is your panic right now, Pix?”

She turned to face him. “My what?”

“You know . . . the churning inside, your heart rate. How high is it? My psychologist told me to give it a number and embrace it before I dealt with it.”

“Eight.” Because nine was reserved for her stepdad, and ten was reserved for the man she killed. She breathed deeply. “Why did you have a psychologist?”

“Wait. You can ask me that next. But can you give me some kind of real answer? It doesn’t have to be everything, then take off that top before I get inspired and rip it?”

She looked into his eyes. He wasn’t making fun of her. Wasn’t even blowing it off. He was giving them both a way through it.

“I did something I shouldn’t have done and I needed to get away.”

Dred nodded, and with a quick look down to the camisole and back to her eyes, he encouraged her to strip.

“Don’t you want to know what I did?”

“Not today. We should build up to that, right?”

Pixie nodded and whipped the camisole over her head before she could second-guess herself.

Dred’s hand gripped her waist, before sliding upward until his thumbs brushed her nipples. He bent forward and sucked one into his mouth. Pixie placed her hands on his head and weaved her fingers though his hair.

His mouth was warm on her skin; the way his tongue moved against her felt like heaven. He let her nipple go with a pop. “I could do that all day,” he said, sitting back against the sofa. “You asked why I saw a psychologist. I had issues as a kid. My mom . . . she had . . . problems. I lived through some frightening shit. As a result, I could never control my temper. So when shit got tough, I would deal with it the only way I knew how. Fighting or destroying stuff.”

“Oh, Dred, that sounds—”

“No. Don’t feel sorry for me. It is what it is.” Dred removed his boots. “Okay. Why haven’t you told Cujo and Trent you don’t want to be a tattoo artist?”

This question felt safer. “Because I don’t want to let them down. They’ve been my only family for years. It’s hard to explain. They’re all I have.”

“I never had to worry about that. There was nobody for me to impress,” Dred said sadly.

“Why are we doing this, Dred? These questions. They’re upsetting both of us. You’re only here for a few more hours. I don’t want to spend what little time we have together feeling sad or angry.”

Dred pulled her across his lap and hugged her to his chest, the feel of his skin against hers a delicious comfort. “I want to get to know you. There’s so much we haven’t talked about. I don’t know what we have to work through to get to a place where we both feel comfortable and trust each other.”

Pixie leaned back into his arms. She could see the need for honesty etched across his face, and understood exactly what he meant. “I know,” she sighed. “It almost feels insurmountable, doesn’t it?”

“I used to think so. I was pretty certain I’d never find someone I wanted share this shit with. But there’s something about you that makes me want to deal with it once and for all.” Dred placed his hands on her waist, spanning her ribs.

“I want that too,” Pixie admitted. “It’s just . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to pull it all out and dissect it. And I don’t know when I will be.”

Dred placed his lips against hers. “As long as we both want it,” he murmured against her lips, “then we’re halfway there.”

His tongue swept against her lips and she met him with everything she couldn’t say. Everything that was choking her inside. Every secret she wanted to share.

Every part of her that hoped he would love her once he knew the truth.

Tired from the late-night flight back from Miami, Dred hit the snooze on his alarm clock, for the seventh time. While exhaustion settled deep into his bones to the point they physically hurt, it was worth every moment of seeing Pixie again. Something about the time he spent with her made him forget what was going on around him. Never one prone to deep introspection, he found himself trying to figure out if there was a way past the turmoil his mother had created in his young life and a way to permanently shake the son-of-a-dead-junkie mantle he wore.

Dred sat up in bed and turned the alarm off. After a quick shower, he wandered downstairs. As he approached the first-floor landing, he could hear the murmurs of conversation.

“Think about it, that’s all I’m suggesting,” said Sam.

Dred took a step or two further down the stairs so he could hear better.

“You are on very dangerous territory my friend,” Nikan said with a low growl.

“I’m trying to look out for you. You’re the most talented member of the group, I’d hate to see you held back because—”

“Because what?” Nikan hissed. “Because I put my brothers and their needs above any kind of profit you might be able to scrape up for me? Because you don’t have a solid plan for
us
? Because we bounce from one short-notice event to another?”

“Those events
are
planned. And yes there are a lot of them, because that is how you build momentum. I’m just saying consider the fact you might get more achieved with a different lineup.”

“This kind of talk is poison. Go fuck yourself, Sam.”

Dred heard the door to the recording studio slam shut.
What the hell was that about?

He jogged down the rest of the stairs and found Sam in the kitchen, seated on one of the breakfast bar stools. “Hey, Sam,” he said as though everything was fine and he hadn’t overheard a word.

“Dred. How was Miami?” His fake interest grated on Dred’s last nerve.

“Great.” He grabbed a coffee and muffin. “Wish I was still there.”

And that was the truth. He had Pixie and Petal in his life, and he needed to figure out how that was all going to work. Could you get a passport for a baby? He had no clue. Which reminded him, he needed to call his lawyer and follow up on the hijack he’d walked into when he’d last gone to see Amanda and Petal.

He faced Sam across the breakfast bar. “Look, Sam. To be honest, I need some space. I have to figure out what to do about Petal and deal with lawyers and shit. And I want to be able to fit Pixie into my life whether you like her or not. Is there any way to rearrange all this shit? Like keep the album and the tour, but get rid of all the crap, like those weekend-festival events and some of these public appearances. Let’s focus on those two things, because I’m worried some of the things we’re ignoring are going to snowball.”

Sam scowled. “That ‘crap’ as you put it, is what pays your bills in between releases and tours. It’s what makes people want to buy your music.”

Dred wished he’d started this conversation with the rest of the guys around, but he knew they all felt the same way. “We don’t need money, Sam. We have plenty. And let’s face it, the income from a random festival in Germany isn’t that high after you deduct all the expenses. It doesn’t feel like it’s worth the trade-offs we are making. And second, we have a massive fan base. If it didn’t grow, our albums would still go platinum. I know we can’t take that for granted forever, but we’re fine.”

“I disagree. You know how this business is . . . no one can predict your longevity.”

“Agreed. But that’s our risk to take, not your decision to make. So please go through all the activities you have lined up for the next six months, review the contracts we’ve signed. List what our penalties will be for no-shows. And do it quick, because I’m sure those penalties go up the closer we get to the event date. Bring that back to us tomorrow so we can decide what to do with the rest of the guys.”

“Fine.” Sam stood. “But this is the kind of decision that can end a band. I’ll also highlight which of the events your label is
expecting
you to attend. You should at least know that before you commit career suicide.” Sam marched toward the hallway and disappeared from sight, but the slam of the door told Dred he’d left the house.

That went well.
Dred let out a short huff of breath. It was time for rehearsal. He picked up his muffin to take a bite when there was a knock at the door. If it were Sam, he’d use his key.

Dred put his muffin down and walked to the door. He heard the baby’s cry as soon as he hit the hallway. Yanking the door open, he was shocked to find Amanda standing on the doorstep with a screaming Petal in her arms. The temperatures had turned a bit milder, but Petal wasn’t even wearing a coat.

“I need to go out of town and can’t take her with me. If you can’t take her, I’ll leave her with a friend.”

Without a second thought, he reached for Petal. “Sure, I got her,” he said, his heart melting as he looked down at her sweet face. It had been less than a week since he had seen her, but she had already filled out so much. He bounced her in his arms gently and tried his best to calm her.

“Okay. One second.” Amanda went to her car and pulled out several bags and returned, dropping them to the hallway. “Diapers and stuff are in the red bag, clothes in the brown one. Formula and bottles are in the plastic backpack. You need to sterilize them before you use them and you’ll need to buy a car seat. I put my cell number in the diaper bag.”

Amanda turned to head back to her car.

“Amanda, wait.”

She stopped. “What? I’m in a hurry.”

Dred grabbed Lennon’s scarf from his hook and wrapped Petal in it. “I appreciate the chance to spend time with her, but why now? What changed?”

“Nothing changed. Don’t think it’s going to be like this all the time.”

“When are you coming back for Petal?”

“Tomorrow sometime.” With that, she hurried down the path, got in her car, and drove away.

Dred looked around at the mess by his feet and the small baby in his arms, the enormity of what just happened hitting him in the stomach.
How the hell do you sterilize a bottle? And where do you buy a car seat?

Lennon ran into the hallway, his face ashen. “I thought I heard a baby scream.” He stopped a few feet shy of them.

Nikan followed Lennon. “So this is Petal?” he asked, stepping around Dred to pick up all the bags and close the door.

“Yeah,” Dred said, a lump in his throat. “This is my daughter. I guess that makes her your niece.”

Elliott joined them. “Holy shit, she’s got pipes like her old man.”

Dred looked down at the scrunched-up little face, all red and wrinkled.

“Can I?” Jordan gestured for the baby. Dred carefully transferred her into Jordan’s arms.

Jordan began to sing. “
Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a partner
. . .” The haunted lyrics to “Under the Bridge” had always left him in pieces. But seeing Jordan sing it to his daughter ripped out his insides and put them through a shredder.

There was no way she would ever feel the kind of loneliness he had.

He’d make sure of that with every fucking breath in his body.

* * *

Pixie closed the internet browser and leaned back in her chair. There had to be an explanation of why Dred looked so cozy with that Brazilian supermodel. He’d warned her that the paparazzi had an incredible knack of capturing the most innocent moment in a way that made it look sordid and cheap. There was no need for her to worry.
Right?

He was a rock star and he was bound to meet beautiful women wherever he went. Worse, he was likely used to those women throwing their perky D-cups is his face.

Pixie stood and walked to the condo’s balcony doors. She needed to show Dred she could deal with it while convincing herself that she wasn’t merely being naïve. The sky was an unusual mix of thunderous gray and deep purple. The air hung heavy with anticipation of the storm the forecast had promised. It reflected her mood.

She pulled out her phone and looked at the photos Dred had sent her over the past two days. What kind of mother dropped her child off with someone saying they’d be back the next day, only to remain conveniently out of touch for seventy-two hours?

A photo of Petal asleep on Jordan’s chest. Petal lying on a giant play mat with little animals dangling overhead. A picture of a bottle sterilizer with the message
What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

And the funniest one was Lennon, Nikan, and Elliott, each standing behind a different shopping cart packed to the brim with stuff, and Jordan stood in front of them holding Petal. The accompanying text said
This is what $3,567.84 buys at Toys R Us . . . the rest is being delivered . . . Petal 1: Daddy 0

Her favorite was a picture of Dred and Petal. It was taken from the side and Petal was asleep on his shoulder. Dred looked straight at the camera and the look on his face was the closest she had ever seen to contentment.

This man wouldn’t cheat on her, she was certain, but somehow the tacky article had gotten under her skin, and not in a good way.

The buzzer to the condo sounded. Pixie walked to the door and checked herself out in the mirror. She’d dressed deliberately to face him. Her face was wiped clean of makeup. She was wearing a pair of nondescript boyfriend jeans and a washed-out gray hoodie that had a small hole under the arm. And her purple hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, making it impossible for him to grip the small hairs and the base of her neck. Yeah, she was dressed to meet Arnie.

She’d also timed it so that he was to arrive thirty minutes before Lia was due home at the end of her shift. Close enough that if he got any stupid ideas . . . well, she couldn’t think about that.

Deliberately ignoring the buzzer, she headed for the elevator. He’d be pissed she didn’t let him up, but then so was she to be giving him a thousand dollars of her hard-earned money. Money she’d been saving; money she didn’t want to part with.

The elevator pinged open and Arnie stood by the buzzer, pressing it furiously. When he saw her, he jerked away from the panel. “I thought I told you,” he hissed under his breath, “that you will never bar me from your apartment again.”

“And I know I told you, it would be a cold day in hell before I let you into my home. This is the last of it,” she lied, focusing on keeping her face neutral and her stance firm. She jammed the envelope into his hand. “I’m not giving you anymore.”

“I think you’re missing the point,
Sarah
. This isn’t about you giving me everything you have. It’s about you getting me everything I want. You can go to your TV-star boss or your rock-star boyfriend, I don’t give a shit which you choose. But you
will
get me more money, or
this
”—he pulled something from his back pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper—“will make it into the wrong hands.”

Pixie opened it and gasped in shock. Brewster lay on the floor, a giant red stain covering the lower part of his shirt. Right where she’d stabbed him the night she found out her stepdad planned to sell her virginity to the highest bidder. Tears filled her eyes as she took in the look on her own face. The look of abject shock, the absence of any color in her cheeks, and the way the knife hung loosely by her side made her want to weep for the young girl she clearly was. In all her recollections of that night, she always imagined herself as she was now. A grown-up. It shocked her to see how very young she had been when it all happened. The paper shook in her hands.

With a voice that sounded incrementally stronger than she actually felt, Pixie said, “No. I’m done with the threats. You can’t keep taking money from me because of this. I might have been the one holding the knife, but you might as well have been the one to kill him. You took this photograph. If I am in trouble, you are. So take the money, and get the fuck out of my life.”

Arnie laughed and dramatically bent forward resting his hands on his knees. “Good one, Sarah-Jane. Holy fuck, you almost had me believing that little speech.” He stood up straight, pretended to wipe tears from his eyes, then narrowed his eyes menacingly. “You can’t prove I took this photograph. You can’t even prove I was there. Let’s play a little Russian roulette, shall we? Monday next week, you’ll give me another thousand dollars, or the police will receive that photograph.” He leaned toward her and breathed deeply as he ran his nose against her neck. “God, you smell good, Sarah-Jane. See you on Monday.”

Pixie stood paralyzed, unable to gather her thoughts. The way his nose had rubbed against her skin made her feel sick. The sight of the knife in her hand, proof that she killed a man, made her so lightheaded, she reached out to the wall for support.

She needed some time. Some peace. Something that would take away the stress and panic while she decided what to do.

Drugs had done that for her once, and she couldn’t possibly . . .

It would only be this once, right?

She knew how to control it now. She knew which drugs were easier to quit. There had been no drugs in her system for so many years, it would only take a small dose to grind the edge off.

It was a good idea.

Pixie snapped back into the moment and shook her head furiously.
No.
There was no way she was going back to that.

The elevator opened and a couple of neighbors got out. Pixie jumped in and focused on getting back to the apartment. Folding the paper as she walked, she headed for her bedroom where she hid the photograph in the back of one of her pattern books.

Then Pixie reached for her phone and dialed a number she hadn’t had reason to call in a while.

“Hello.” The sound of Justin’s deep voice took her back to a place she didn’t really want to be, despite the fact he was the third part of the Trent and Cujo triumvirate who had saved her.

“Justin, it’s Sarah-Jane.” Justin was the only person who ever called her that. Even when she had wanted to escape it and simply be Pixie, he’d challenged her to not let her past take control of who she was.