The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (5 page)

“When you’re feeling better,” she said with a shy smile that made his fucking year.

She could hear hammering at the door. The police must have found her. Blood ran down the underside of her wrist, hitting the brown shag carpet. Pixie panicked. It wasn’t her fault. He’d hurt her and the fishing knife he’d used earlier to gut fish was within reach.

The loud knocking sounded again. “Pix, I know you’re in there.”

They’d come for her, and she was going to go to prison for a long time.

“Pix.” The voice grew louder. And the police were calling her Pix, not Sarah-Jane.

She sat up in bed with a jolt. Drenched in sweat, she looked at the clock. It was ten in the morning. She coughed hard. Three hours sleep was not enough to function, but her nose was so congested, she couldn’t breathe lying down.

She pushed her hair off her face and grabbed the bottle of water from the bedside table. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the cap.

Someone hammered on the door. For real this time.

“Pix. Open up.” Dred was outside the condo.

The mirror was brutally unforgiving. Bed-shaped hair and an oversized T-shirt were so far away from sexy it was tragic.

Pixie hurried to the door and peered through the peephole.
Oh God.
He was standing there in dark jeans and a black T-shirt that highlighted his pecs. The anchor he wore was visible. In his hands were the most spectacular dark flowers she’d ever seen.

“I saw the peephole go dark, gorgeous,” he growled, his voice still rough. “You going to let me in, or make me stand out in the hallway like an idiot?”

Pixie opened the door. “Come in,” she said hoarsely.

“Oh no, Pix.” Dred placed the flowers and a small bag down and put his hands on her shoulders. “I gave you this, didn’t I?”

She let go of the door. It was hard to deny the obvious. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Seeing him chased the frigid edges of the nightmare away.

“No, it’s not fine. I showed up at the studio to give you these.” He tilted his head in the direction of the flowers. “But Lia told me you had a crap night.”

Seeing him like this in her home made the last few days seem very real. Kissing Dred at the concert was fantastical, a sublime moment in the otherwise mundane existence she’d deliberately built for herself. Now it was just plain surreal. He was so big he filled the hallway, yet she felt safe.

“I was asleep when you knocked. Can I get you something?”

“Are you kidding me? No. Come, sit, and show me where everything is so I can make you something. Here”—he grabbed the flowers and the bag—“these are for you.”

Pixie tried to smell the flowers, but couldn’t. “I’m sure they smell great,” she said with a sniff.

She led him to the kitchen, picking up a vase from the living room on the way.

“I love your place,” Dred said looking around.

“It’s Lia’s. I rent a room here.”

He pulled out a stool at the counter. “Sit. Scissors, where are they?”

“Top drawer.” She nodded across the kitchen. He retrieved them and took the vase, filling it with water, before he placed it and the scissors in front of her.

“I can whistle up a scramblette.” Dred opened the fridge.

“A scramblette?” Pixie started to cut the ends of the flowers and placed them into the vase.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, closing the door to look at her again. “Back in the home, I used to try to make omelettes, but somewhere along the way, I always fucked it up. The guys used to call it a scramblette, and it stuck.”

Despite how shitty she felt, Pixie laughed. “A scramblette sounds perfect.”

They worked alongside each other. Pixie cut all the long stems and arranged the flowers in the vase and bit back a smile as Dred desecrated the kitchen.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked.

Dred turned to face her, wooden spoon in hand. Perhaps it was the way his stark head-to-toe black made a shocking contrast to the pale green kitchen counters and black-and-white checkerboard tiled floor, or maybe it was the way he dwarfed the pink and chrome table and chairs, but Pixie let out a laugh.

“What?” Dred asked, confusion marking his features.

“This,” Pixie spluttered, waving her hand between the two of them. “It’s a bit . . .”

Dred smiled at her, flipped the gas off, and paced toward her. “A bit what?”

“Bizzaro. Strange. You making me breakfast, while I look like death. Here. In a condo that was paid for with the proceeds from the sale of a Jackson Pollock. It seems too strange to be real.”

Dred leaned onto the opposite side of the vintage breakfast bar Lia had picked up from an old-school diner. “Just because it’s strange, doesn’t mean it can’t be perfect.”

He reached for the brown bag and pulled out a square wooden object and a small book the size of a single-picture photo album. “Trent told me how crafty you are, so I bought you something practical too.”

Pixie took them from him. It was a wooden flower press. And the book was obviously an album for putting the pressed flowers into. Heavy cardstock and velum. The thoughtfulness of the gift moved her.

“This is beautiful, thank you.”

Dred ran his fingers over the back of her hand, the calluses on his fingertips rough against her skin. “You’re welcome.”

After breakfast was devoured, Dred set up blankets and pillows on the sofa. When Pixie made a move to curl up at the opposite end to Dred, unwilling to risk passing the cold back to him, he simply pulled her toward him until she was lying down with her head on a pillow on his lap.

For all the bright sunlight coming in through the windows, and the fresh air blowing in off Biscayne Bay through the balcony doors, the condo felt cozy. Dred stroked his fingers through her hair, the effect altogether soothing, and a little exciting.

“I’m glad I stayed an extra day,” he said after their third movie.

“You’d likely be healthier if you’d gone home.”

“Really, Pix? Actually, wait a minute. What’s your real name?”

Pixie wasn’t sure what to say. Bringing who she once was into the conversation tainted the potential of where the conversation was going.

“It’s not a trick question, Pix. I escaped too, and I don’t like to talk about it either.”

Pixie sighed. She’d always struggled to talk about what happened, even in rehab, and revealing her real name was an acknowledgment she had something to hide, something she wasn’t ready to talk to Dred about. She didn’t want to go back to that place and be that young girl, too scared to reveal what was going on at home, yet she realized that all those years later, that was exactly what she was still doing.

Dred looked at his phone. “Shit. I gotta go. My flight leaves in a couple of hours and I gotta pack.”

Pixie sat up and stretched. “Thank you for coming to see me.”

Dred gripped her chin. His gaze was fixed on her, the look in his eyes turned her insides to mush. “You still owe me a date,” he said quietly.

His mouth lowered toward hers, but Pixie put a hand to Dred’s chest. “Wait. You’ll get sick again.”

“Arguably I am still sick, but I’ll take my chances, gorgeous.”

His lips, soft and warm, crushed hers, and she felt the kiss to the very tips of her toes. His hands gripped the sides of her face and slid into her hair. Pixie felt as though she were swimming in a fierce riptide; just when she found her feet, he took her under again.

Dred stood and stepped away, his breathing as heavy as hers. “Come see me in Toronto, Pix. Please.”

It felt foolish and reckless to agree. It was the last thing she needed. Even the kiss had pushed her close to an edge she was scared of. He had the power to hurt her, and if she were in Canada, she’d have no easy means of escape. But then she looked into his eyes, and the pulsating fear halted.

“When?” she asked.

* * *

The downside of changing flights at the last minute was summed up perfectly in his seat assignment. A middle seat in economy. To his left was a douchebag who clearly believed aftershave would mask the fact he hadn’t showered for a week. The strong fragrance was giving Dred a monster headache. To his right, an admittedly hot-looking cougar was giving him the come-on. Once upon a time, he might have suggested a quick trip to the bathroom, mile-high club and all that. But his mind was on Pixie.

The way her lips had felt against his was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced. She was so not his type. His phone was full of numbers belonging to supermodels and the occasional Playmate. Yet when her petite-frame had pressed up against his, he had the compelling urge to pick her up and press her against the wall. She’d be as light as a feather. And he’d bet money she was flexible. His cock started to stiffen at the thought of her, legs wide open for him.

The plane landed, the sudden jolt stopping his stray thoughts.

He disembarked, thankful to escape his seatmates, and walked to the taxi stand, wishing he’d had the foresight to hire a limo. One of the things he loved most about Toronto was how, for the most part, people left him alone to get on with his business. In L.A. they were hounded by paparazzi as soon as they set foot in the airport terminal, but nobody had bothered him today. Traffic on the 427 and Gardiner Expressway cooperated, and he arrived home forty minutes later.

Dred dropped his bags in his room, grabbed his lyrics notebook, and went to the kitchen for some hot water. The dry air on the plane had aggravated his throat. He followed the low rumble of music coming from the recording studio in the basement. The soundproofing had cost them a small fortune, but it meant they could record individually or as a band whenever the mood struck, without worrying about their neighbors.

The music stopped as Dred approached and pushed the soundproof doors open.

“Yo, yo.” Lennon called out from behind his session kit.

Dred lifted his favorite Fender Stratocaster off the rack. The black and white Eric Clapton Signature model would play the perfect kind of tones he was in the mood for. “You guys making good progress?”

He sat down on his usual stool, placing the notebook on the small table next to it.

“Yeah.” Elliott jumped in. “What about you? Did you make
good progress
?”

Lennon sounded the classic bah-dum-dum on the drums.

Dred rolled his eyes as Elliott laughed. “Pix is coming to visit in a week or so.”

“No shit. That’s . . . unusual,” Jordan said.

“Yeah, it is,” Dred replied.

He wondered if he was being unfair to Pixie. The more time he spent with her, the more he found to like. So naturally caring, and surprisingly funny. But the timing was off. Hell, the timing might never be right. He had no intention of taking his foot off the career gas until he was at least thirty-five. At some point, he’d move into the place he owned, an incredible Rosedale home that looked over the ravine. Not until Jordan could deal, naturally. And Pixie lived in Miami, the most impractical place for someone like him who split his time between L.A. and Toronto. Oh, and someone who also filmed a reality TV show eight weeks a year. And toured.
What the fuck am I thinking?

He wondered if he should call her and bail on their plans, give her some reason about last-minute gigs. Given the logistical nightmare that surrounded them, it might be better to call it quits before he was even more into her. The idea eviscerated his insides.

“You want to talk about it?” Nikan asked.

Dred shook his head. “What the fuck is this, therapy?”

“Well, if that’s a no, maybe we should show you what we’ve been working on today.” Nikan hoisted his guitar back over his shoulder.

On Lennon’s count, the guitars came in. The sound was dense, the notes tight. The fuzzy distortion of Jordan’s base an anchor to Nikan’s aggressive slides.

It was different from their usual style, arguably heading toward heavy rock instead of true metal. He liked it. A lot. But he wondered what the record label would think. Not that he’d change anything about the sound his brothers had created. Fuck that. They’d always agreed the music would come first, the deal second. They’d need Sam to sell it though.

Lyrics started to filter through his head, and he mumbled along to the chorus. He’d been waiting for the right music to go with some lyrics he’d been holding onto for years. He grabbed his notebook. Every time he got a new notebook, he transcribed those lyrics to the front.

Reading them, he was taken back to the night his mom had overdosed in front of him. He still didn’t get how a woman smart enough to name him after a Tolkien prince was so fucking stupid she OD’d on heroin. Without access to a phone, he’d run out to the street and yelled for help. Six hours later, he’d been taken to his first emergency care foster home.

The ideas from the notebook started to fall into place like lyrical Tetris. Feelings from back then wrapped around him, squeezing him like a vise. He felt suffocated. Choked. Cold. His hands shook at the idea of putting something so deeply personal out there. Jordan would understand, having gone through the same process when he gave them the lyrics for “Dog Boy.” It was simply one more thing to survive.

This was why he needed to focus on his career. He could never go back to that place where there wasn’t enough food or a safe place to sleep. Where he was taken away from his mom, only for her to carry on as if nothing had happened when he was returned to her. She had never seemed overly happy to have him back. Numerous were the nights he’d lain in the spare room of a stranger’s home, wondering if they would hurt him if he fell asleep, or if he’d ever see his mom again.

He glanced at the lyrics, cursing them because they were the reason he couldn’t allow Pixie to distract him from his path, no matter how desperately he wanted her to.

* * *

“What about this?”

Pixie finished blowing her nose and looked over to the brightly colored silk Lia held up to the window. The color changed from a warm red to a vibrant orange in the light. It was beautiful, but not quite what she was looking for. This fabric store ticked all of the boxes on her thrifty shopper checklist. Great selection and reasonable prices, especially on smaller pieces from the end of rolls, which was great because she rarely needed large pieces of fabric.