The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (8 page)

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 ways 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.

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.