The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (9 page)

“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.

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?”

“Fuck, yes. Of course. The band . . . they’re my brothers in every way that matters.” Dred cupped her cheeks and studied her intently. “Nothing will happen to you. You have my word.”

Memories of sitting on that damn stool flooded her. Arnie had planned to go fishing with two friends, but first he’d invited the men she didn’t know into the trailer. They’d stood laughing as he exposed her to them and then calmly braided her long hair. Yeah. Was it any wonder she’d needed drugs to get through it?

Pixie shook the memories away. “Don’t let me down.”

Dred kissed the inside of her wrist. Unexpected, yet heartbreakingly appropriate.

“Never,” he said with a grin. “I’d love to take you on a full tour, but we don’t have time. We have reservations in an hour and a half.”

He grabbed her case and led her upstairs. The house seemed to split on the upper floors almost like an apartment building. Each door had a lock, but they were mostly open.

“This is Elliot and Lennon’s floor,” Dred said walking toward the second flight of stairs. “Nikan is over there,” he said, pointing to a door on the right as they reached the landing. “Jordan has the attic, and I am right here.”

He pushed open the door to what looked like a spacious bachelor apartment and placed her case on a large bed. A brown sofa sat in the large bay window with a small coffee table in front of it. Several guitars hung from hooks on the wall, and an electronic piano sat beneath them. Cables ran from the keyboard to a laptop on a black desk, where speakers and what looked like a mixing board where almost hidden by piles of sheet music.

It looked like a super high-end dorm and didn’t really match Dred at all. He seemed too big, too uncomfortable in the space, even though it was his room.

“Fuck. This was a bad idea,” Dred mumbled as she looked around.

She turned to face him, but the look on his face stole the words from her mouth. He looked wrecked. Broken.

“There’s a bathroom through there. We need to leave in an hour. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Without waiting for an answer, he left the room and slammed the door behind him, taking Pixie’s feelings of safety with him.

* * *

Watching a deflated Pixie push
Tabülè
around her plate, Dred was fully aware it was his fault.

Despite his best intentions, seeing her in his room buried any ideas he had about their future. At least for the time being. How could he expect her to fly all this way to see him to stay in a bedroom in a shared house? Granted, the architect who’d worked on the conversion for them had ensured every individual space was at least a thousand square feet, but still. He had roommates. And for the first time, it seemed really fucking weird.

He’d never leave Jordan. There was no way Jordan would ever feel alone again, and if that meant living with the dude until they were old and gray, so be it. But how on earth could he explain that to Pixie? What words could possibly express the bond they had?

This was why he avoided relationships. Or at least that was what he’d told himself over the years. Staring at Pixie as she reached for her wine glass, he realized the reason was a whole lot more complex than that. He honestly didn’t feel like he was worthy of her. She was so fucking special, and he gave her a bedroom in a shared house.

Tabülè, the Middle Eastern restaurant on Queen Street was one of his favorites. Everything from the ma’anek, the spicy Lebanese sausages, to the tawük, skewers of seasoned chicken, was so good, he always ordered way more than he could eat, yet neither of them was enjoying the food.

Fuck.
He pulled on his anchor until the clasp at the back cut into his neck.

“I’m sorry, Pix.”

She looked over to him, her hazel eyes wide yet lacking their usual sparkle. In that off-the-shoulder top, all he could think about was nibbling his way along her collarbone.

“What happened? Why did you get mad?” Pixie put her knife and fork down.

“Because I do sometimes. Walking away to cool down is better than destroying what’s in front of me. I was disappointed.” Crushingly so. Because impressing Pixie seemed more than important. It was crucial. And less than two kilometers away, north of Bloor, he owned his dream home. Yet the Bay Street CFO he currently rented it to was living
his
own perfect family life in it.

“Why were you disappointed?”

“I wanted you to enjoy being here with me, in the hope I could convince you to come here again. Instead, I take you to the grown-man equivalent of a frat house. A fucking expensive, twelve-thousand-square-foot building that always felt like home until you were in it. Then I wanted to be somewhere else with you. And that’s fucking selfish.”

Dred sighed. They should call it a night, maybe order pizza.

She held his hands. “Something really bad happened, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“To you?”

“To all of us.”

Pixie nodded. “Do you still want me here?”

“Yes. But if I had half a brain, I’d put you on the next flight home.” He attempted a smile.

“Well.” Pixie made some weird gesture with her hands, like she was opening a magazine. “This is an invisible worry box. All those things on your mind, put them in there.”

“Pix, I’m not—”

“Now. Please.” Pixie sat a little straighter, head tilted, and pierced him with her glare.

Dred rolled his eyes, and pretended to place his worries in the box. Jordan. Not being enough for her. The house. Not being worthy of her. His mom. Not being worth loving. It was dumb, foolish even. But remarkably, he felt calmer. And he hadn’t needed his anchor.

“All done?” asked Pixie.

“Yes.” He watched as she made a show of closing the lid and tying a bow around the box.

“Now,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m Sarah, but you can call me Pixie.” She held her hand out.

He shook it, then kissed the back of it. She’d told him her real name, and he remembered from his time at her apartment in Miami that it was something she really hadn’t wanted to share. The idea she would pick now to tell him ignited a flicker of hope in his chest. A deep burning that told him he hadn’t totally blown it. “I’m Theodred, but you can call me Dred.”

Pixie smiled at him, and the flicker turned into an inferno. But for the first time he could remember, the slow grind of anger that hummed under his skin wasn’t there. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm.

They ate the rest of their dinner, and enjoyed künafa ashta
with its sweet custard and pastry layers for dessert.

“Oh my goodness, I feel so full,” Pixie exclaimed as they left the restaurant.

Dred put his credit card away and flagged a taxi. He took her across town to the Roof Lounge at the Park Hyatt so she could see the city, not that they’d be able to stay out on the tiny terrace for long because it was too cold to enjoy it.

“Lennon owns a condo a couple of minutes’ walk over there on Bloor Street.” He pointed west as they pulled up and a bellman rushed to open the door. “It used to be the Bedford Ballroom. He says he lost his virginity in the washroom over a decade ago so it has sentimental value.”

Dred paid the driver and they headed up to the eighteenth floor. Once there, he took Pixie’s hand, leading her straight through the small bar and to a door on the opposite wall.

“Wow.” Pixie walked over to the railing and looked out over the city.

Yeah
. He felt the same way every time he came up here. He stood behind her, and pulled her into his arms.

“So, that’s the CN Tower. It was the world’s tallest tower for thirty-four years, right? I read that on Wikipedia.”

“Something like that. And there’s the SkyDome where the Blue Jays play. It’s named after some corporate sponsor now, but it’s still the SkyDome to me.”

He remembered the Christmas when Maisey bought them all tickets to go watch a game the following July. It had been a beautiful summer day. The roof was wide open, and there was a slight breeze blowing in off Lake Ontario. One of the rare and perfect days of his childhood.

“In the taxi, you mentioned that Lennon owns a penthouse close to here. Why does he not live in it?”

Pixie turned and leaned against the railing. Wind flipped her hair across her face. He pushed it out of the way and kissed her lips.