The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (14 page)

They pulled up outside the Mercer Hotel in the Gothic Quarter. It was his favorite hotel to stay at in the city. All exposed stone walls combined with glass and chrome. It was inviting yet sparse, so suited Jordan perfectly.

Their bags had been taken straight to the hotel when they’d landed so it was a simple matter to collect their keys.

Once in his room, Dred headed straight for the shower. Rehearsal had gotten him all sweaty and tense. Things ran smoother when they had their own crew, but drop-in gigs like this rarely called for that kind of support. The hot water pounded down on him, releasing the tension he was carrying in his neck as he scrubbed himself clean.

Petal, Pixie, the gig, the album. Giving Amanda the ten thousand dollars may not have been the smartest move, but he wanted her out of that shit-hole of an apartment.
No
. He wanted
Petal
out of that shit-hole of an apartment. Before he’d left his daughter that day, he’d laid Petal back into her bassinet and then turned on Amanda. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to not tear the place apart, but one whimper from his daughter had him reining it in tight. What burned more than anything was that she’d deliberately messed with the condom to get a better life for herself, without a single thought about the child they’d create.

He’d spent Thursday talking to Petal’s social worker and, with Sam’s help, a lawyer who specialized in custody cases. Up until she’d spilled her secret to him, he’d assumed they’d been unlucky. That the baby was as much of a shock to
her
as it was to him. He was willing to man up, do the right thing, and buy them a fucking house on the Bridal Path, the multimillion-dollar community in the north end of the city, if that’s what she’d wanted. Now, he was convinced Amanda didn’t deserve a dime.

Everything he gave them was going to go in Petal’s name. If he bought them a house, it was going to be in his and Petal’s name. He’d pay for all her needs directly. Amanda would get a minimal allowance for herself. His daughter would want for nothing, but the conniving bitch who’d set them both up wouldn’t get anything of her own.

Then there was the photograph from the airport of him kissing Pixie like their lives depended on it. Some cheap-shot blogger had bought it from a fan. Pixie had taken it like a trooper, but they’d not had a chance to discuss it properly. Building a long-distance relationship was proving harder than he imagined. Nothing ever seemed to align for them. Between her shifts and his crazy schedule, they were limited to snatched conversations and text messages. It had crossed his mind that his pursuit of her was selfish, but the idea of stopping sucked.

At some point, he was going to have to tell her about Petal, but it was still too raw and new. And Pixie deserved the courtesy of having that conversation face-to-face, where he could hold her hand, pull her close, and reassure her that it didn’t change the way he was beginning to feel about her.

He flicked the shower off and grabbed a towel. After vigorously drying off, he left the bathroom naked. It was one of the main reasons he wanted to get his own place, to have the freedom to not wear clothes if he didn’t have to. Sure, the guys had few inhibitions around each other. Living in such close quarters, whether it was in the group home, on a tour bus, or in their homes in L.A. and Toronto, there wasn’t much they hadn’t seen of each other. Dred wanted a place of his own, to explore who he was as an individual, rather than a permanent part of a collective. And he wanted to be able to have sex anywhere he wanted, whenever he wanted it.

When Pixie had told him she was a virgin, he’d almost choked. His tastes ran a little darker than average. He loved sex. Used it to take the edge off life. Used it to get inspired. He liked both ends of the spectrum, sexy and sweet versus dark and dirty. Right now he needed dark. Rough. Something to work out the tension the shower hadn’t lifted.

Two in the afternoon. It would only be, what, eight, in Miami. He prayed Pixie was on the later shift.

He grabbed his phone and video-called her.

“Hey,” she croaked, patting the bedding down around her, her head resting on the pillow.

“Hey, gorgeous. Move that sheet, I want to see what you are wearing.” He prayed for naked, but knowing Pixie, she wouldn’t be.

When she did as he said, he smiled. She wore a thin purple tank. He could see her nipple straining against the fabric.
Who gave a fuck about breast size with nipples as responsive as that?
On her bottom, she wore lose pants in purple and white polka dot.

Nothing about the outfit was sexy, yet he wished he were there with her all the same.

“Boring,” she said.

“Beautiful,” he replied. “I wanna play, Pix. Can we?”

“Is this a booty call?” she asked, her eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Oh, gorgeous. I want much more than your booty. I was thinking about our time together in Toronto while I was rehearsing today.”

He reached his free hand around his cock. Pulled slow and tight, out of sight of the video.

“Me too. What were you thinking about?”

He wanted desperately to be himself with her. To not try to hide the sexual part of himself. “If I answer that honestly, Snowflake, I might freak you out.”

Pixie smiled and looked up at him through those perfect eyelashes. “Try me. Rule three. I won’t break.”

Dred ignored the nervous flip of excitement. “Well, I was standing there thinking about how my fingers smelled after I got you off. And how they would have tasted if you’d let me slide them deep inside you. Scissoring them as I pulled them in and out of you. I want that. Don’t you?”

“I . . . erm.”

“Play with me, Pix. Please. Don’t you? I am fucking hard from the want of you, and if you’re ready, I want you to get me off. I want you to touch yourself. I want this conversation to get you as turned on right now as I am. Play with me, Snowflake. I’m all yours.”

All yours.
The words had all but spilled out.

“On the plane home, I wondered what it would have been like to unzip your jeans,” she said.

Fuck.
She was going to play. And for all the dark he craved, her sweetness turned him on even more.

“Did you think about how I’d look, when I was hard? What you would do with me?”

Pixie took a deep breath. “I’d take you in my hand and stroke you. Get the feel of you.”

“Do you want me to touch myself now for you?”

“Would you?”

“You have no idea the things I would do for you. Talk to me, Snowflake.”

“I’d suck on you, I think. Put you in my mouth.”

Dred shivered. It wasn’t the most erotic line he’d ever heard, but from his virgin, it was the sexiest fucking thing. Ever.

“What would I taste like?”

“Hmm . . . salty, maybe. I’d lick the very tip for a taste.” Pixie turned and buried her head in the pillow then looked back. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“I can imagine the inside of your mouth. It’s tight and wet. Warm. You’re on your knees in front of me. We’re at a cabin by the lake. Outside. And those perfect lips of yours are sucking me off.”

Perhaps it was overwhelming need, but Pixie placed her hand between her legs. When she realized what she’d done, she removed it quickly.

“No. Put it back. Do what feels natural, Pix. Wanna see what feels natural for me?”

“No.” There was too much certainty in her words to push her, even though he knew he could. He kept his phone focused on his face.

Tentatively, she put her hand back between her legs, and rocked against the side of her palm. A steady rocking to find the edge. The edge he was about to fall over. He moved his hand faster along his cock, searching for the telltale tightening.

“I want you to sit on my face and show me how you get off. And when you are good, and wet, and still riding your first orgasm, I want you to move those delicious hips of yours until you are sitting over my cock. Then you can lower yourself on to me, fast or slow . . . because I’m taking you at least twice . . . so it really doesn’t matter to me which we do first.”

Pixie’s mouth opened and she gasped for breath. Her eyes tightened, her body spasmed. It was the most perfect orgasm he’d ever seen. At the sight of it, he let go and joined her.

I had phone sex and liked it.

Pixie grinned to herself as she locked her bike up against the fence behind Second Circle. She’d been scared when Dred had offered to show her how he was touching himself. Having been forced to sit through hours of pornographic films, the thought of watching Dred on video had caused her to want to yell “Stop!” But he’d listened to her, and stopped the movement of the phone toward . . . She shivered at the thought. Since he’d told her to think about his . . . well . . . she couldn’t stop herself.

It was thirty minutes before opening, but loud music was already playing. Metal really wasn’t her thing, but the guys loved it. She stepped into the studio where Cujo was singing along to whatever was playing.

“Figured I’d put lover-boy on for you,” he shouted when he saw her.

Pixie turned the dial, reducing the volume. Ask her who was the better
Evita
,
Madonna or Elaine Paige, and she’d be able to write an essay on the subject. When it came to metal, she had no clue what constituted good, but this sounded better than most of the stuff they played.

Cujo’s phone stood in the docking station, Dred’s face staring back at her from the album cover. It was a weird sensation.

“When are you guys seeing each other next?” Cujo asked.

Not soon enough.
They’d made tentative plans on the phone the previous day. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of their call. “Dred’s in Barcelona. Flying back to Toronto today. It’ll be at least another couple of weeks. He has a show in Brazil coming up, too.”

Cujo walked to the cupboard and pulled the door open. Usually it stuck and needed a good yank, but for some reason today it didn’t. Inks and supplies flew out of the cupboard hitting the floor. A few popped open, sending random lines of ink across the floor.

“Shit,” Cujo called out, looking down at the yellow ink splattered across his jeans.

Pixie let out a giggle, and he eyed her dangerously. “Need some help there? You go get cleaned up, I’ll deal with the cupboard and floor.”

“Thanks, Pix.”

She started by gathering up the bottles that were unaffected, and after stepping carefully through the mess, she put them back on the shelves. After dealing with everything that was salvageable, she grabbed a pair of gloves and wiped up as much of the ink as she could. The floor would need a good wash. Once the worst of the ink was wiped up, she gathered the paper towels she’d used and walked them straight outside to the garbage. She dropped them into the Dumpster and removed the latex gloves, throwing them into it too before she closed the lid.

“Hello, Pixie.” Arnie’s voice washed over her and around her as he walked down the alley toward her. Her stomach tightened.

“What do you want?” she asked as she turned to face him.

“I don’t like the way things ended last night, Pixie. I can call you Pixie, right? That’s what your friends call you.”

Hearing the affectionate name Cujo had given her all those years ago from the man who’d nearly ruined her life sullied one of the few things that were important to her. “No, you can’t,” she said, with more bravery than she actually felt. “I’d rather you didn’t call me anything at all.”

Arnie laughed and rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Well, too bad,
Pix,
” he said, popping the
p
and practically hissing the
x
.

“Leave me alone. These head games of yours are ridiculous.” She looked back toward the rear door. Cujo would come looking for her if she didn’t reappear soon. And who else was on shift? Why couldn’t she think straight? If it was Trent, he’d come park back here. Lia and Eric would use the front door. She didn’t want anybody else to witness this.

“I want money.”

“
Money?
”

“Of course money. Unless you want to pay me in other ways.” His eyes coursed down her body lasciviously. Down the body he’d said wasn’t good enough to fuck. The body that he claimed had breasts the size of walnuts. He licked his lips and looked back at her face, and the urge to vomit grew stronger.

“I don’t have any to give you,” she lied. Her children’s clothing business was her dream, and there was no way he was going to take that away from her.

“You really thought it was going to be that easy? That I’d take a fifty dollar bill, like a scrap thrown under the table to a dog, and disappear?” Arnie laughed. “Look around you, Sarah-Jane. You live in a great condo. You work for a TV star. You have a rock star boyfriend. You can do better than a miserable fifty.”

“I’m not paying you money.” There had to be a line. Maybe the time had come to face up to the consequences of what she had done. Surely she could give permission to the addiction center, and her counsellors to reveal what she had shared with them all those years ago as part of her therapy.

Arnie walked toward her. Every step he took closer, she backed away until she was slammed up against the Dumpster.

“I’ll be back next week, Sarah-Jane.” He reached for her hair, those fat fingers pawing it like he used to. “Why don’t we say five hundred this time for good measure?”

“No, Arnie, I won’t—”

He grabbed her hair, pulling her head hard to the side. “You’ll do as I fucking say, or I’ll show your boyfriend the photos, and he’s not going to want to be anywhere near you once he sees how you used to be.”

“Pix.” Cujo’s voice called out in the shop. Arnie stepped away quickly, leaving Pix shaken. The door opened and Cujo stuck his head outside. “Everything okay, Pix?” he asked stepping up alongside her.

“Yeah,” Arnie answered with a smile. “Asking about your shop. I’m in the market for a new tattoo.”

Cujo slid an arm over her shoulders and tucked her in against him. “Anything I can help with?”

“Was enquiring how much it would set me back. Seems like more money than I can afford right now, but I’m coming into some next week, so maybe I’ll be back.”

“Yeah, you do that.” Cujo led her back into the shop. “You okay, Pix? That guy seemed a bit of an asshole.”

A bit of an asshole.
Serious understatement of the year.

* * *

“What do you mean I can’t see her?”

Dred paced the plush blue carpet of the fancy law office situated at the corner of York and Adelaide. His bespectacled lawyer, Jean Szalavitz, came highly recommended as one of the best family lawyers in the city, but right now that wasn’t proving to be true.

“Miss Veitch, as primary caregiver, mother of the child, and still breastfeeding—”

“Allegedly,” he added.

“Agreed. Allegedly. But unfortunately, this all means it is very hard to convince the courts that the baby should be out of her care for prolonged periods of time. She is attending an out-patient drug rehabilitation program, has frequent appointments with both the child’s pediatrician and social worker.”

“But why can’t I go and see her?”

“Because she used the money you gave her to move to a new location, and has instructed her lawyer that all communication is to go through him.”

“So she’s hiding Petal from me?”

“Technically, no, but effectively, yes. She has filed for full custody. Pieces of your past are public record, and the fact you live in a house full of men may not be seen as the best place to raise a little girl. Especially while the baby is so young and dependent on the mother, it would be very hard to convince a judge that the baby would be best placed elsewhere.”

“But my child was born addicted to fucking opiates. Hardly the calling card of a sane and capable mother.”

“Theodred, there is no doubt in my mind you will get some kind of access. The Canadian legal system tries to respect a father’s rights. And I will start the legal proceedings today to get you that access right away. But for now, we’ll have to communicate through her lawyer. As tempting as it might be to attempt to find her and confront her, I strongly suggest you do not.”

Unable to stomach much more, Dred wrapped up the conversation and stepped outside the law office. Sometimes the law protected the rights of the wrong people. He walked the four kilometers home. Spring had finally started to show its face, although right now he’d much prefer an ice storm, one that would match his mood, dangerous and frigid. Dred slammed the front door so hard, the glass around it rattled.

He took his coat off in the mudroom and hung it on his hook.
Fuck.
The lawyer was right. He was a grown man and he had a fucking coat hook, like a cubby for kindergarteners in day care. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? He could easily give the family living in his Rosedale home their notice and make plans to move in there. But what would happen to Jordan? Perhaps for now, the rest of the guys could remain at the house with him until all the legal mess was taken care of.

Voices filtered through from the living room. Nikan was angry, which was rare. The paternalistic peacekeeper was the last to lose his cool. Dred wandered through into the living room. Lennon sat on the floor next to the fire. Jordan and Elliot shared the sofa. Sam sat in an armchair, and Nikan was tapping his index finger against the center of his forehead. A sure sign he was pissed off.

“You’re late,” Sam said, his voice laced with frustration. “I don’t ask for much. Just that you turn up on time for team meetings.”

“Fuck you, Sam. If you put the meeting in the calendar for the same time each week, it wouldn’t be so hard to keep track.”

“How did it go?” Jordan asked.

“Don’t ask,” he said, taking the chair across from Sam. “I walked back, needed some space.”

“Where were you?” Sam asked.

“With a lawyer. About Petal.”

Sam leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms on his knees. “You have enough money to make all this go away.”

Lennon jumped to his feet. “Go away?
Go. Away.
That’s his fucking kid you are talking about, you heartless bastard.”

Sam stood. “What? You think coming to live with you guys like the Waltons—all good-night Jim Bob—will be the right thing for a baby?”

It hit a raw nerve. Everything the lawyer said about his living arrangements was true. To do the right thing for Petal, perhaps even for him and Pixie, was to move into his own home, but how could he do that? He looked across at Jordan then back to Sam. “It’s better than living with a junkie of a mother, I should fucking know!” Dred shouted.

The room dropped silent, the audible equivalent of a mic drop.

Dred forced his breathing back under control. For a moment, he wished Pixie was standing by his side. She had the ability to calm him when he was this wound up. He thought back to Sam finding her in his hotel room. He’d been furious then too, but her hand on his chest had sucked the anger from his as surely as if he’d been connected to a drain.

Everyone slowly but surely returned to their seats. Nikan walked by, squeezed his shoulder, and sat down on the arm of Dred’s chair.

“Why don’t you let me take care of this for you?” Sam offered, his tone reconciliatory. “I can deal with the lawyers. Leave you to focus on the album.”

Dred sat down again. “No thanks, Sam. You take care of my professional life, and I’ll take care of my personal one. What were you guys arguing about when I came in?”

“He wants to add dates to the start of the European leg of the tour,” Nikan said, looking into the fire. “We’ll still be finishing the album. The new tracks won’t be practiced or arranged to play live. We want to add the dates to the end of the tour.”

“Makes sense. So what’s the problem with that, Sam? Because you keep piling all this shit on us, one of us is going to lose it.”

“Fine.” Sam dramatically wiped his hands. “I am done with this conversation. You don’t want to accommodate the label’s wishes, I’ll let them know. But one of these days, you’ll be replaced by someone who is willing and
able
”—he looked at each of them for a moment—“to do what they want. I’m trying my very best for you guys, yet you never respect that.”

“Sam,” Nikan said, his temper cooled and his peacemaker tone very much evident. “Of course we respect you. But the asks are sometimes ridiculous, and I’m sure you know that when you ask us. Could you at least act like you
recognize
that? Aren’t we on the same team, or do you work for them?”

“Of course I work for you. I always have,” Sam replied.

“Fine. Then let’s figure this out.”

Hours later, when the conversation was over, and dinner had been eaten, Dred found himself alone in his room. He picked up the phone and called Pixie. The shop was most definitely closed, and he hoped she was at home. The phone rang once then was answered.

“Hey, let me turn this down,” Pixie said.

He could hear loud music playing, a musical as always. Something about the crème de la crème of the chess world and Yul Brynner, which seemed a totally random combination.

The music suddenly died. “What was that, Snowflake?”

Pixie laughed, the sound music to his ears after the day he’d had. “The
Chess
soundtrack. Written by the guys from ABBA about a cold-war chess tournament. I need to educate you.”

“Yeah. No, you don’t. Sounds boring as fuck. I can live without it, thanks. What are you up to?” He swivelled on the sofa, put his feet up on the opposite arm to the one he was leaning against.

“Planning for my day off tomorrow.”

“You plan your day off the night before?”

“I do if I am trying to fit in a hike, some sewing, brownie baking, card making, and watching
Rent
for the five-hundred-twenty-five-thousandth-sixth-hundredth time.” Pixie giggled again. “You don’t even get that, do you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Listen to ‘Seasons of Love’ from
Rent
later. It’ll make more sense.”

Dred took a deep breath. In a matter of minutes on the phone with her, he felt calm again. Being around her strengthened him. “Your day sounds perfect, Snowflake.”

“Wish you could share it with me.”

Dred sighed. He wanted that, too. He didn’t know where his daughter was. His creativity was shot. For the first time in a long while, the loneliness that had threatened to swallow him whole as a child was back. It was bone deep, and disheartening.