The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (20 page)

Dred couldn’t contain the laugh. “You’re an asshole,” he shouted to Cujo.

Cujo tutted. “You got your hands on my goddamn sister’s ass, and
I’m
the asshole.”

“That’s a wrap for today, let’s clear out,” clapperboard-guy shouted over the ribbing.

Pixie noticed the garbage can was overflowing and needed emptying. “I got some work to do,” she said, slipping out of Dred’s arms. She laughed when he pouted at her. “Go take all that crap off your face.”

She tied up the garbage bag and took it out back, flinging it into the giant Dumpster.

“Have you got my money?”

Her stepfather slinked out from a small gap between the tattoo studio and the place next door. Pixie’s heart raced as she looked back toward the rear exit of the studio. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered to him. “I told you, I’m not giving you money.” It was a risk, calling his bluff, testing him to see exactly how far he’d really go. But her suspicion was that he didn’t want to end up in trouble anymore than she did.

He stepped closer. “And I told you, you can’t keep me from going anywhere. If you don’t have the money, I’ll step inside and tell them what you did.”

Pixie’s head spun as she wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. “Please . . . don’t . . . I have no way . . .”

“Yes, you do. Ask him for the money.”

It wasn’t about the money. She could afford to pay him, but if she did, she’d be paying him for the rest of her life, so she played along. “And tell him what? How do I even begin to explain what you did to me, asshole?”

“What
I
did to you? There was nothing I did that you didn’t want, you ungrateful bitch. The drugs, all of it. I saw you get off on it, remember. Why I should—”

Pixie gasped at the sickening sound of Dred’s fist hitting Arnie’s jaw. Where Dred had suddenly appeared from she had no clue, but she watched in horror as Arnie stumbled backward and fell to the ground. It took her a moment to process what happened, and by the time she had, Dred was already standing over Arnie, lifting him up by the collar, ready to hit him again.

“Dred, no. Don’t!” she shouted.

Dred turned and looked toward her, a blazing look of fury aimed straight at her.
Oh my God. How much had he overheard?

With a hard shove, Dred let go of Arnie and dropped him to the ground.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Arnie shouted. “If you won’t give me my money, Sarah-Jane, I’ll sue his fucking ass.” Arnie stood, a little wobbly on his feet. He didn’t attempt to retaliate, clearly knowing when he was physically beaten.

“Go ahead and sue, motherfucker. I can afford to out-lawyer the shit out of you. Leave. Pixie. Alone.’

“She was mine long before she was yours,” Arnie yelled.

Pixie felt sick as she witnessed Trent and Cujo rush outside. Arnie was going to tell them, and she was going to be ruined. Trent and Cujo would no longer look at her as they did right now, with concern for her and absolute fury at Arnie. She reached out her hand to Dred, who took a step further away. The rejection cut through her. Witnessing it, Cujo stepped in and pulled her close under his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, she’s ours now,” Trent said calmly, coming to stand by her other side, although she could see from his fighter’s stance and clenched fists that he was anything but.

“Yours?” Arnie spat. “Used fucking goods is what she is. You want a fucking washed-up druggie for a pet, take her . . . for a price.”

Dred looked from Arnie to her, and she couldn’t bear to see the look on his face at the mention of drugs.

“Arnie, please.” Begging was the last thing she wanted to do, but she was all out of options. She would never ask the men in her life for the kind of money Arnie wanted to go away and leave them alone. And involving the police would likely see her charged with Brewster’s murder, but she would rather do that than allow these wonderful men to pay for Arnie’s silence.

Arnie straightened his collar and wiped his forearm across his mouth to wipe away the blood. “I’m going to ruin you, Sarah-Jane. And I’m going to ruin lover-boy too. You had your chance to pay up and make this go away. Now you better be prepared to face the consequences.”

* * *

He couldn’t have heard right, because Dred could have sworn he heard the man yelling at Pixie say she was a washed-up druggie. And there was no way the universe was playing such a cruel fucking trick on him.

But the look of abject horror on Pixie’s face told him his hearing was perfectly fine. And when Trent had stepped between the two of them to hug her and tell her that everything was going to be okay because the guy hadn’t told them anything they didn’t already know, his stomach churned like waves hitting the sand down by Hermosa Beach Pier.

The whole time, Cujo glared at him. Dred could feel the penetrating stare, and the weight of the expectancy that he would snap out of it and step up to Pixie any minute to hold her. Or perhaps Cujo was waiting for him to repeat Trent’s words that it was okay, when it wasn’t. It was so fucking not okay.

With a deep breath, he reached for his anchor, gripping it in such a way that the anchor’s bill dug into his palm. But even the sharp pain couldn’t detract from the sheer devastation he felt that Pixie was a junkie like his mom.

Cujo wrapped his arms around Pixie and whispered something that made her cry. He rubbed her back and continued to speak words muttered so low Dred couldn’t hear them.

He felt like an outsider, like he was having an out-of-body experience.

Pixie wiped her face, and Cujo let her go before walking toward him, coming to a stop when their faces were inches apart.

“That’s your fucking girl, and she’s hurting more than you can imagine,” he growled. “You make her feel worse and I swear on Drea’s fucking life, I will pound the crap out of you so fucking hard you won’t know whether to shit or go sailing.”

“You want us to stay out here with you, Pix?” Trent asked all the while glaring at Dred.

“No. Please. Go inside.”

Dred watched Cujo and Trent disappear back into the studio.

“You’re an addict,” he spat.

Pixie walked over to the steps to the studio and sat down. Her movements were jerky. Like her body was about to give out on her. But he’d seen that before with his mom.

“Yes,” she said, her eyes looking like they’d had all the sunshine ripped out of them.

Dred paced and pulled on the anchor so hard the cord broke. Of all the moments in his life, when he’d pulled on the anchor to compose himself, he’d never broken it. Until now.

Drowning in fury, he roared as threw it as far as he could down the alley.

Drugs and lies surrounded him. They always had. He couldn’t remember a time when his mom hadn’t been an addict. But she had always told him she wasn’t. She’d told him she could stop any time, but every attempt she made to go more than one day without a fix ended up with fits of anger and violent shaking and that desperate need for more drugs.

The first time he was taken into care, she’d screamed for him, but only lasted two days in the treatment center. Two hellish days where he’d been placed with a family of older boys who’d made his life miserable. When she’d taken him from school, swearing she was clean, she’d sneaked them onto the green-and-white GO train headed for Toronto without any tickets.

The very idea that drugs had touched his snowflake made him want to weep. He’d built an illusion of her. His perfect girl, yet she was no better than anybody else.

“How long were you a user?” he asked without looking at her.

“Two years, but it’s not what you think, Dred. I’ve been clean for six years.”

Six years.
It felt too convenient. He needed to check. “Have you used while we’ve been together?

“No. I haven’t used since the day I set foot in Miami. The very next day I met Trent and Cujo and they helped me get clean.”

Dred paced the concrete, itching to let go of the last thread of control, to hit something hard enough to bring about a different kind of pain to the one currently cleaving him in two.

“But when I asked, you said you are an addict, right?”

“Yes, I did. I’ll always be an addict, but I’m sober. You know this. You’ve seen it with Nikan.”

“Don’t you dare bring my brother into it. He had his reasons.”

“And so do I!” Pixie yelled back at him.

He marched over to her, stood mere footsteps away, torn between wanting to believe her yet needing to leave. “Yeah. And what are they? Wanted to fit in with the cool kids?”

“You’re being an asshole, Dred. I was scared of telling you because I didn’t know how you’d respond. If I’d known it was this,” she said, tears filling her eyes, “I would never have bothered getting involved with you.”

“Yeah, well, I have enough junkies in my life without adding another one.”

“You’re not going to give me a chance to explain, are you?”

“Explain what? You’re an addict, and I don’t want anything to do with that. I don’t want my daughter around that. Good-bye, Pixie.”

She stood on the third step, bringing them close to eye-level. “Just like that, we’re done?”

Dred tried to ignore the tears spilling over her whiskey-colored eyes. A small voice told him to stop, to stay and talk it through. But the roar of rage was too strong. He needed to step back. Get some distance. “Yeah, just like that,” he said sadly and walked back into the studio.

Without stopping, he grabbed his bags and headed straight out of the door.

He marched toward Collins Avenue and flagged a yellow cab to the airport. Perhaps there was an early flight he could catch. The plan had been to hang out with Pixie, so he’d booked himself on the latest flight available. Now, he desperately wanted to get the fuck out of Miami.

Finally a taxi pulled over and he got inside. He spared one last glance down the street toward Second Circle, then closed his eyes until he reached the airport.

Once his flight had been changed, he’d made his way to the VIP lounge where he helped himself to a beer. Seated in a large brown leather chair facing the runway, he tried to force the feelings of remorse and shame down, but they were as insistent as Petal when she needed feeding.

How could he forgive Nikan for his addictions? Wait, forgive wasn’t even the right word. He didn’t forgive Nikan for anything, but he understood. He knew why Nikan needed to escape, was even willing to work around it when he relapsed. Anything to help his brother. Pixie was right, she and Nikan were the same, but he had treated them completely differently. It wasn’t the fact they had both suffered addictions. It was the fact that Pixie’s addiction was the same as his mom’s and Amanda’s.

But unlike his mom and Amanda, it sounded like Pixie was clean. Unless she was lying to him, which drug users were adept at.

His phone rang and he glanced at the screen. It was Sam. Leaning forward to grab his beer, he let it go to voice mail. He didn’t really want to talk to anybody right now.

Words started to form in his head and Dred grabbed his lyrics book and pen from his bag. The song he’d started to write for Pixie was taking shape, but he added a new line to end the bridge.
When you reach rock bottom,
I’ll be the savior that you need.

When his phone vibrated, he was of two minds whether to check the message. Likely from Sam, and not from Snowf—Sarah-Jane. He checked it anyway.

Wondered if you’d seen this.

It was a
People
magazine link.
DRED-
ING
THE BREAKUP.

Out of curiosity, he clicked, even though he knew it was a media trick to lure readers in. He read the subheading.
It’s over! Dred Zander’s girlfriend seen with new man.

The first photograph was of Pixie with her arms wrapped tightly around an attractive older guy. In the second, her head rested on his shoulder, but she looked upset about something. In the third, he was kissing her good-bye.

As much as he wanted to blame the paparazzi for grabbing the photos, there wouldn’t have been anything to snap if Pixie hadn’t been so affectionate with another man.

For once it appeared the gossip rag had gotten it right.

They were most
definitely
over.

She’d done the one thing she’d sworn she was never going to do. She’d lied to her best friends.

Pixie ran a hand through her hair and let it swing by her shoulders. Through thick and thin, Cujo and Trent had stood by her, yet she’d been unable to tell them the truth. A mixture of guilt, fear, and disappointment had eroded her appetite and turned her into a shell.

She’d most definitely lied to Trent and Cujo when they’d found her crying, ironically, in the
rear
doorway to Second Circle. At first, she’d justified the partial truths she’d told them, that he was her stepdad who had shown up and demanded money to keep her drug addiction secret. But it had turned into outright lies when Cujo asked if she had paid him anything. Unable to admit to her humiliation, she couldn’t tell him the truth.

The confrontation several days before had made one thing resolutely clear. Arnie was never going to give up. She was his meal ticket. He lacked any kind of moral compass, and would expect her to beg, borrow, and steal whatever she needed to give him what he wanted.

No. If he came back again, she was going to tell him to do his worst. Hell, she was considering going to the police anyway. He’d already cost her Dred. The worst that could happen was that she couldn’t convince a jury it had been self-defense.

“You know how much I love you, right?” Cujo stepped into the office. He’d been hovering around her like an overprotective parent for days.

Pixie nodded.

“Well,” he said, closing the office door, “it’s killing me right now to see you hurting like this. But you know what pains me most? That you aren’t being honest with me. You in trouble, Pix?”

Pixie closed her notebook quickly. She wanted to continue the lie, to be capable of looking Cujo in the eye and telling him she was fine. The words wavered on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t. And omitting the truth was just as bad.

Tears pricked her eyes and she shook her head, unable to speak over the lump in her throat.

“Oh, Pix.” Cujo walked over to kneel on the floor next to the chair she was sitting on. “Come here.” He tugged her into his arms.

She dropped her head to his shoulder and wept. Cujo stroked her back as she cried. The guilt she’d been carrying for killing Brewster, the pain that she’d carried from all those years of abuse, and the ache she felt from Dred’s absence flooded out.

A box of tissues appeared on the table, and she grabbed one. Doing her best to clean up her face, which she was certain was an unholy mess of tears and streaked mascara, she tried to breathe.

Cujo got off his knees and pulled up a chair to sit next to her. He gripped her hands and they had familial warmth. Unable to look him in the eye yet, she studied the colorful sugar skull on the back of his hand.

“Do you remember my promise to you?” he asked. “That day you went to treatment the first time?”

“You said, ‘I’ll replace every single shit-head adult that let you down.’”

“I did. And I meant every word. I don’t care what you did. I don’t care what you took. In the last six years, you’ve become the little sister I never had. You’ve stayed clean. You’ve worked hard. You’ve been there for us as much as we have for you. Whatever’s going on, I want you to know you can talk to me.”

Pixie looked up at him. “I lied. I did give Arnie money.”

Cujo didn’t flinch; his clear blue eyes were focused. “So he
was
blackmailing you?”

Pixie nodded.

“We need to go to the police with this, Pix. You know you can’t let him get away with it.”

“I know,” she nodded sadly. “But if we go to the police and tell them why he was blackmailing me, I think they’ll arrest me too.”

“It was that bad?” Wrinkles of concern graced Cujo’s brow as he squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“Arnie . . . he used to . . . I was . . . I did something . . . to get away.” Even now, she couldn’t say the words, didn’t want admit what he’d done to her. Humiliation overwhelmed her, memories of him standing clothed behind her, telling her all the reasons she was dull and uninteresting, all the while pressing up against her, confusing her. Breathing was becoming difficult, but she refused to succumb to the panic attacks that used to debilitate her when she lived in the trailer.

“Breathe, Pix. He’s not here now. There’s only you and me.” Cujo rubbed her hands between his.

He waited patiently for her to regain her composure.

“There is nothing we can’t figure out, Pix. Do you think he’ll physically hurt you?”

“I think it’s all about the money. He wants as much as he can get. He’ll be back in a week or two. But he used to . . . Cujo, I can’t even tell you what he used to do.” Her eyes filled with tears again, and she reached for another tissue.

“Okay. First, we’ll change the schedule. For the foreseeable future, you aren’t going to open or close the studio alone.”

“But Cujo, it’s my job. I have to—”

“No. You don’t. Second, we’re going to find a lawyer. A good one for you to talk to alone. You can tell him or her what you’ve done, and they can help you figure out the best way to manage it.”

“I have some money saved.”

“It doesn’t matter, because I’m here for you. And Trent is too. And so are Lia, and Eric, Harper, and Drea. And even though his head is so far up his own fucking ass right now that he’s giving himself a colonoscopy, Dred will be too. You need the best lawyer there is.”

Pixie couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. Cujo had always had a way with words.

“But you have to promise me something, Pix. You see Arnie coming, you run as fast as you possibly can. Don’t speak to him. Get security on your building to kick him out. You call me or Trent.”

The tightness in her chest started to ease. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“I hope one day you’ll trust me enough to tell me what you went through, but I understand you aren’t ready now.”

“You know, Cujo, I’m an only child, but since I met you, not once have I felt like one.”

Cujo nodded, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and left the room.

She still had her brother, but what she wished for was Dred.

* * *

DRED ZANDER—DERELICT DAD

When he found out who had sold that story to the scumbag journalist who’d made no effort to fact-check it with him, he was going to sue them for every penny they had. He’d already instructed his lawyers to force the magazine to issue a retraction. Petal wanted for nothing except a sober mom and a stay-at-home dad, neither of which he was certain he could provide. Everything else he’d taken care of. Nothing was too much when it came to making sure Petal had everything she needed.

And now the world knew about her. She wasn’t his
dirty little secret
as the publication implied. He wasn’t ready to share her with the world. She was too precious to be preyed on by a bunch of vulture paparazzi trying to get their first photograph. At first he’d blamed Amanda, had even rushed around to her condo to confront her, but her denial had surprisingly made sense.
Why would she bite the hand that was currently feeding her?
In fact, they’d talked at length, about how to get along for Petal’s sake. Amanda had shared her sobriety chip celebrating thirty days clean.

The limo pulled up in front of the red carpet. Dred didn’t want to get out. Elliott was out of the limo first, swiftly followed by Lennon. Nikan slapped him on the shoulder and stepped out.

“You going to be okay tonight, Dred?” Jordan asked.

If there was one thing he was pretty sure he wasn’t, it was okay. It had been six days since he’d seen Pixie, and during that time, he’d picked up his phone a thousand times. To text or send her a picture of Petal. Or in the small hours of the morning, to ask her to explain. Because in the dark, when light from traffic skittered across the ceiling, or the gentle May breeze fluttered the curtains, he could almost find himself in a place of not caring that she’d been an addict. In the dark, he could remember how she felt in his arms, how her eyes shifted between the color of whiskey and cognac, and how she understood him.

“Yeah, I got it covered,” Dred said, making a move to get out of the limo. Jordan placed a hand on his arm, stopping his progress. Dred looked down at it. “What the fuck dude, we need to go.”

“You need to go see her, man. It’s wrong that you didn’t let her explain. I love you, brother, but you are behaving like a fucking ass.”

“Do we have to go through this now, Jordan? Like it couldn’t wait the six painful hours until this shit is over?”

“You’re thinking about it anyway, so might as well. You deserve to be happy, man. And so does she. Trent wouldn’t be this pissed at you if there wasn’t more to the story than you let her tell you.”

Jordan stepped out of the limo, and Dred followed.

Standing amidst the flashing lights and the gauntlet of media outlets, he wished she were by his side. He hated this, the whole self-congratulatory evening with fifty thousand of his closest friends. He’d tried to talk Sam into cancelling their appearance, but they were nominated for Best Metal Performance and were favorites to win.

So he walked the line like he was supposed to, while his mind was firmly on the two other females in his life. Pixie and Petal.

His brothers were on the offensive. Questions about Petal were aimed at him thick and fast, but collectively they ignored them and talked about the band, the album, or the tour.

When the questions became antagonistic, Dred reached for his anchor, his hand coming up empty. Remorse filled him that in a fit of temper he’d thrown away one of the very few personal effects that meant anything to him. He’d find a photograph of him wearing it and have a jeweler custom-make him a new one.

Once inside, they waited for their category. Sure, he clapped when someone won, because you didn’t want to be the jerk the camera panned to, only to find you checking out your phone. He smiled as industry people walked by, occasionally standing to shake someone’s hand. But for the most part, Dred sat still in his seat, detached from what was going on around him.

He hadn’t even realized their category was up, until Lennon and Elliott jumped to their feet. Nikan grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him up, pulling him into a hug.

“Ten minutes and we’re out. Keep it together, bro,” Nikan whispered in his ear.

They jogged down the aisle to the stage. He wondered if Pixie was watching at home. She’d be on the sofa they’d hung out on the day she was ill, likely wearing ill-fitting pajamas to hide the figure he loved so much. He shook hands, smiled, raised the award in the air like he was meant to, but he had no words.

The guys stood back as always, waiting for him to step forward, but he had nothing he wanted to share. Winning awards, especially industry awards, was usually a thrill, but today it weighed heavy and cold in his hands.

Jordan looked toward him and silently tilted his head, but the
what the fuck dude
and
step up to the podium
might as well have been shouted.

Nikan took over. “Wow. This is something else. Thanks to our manager Sam Parker for looking after us all these years . . .”

Dred looked around the huge Staples Centre Arena. People screaming their adoration surrounded him, but he’d never felt lonelier than he did right at that very moment. Lennon slung an arm over his shoulder, a casual act to an observer.

When he’d been a kid, one of the foster homes he’d lived in had a seesaw in the back garden, but he was the only child living there at the time, so he never got to use it. Every time he thought of Pixie and his commitment to stay away from drug addicts, he felt like he was on that seesaw. One minute, one side of the argument would win and he’d start planning his way back to Pixie; the next minute, he’d tip in favor of never seeing her again.

“ . . . So we’ll see those of you watching in Europe when our tour hits the road later this year. Cheers.”

The crowd roared again, and Dred wandered offstage in a daze.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nikan said as he walked up alongside Dred.

“I’m in. Let’s go find a seedy hole in the wall and blow off some steam,” Jordan agreed.

They were heading for the exit when Dred’s phone vibrated inside his leather jacket and he pulled it out. It was Maisey, Ellen’s wife. “Hold on, guys.” Dred stepped away, his heart racing to the sound of the music playing in the background. Some stupid electronic shit he hated. It was nearly ten in the evening in Toronto, why the hell was she calling so late?

“Maisey, hey. Can you hear me?” He pressed his hand against his other ear and found a spot sheltered by crates and scenery.

“Dred, I hate to call you like this, but I have some bad news.”

“What’s happened? Is Ellen okay?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, child. Ellen is fine, but I’m sorry, Amanda Veitch died earlier today. The police who were called to the scene notified social services. And it was a good thing I went along to all those meetings with you about her, because Petal’s social worker, Kate, called me to give me a head’s up.”

Dred’s knees gave out and he dropped to the floor. “Is Petal . . . is she okay?

“Dred, Petal is absolutely fine. But you need to get home as soon as possible.”

“Do you know what happened to Amanda? Was it an overdose?”

“It is too early to tell, Dred. There will likely be an investigation, an autopsy at a minimum. You’ll have to be patient. But hurry, Petal will be put into temporary foster care until you get home.”

“Can’t you take her? I’ll come and get her from you as soon as I get home.”

“It’s not as simple as that, Dred, but get home quickly and we’ll figure it out together. I’ll have all the details for you when you land.”

“Six hours, seven tops. I’ll figure it out.”

“Fly safe, Dred. You’re all she has now.”

Dred picked himself up off the floor and rushed to the band who was celebrating with Sam. “I need to get back to Toronto. Now!”

“Let’s go,” Nikan said.

“Guys, wait up.” Sam ran up alongside them with their wall of security. “What’s going on? You should stay. Go to the after-party.”