The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) (7 page)

Playing
Daddy Day Care
would certainly mess up his plan of focusing the shit out of his career. Seven more years of writing, performing, investing, and saving. There’d be no slowing down until he was certain he’d never want for anything the rest of his life. Memories from his past spurred him on to his goals. Like walking to school in deep winter snow wearing sneakers because his mom never had the money for boots.

“Look, I’m sorry, Dred. But if you lead the kind of lives you guys do, then these things—”

“Shut up, Sam.” He didn’t need to hear a moral lecture. “I’m going to shower and get ready for tonight’s pantomime.”

He headed for his room, and entered the en-suite bathroom. The shower had a million and one settings, but he always used the exact same one. Hot. As hot as his skin could stand.

Once undressed, he stood under the steaming spray. Why the hell were they even going to a pop awards show anyway? Another messed-up publicity stunt by Sam to keep them current? Because, yeah, showing up at these events would find them a new audience. Not.

He washed his hair. It’s not like they were nominated for anything, so why give up a day and a half of recording time to spend one night and fly out again? Seemed like they were being booked for a whole bunch of shit that had nothing to do with them or their music. He needed to talk to the guys. Perhaps Sam was the issue, not the record label. Shouldn’t it be his job to shut this kind of thing down? In many ways, he was an incredible manager, and had kick-started their careers, but in others . . . well.

Rinsing his hair, he thought about the people he’d met at the record label. What happened to simply expecting a band to show up and make great fucking music? Now it was all social media this, and publicity event that. These fluff events killed him. He’d bet good money on being seated next to some pop princess with an album to promote, and that by tomorrow they’d be press fodder as the next big yet strange couple. It happened
every
time.

Normally all this shit was a minor inconvenience.
And face it, half of the pop-princess stories were true for one night.
They were all too happy to jump into bed with a tattooed rocker to dirty up their polished images, and he was always willing to tarnish a couple of tiaras. But more photos in the tabloids tomorrow would upset Pixie. The paparazzi had impeccable timing, and could turn the most innocent greeting into a sordid affair.

For Pixie’s sake, he didn’t want that. His skin had thickened over the years. Ellen said he was developing the hide of a rhino. Pixie’s was still tender, pale, and tattooed with swirls of flowers. His cock stirred at the thought of how soft that skin felt under his callused fingertips. Enjoying the sensation, he allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of their kiss, and the way her ass felt as he squeezed it. Firm and round despite her petite frame. He felt compelled to keep it monogamous between them until they’d figured out what was going on. For a guy with his appetites, it was way too fucking long.

He grabbed his cock and squeezed, running his palm up and down as he recalled more images of the time they’d spent together. The way her breasts had bounced around under her vest, the soft sigh she often gave when he kissed her, how he’d been able to see the smallest hint of her black panties when she’d sat next to him on the balcony at the hotel. Yeah, who the fuck needed porn when he had those mental snapshots of Pixie? His imagination took over, and suddenly she was lying naked on her front, that pert ass in the air and the curve of her back so fucking hot.

Cupping his balls with his other hand, he stroked faster, let out a huff of air as the tingling down his spine increased.
Yeah, like that.

He imagined spreading her legs, running his hands up the back of her thighs, and sliding into her. Christ, she’d be so wet for him, and, given his size, he’d physically cover her. The reel played in his mind. Pixie turned toward him, her face spectacular in the throes of orgasm. He pumped faster, imagining taking her harder, until he came.

Head spinning, Dred took a moment to catch his breath. It had been a long time since jerking off had felt that good. If only Pixie was there in the flesh. He wanted to talk to her, find out if she was feeling the same frustration.

Dred made plans to call her as soon as he got out of the shower. Hopefully the studio was closed because he wanted her alone for what he wanted to say.

And he wasn’t going to make it easy on her.

* * *

“I’ll finish up. You guys need to go.” Pixie shoved Trent and Harper out the rear door. Thanks to some strategic thinking, Trent had decided to start closing the shop earlier Monday through Wednesday, but stay open longer on the weekend.

“I don’t want to leave you here, Pix. Let me just—”

She cut Trent off. “Nope. No. Nada. I am fed up of you two looking at each other all sexy-eyed. We’re done. It’ll take me ten minutes to get everything finished. Please, go.”

Harper hugged her. “Thanks, Pix.”

Pixie laughed as Trent rolled his eyes at her. She shooed him away.

“Have a good night, Pix. See you tomorrow.”

Pixie heard the rear door of the studio close. With a quick change of music, this time Sarah Brightman’s “Think of Me” from
The Phantom of the Opera
came over the speakers. Fortunately, Trent kept a really tidy workspace, and Lia had cleaned hers before she had headed out, so straightening up didn’t take long. With the stations returned to the clinical state she preferred, Pixie was almost ready to go home.

She let out a yawn. It had been a long day. An exciting one. E-tickets had arrived for her trip to Canada. Trent had encouraged her to take an extra day if she wanted to, but she was happy coming home on Monday. The trip was just long enough to get a sense of where her feelings were really at.

As she waited for the computer to shut down, her phone pinged.

Go somewhere private.

Dred.

Pixie looked around the studio and decided on the office. Within moments, her phone buzzed and she opened the video chat.

“Hey, Snowflake.”

Holy guacamole. Talk about not playing fair.
Dred was naked. At least, as much as she could see was uncovered. He was sitting at a table or desk in a really bright room. His hair was wet, slicked back from his face, which was shadowed with scruff. Water dripped down his body like it had the first time she’d seen him at the hotel.

“Hi.” Her voice cracked and she coughed to clear her throat that suddenly seemed drier than the Sahara. “How are you?”

Dred’s simple smile tugged at her. “Better now I can talk to you. How was your day?”

Nothing remotely interesting.
“Went to yoga this morning before work. Came here. Nothing very exciting. You?”

“Don’t play that down. The idea of you doing yoga is very exciting. How flexible are you?” he teased.

“Very.” During drug withdrawal, hot yoga had been a blessing. It occupied her mind when she was itching to find something to take the edge off.

Dred reached out of sight of the camera, and then returned to the screen with a bottle of beer. “Wanna play a game with me, Pix?” He tipped his head back and took a drink.

“What kind of game?” If he was about to ask her to take her clothes off and get naked, that was a definite no. Because, well, work . . . and she really wasn’t ready for that kind of thing.

“I want to know more about you. So we exchange. I ask you a question, and if you answer it, I have to answer it, too.” Dred placed the beer bottle back out of sight and ran a hand through his hair. The dark lengths were starting to dry, and it was falling over his shoulder. His brown eyes were clear of the black eyeliner he wore to perform, and wholly focused on her.

“Okay. Why don’t you go first?” Pixie offered.

“Let’s keep it simple. Favorite movie?”

“Oh, easy.
The Sound of Music
and
The Wizard of Oz.
You?”

“
The
Shawshank
Redemption
. Your turn.” Dred grasped his hands behind his head, his biceps flexed, his shoulders were . . . gah! What was the right word? Jacked? She closed her eyes for a minute and looked away.

She gazed back at him, and tried to ignore his grin. “What place would you most like to visit?”

Dred paused thoughtfully. “I want to go skiing in the Alps. Or maybe travel around Australia. Really see the country and not just tour it. Where do you want to go?”

“Easy. London’s West End or Broadway. I’d see as many shows as I could possibly squeeze in.”

“I sense a theme. Okay. I’m changing gears. Favorite part of your own body?”

Pixie narrowed her eyes at him. Uncertain of where he was going with it, she was reluctant, but a small part of her was curious.

“Not doing anything more than talking, Snowflake. Favorite part of your own body?”

Taking a mental inventory, Pixie thought about her better assets, critiquing and dismissing them until she settled. “I don’t know. My arms, maybe. I have tiny wrists.”

“No comment.
Yet.
My favorite would be my fingers. I couldn’t play piano or guitar without them. Now you have to ask me the reverse of the question.”

“What’s the least favorite part of your body?” Pixie asked.

Dred laughed loudly. “No. Which is your favorite part of my body?”

“Really?”

Dred raised both eyebrows and nodded.

“Okay. Which is your favorite part of
my
body?”

“Where to start?” Dred sat up straight in the chair and leaned toward her. “Honestly, Pix. Straight up, you’ve got the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen. When I kissed you the day I left, I swear to God you stripped me bare. It was the most honest expression of emotion I have ever seen. I want to drown in them.”

Pixie’s hand went to her mouth. Dred’s intensity was overwhelming.

He sat back suddenly. “So, what’s your favorite part of me?” he asked with a smile.

The statue of freaking David couldn’t hold a candle to Dred. But she wanted to play the game. It felt safe to flirt with him this way with all those miles between them.

“Keep looking at me like that, Pix, and I’m on the next flight to Miami,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” she asked.

“Not at all. You realize all you have to say is yes, right?”

“It’s only four days until I’m there. Three and a half really.”

“I didn’t mean about the flight. I meant say yes, and we can take this conversation to a totally different place.”

A loud knocking sounded, and Dred looked to his right.

“Limo’s leaving in fifteen,” she heard someone say in the background.

“Fine,” he snapped to whoever it was. “Fucking timing. I gotta go. Sorry, Snowflake.”

Pixie let out a whoosh of breath. The intensity lifted, and a sense of relief that the conversation hadn’t gone further washed over her. “Limos sound fancy. Where are you off to?” she asked, hoping to steer him away from their game.

“An industry awards thing in L.A. Maybe next time, you can come with me. Then it wouldn’t be so incredibly dull.”

“You’re going tonight? Oh my God. I was going to go home and watch it.”

“Nah, don’t waste your time. Go home and think about saying yes to this kind of conversation, and I’ll spend the night thinking about the things I’ll say to you if you do.” With a wink, he disconnected.

Damn. Now she was all hot and bothered. In a way it was a good thing that he wasn’t there with her, because the temptation to go further was killing her.

And if they did, he’d quickly figure out exactly how sexually messed up she was.

* * *

“Okay, let’s take it from the top again. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”

Dred read the lyrics off his notepad. Something wasn’t quite right at the end of the first verse. He sang it, awkwardly. It didn’t roll right. They played the song, warts and all. A dropped note here, a miscue there. The middle eight worked perfectly, the chorus anthemic. Nikan withheld his proclivity to ad lib until they had the song down.

Thank God it was Thursday,
finally
. Home-based for several days. At their insistence, Sam had changed their flight from commercial to a private red-eye after the awards show.

They’d been up for hours. Hunger was closing in, and they needed to take a break soon.

Jordan and Elliot sat on their stools, Nikan stood, as he always did. The guy had more energy than he knew what to do with.

“What do you think?” Nikan asked.

“It sounds better without the instrumental solo, much as I enjoyed playing it,” Elliott offered.

“Phraseology of the last line in the first verse isn’t working, but I can fix that later.” Dred opened his bottled water and took a sip.

“That’s not for the album, is it?” Sam walked into the studio. Giving him a key had seemed like a good idea at the time. He could pop in when they were away and look out for the place. When they’d first bought the house, he’d hinted that he wanted to move in, but the five of them had a relationship Sam would never understand. And some of the things they handled once they closed the front door to the world weren’t for sharing.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Dred asked.

“It’s too Zeppelin, too early metal. Not progressive enough.” Sam helped himself to bottled water from the small fridge. “You need to build on the last album. Heavier, darker.”

“What were you expecting? A little thrash metal maybe?” Dred tore into the opening riff of a song by Sodom. His fingers flew over the strings.

Nikan joined in for kicks.

“All right!” Sam yelled over the guitars.

Dred and Nikan both stopped at the end of the next stanza.

“All I’m saying is that you have an almost cultlike following among nu metal and funk metal fans.” Sam leaned against the desk. “This sounds like a drift toward heavy rock.”

Dred stood and put his guitar away. “So what if it is? It’s the music we feel like making. And some of the songs we wrote in the past, we don’t feel that way anymore.” It was true. Each of them had received counselling as part of their daily life in the home. Maisey had seen to that. The obstacles they’d had to overcome as children had shaped who they were today. But the scar tissue was so deep, so painful, and the songs they’d written during that time came from a place so dark, it was impossible to perform some of their early songs today without being transported back to a time none of them wanted to return to.

“I’m sharing an opinion,” Sam snapped. “As your manager, I am still entitled to one, right?”

“Chill the fuck out, Sam,” Nikan said patting him on the shoulder. “You can tell us what you think, but it’s still our music to write and play.”

Lennon jumped up from his drum kit. “Need a piss, then food. In that order.”

The guys traipsed out until only Dred and Jordan were left.

“You thought anymore about that DNA test?” Jordan asked, placing his bass back in Dred’s rack.

“I still don’t believe it’s true. Maybe I’m still in denial.” Dred put his guitar away too. “I
always
wrap it up. It’s a fucking cruel world if I am the one in a million it fails for.”

It was another reason to consider what he was doing with Pixie. He didn’t want to have the conversation with her about it. No, he needed to hope that he wasn’t the father and that this was all some elaborate hoax to extort money from him. He laughed to himself.

“What’s funny?” Jordan asked.

“Just thinking it would be better if this was a setup to get money, and how that felt like the better option.”

“Rock and a hard place,” Jordan said, sitting back on his stool. “You know what you got to do if this is true though, right?”

“Jordan, I can’t think about—”

“I’m not discussing. I’m stating. If that baby is yours, you owe it to him or her, and all of us, to give it a better start than we had.”

Dred gripped his anchor. Took a deep breath, or seven. “What kind of parent would I be? My mom fucking OD’d in my arms and I did nothing to help her. I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

Dred closed his eyes and gripped the anchor harder. He thought of the day they got their record deal. When Schecter offered to sponsor the tour. Their first apartment with two bedrooms on the Danforth. Pixie kissing him backstage. The look in Pixie’s eyes when she looked at him. Good things in his life. His breathing slowed, his heart rate decelerated.

“I have no clue where to begin,” he said calmly. “I wasn’t able to look after my mom. I sure as shit can’t look after a kid.”

Jordan stood and walked over. “You won’t lock them in a room to freeze and starve. You aren’t a junkie who only cares about the high. You won’t abandon them if you have issues out of your control. You won’t slit your wrists in front of them. And you sure as fuck won’t abandon the kid to . . . well, you won’t. And we won’t let you.”

Jordan slapped him on the arm, then left the studio.

Their lives had been a crapshoot, but somehow they functioned as adults. Jordan was right.

Dred went back to his guitar rack and pulled his favorite acoustic from its spot. There was no make or model on it. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure it wasn’t handmade. He remembered the day he’d returned from school and found it in his room, lying there on the bed. A gift from Maisey. It made him suspicious. No one had ever bought him a gift before. Not on Christmas, or his birthday, and especially not in the middle of March for no apparent reason.

The guitar was tuned, and he strummed the opening chords to the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Under the Bridge.” The lyrics had spoken to him at a time nothing else did.

What kind of man was he?
That he could contemplate not finding out whether this baby was actually his?
Shit.
Even learning the mom’s name hadn’t helped him figure out which of the nameless and faceless women he’d slept with in the last year she was. And Pixie, sweet fucking angel that she was. She deserved a better man. Perhaps he should cancel her trip.

Who was he kidding? He’d take the time to see her this one weekend, and no matter how badly he wanted to, he’d keep his dick in check.

Then he’d pull away.

* * *

Pixie tightened her brakes, pulling her bike to a stop outside the back of the studio and removed her helmet. Ninety minutes until opening and a long to-do list awaited her inside. Chaining the bike to the metal railing, she went through the things she wanted to get done before everyone else arrived.

She grabbed her helmet and walked to the door. There were three locks, and she systematically unlocked them all. Warm air washed over her as she stepped inside.

A sudden shove sent her tripping into the hallway near the kitchen. The door to the studio closed with a slam. Pixie gathered her wits and pulled out her phone. She managed to dial nine-one-one but didn’t have time to press send before her attacker stepped into view.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you Sarah-Jane. Go turn the alarm off.”

Arnie. He was here. In the shop. Her fingers hovered over the one. The beeping of the alarm continued. Self-preservation first. “What are you doing here?” She glanced up at the security cameras they’d installed after Harper, Trent’s fiancée, had been abducted.

“Go turn the alarm off,” he repeated.

Should she? Or should she let it go, let the police come?

“Turn it off, Sarah-Jane. Remember, you aren’t necessarily the one who gets hurt if you don’t do as I say.”

Her mom.
He always threatened her mom. The mom who always took his side. Part of her wished she didn’t care quite so much.

Quickly, she hurried over and entered numbers into the keypad. She glanced at the photo next to the alarm. Opening day, just the four of them, before Eric joined. No. She’d worked too hard in recovery and here to have it blown apart by Arnie and his threats.

“That’s better. Now. Aren’t you happy to see your dad?” he asked with a licentious smile.

“You were no father to me.” It
had
been Arnie she’d seen when she was on the phone with Dred. He’d gained a little weight, but was still fit for a guy of forty-six. His hair was thinning a little, his skin parched, and the sickening smell of cigarettes permeated the air.

“Now, Sarah-Jane. That’s all water under the bridge, because you and I are going to get to know each other again.”

He walked past her into the studio, and she noticed the limp again. “You did well for yourself, Sarah. Nice little job with a TV star.” She cringed as he started to pick up things from her desk, study them, and put them down again. He’d always made her wait. In silence. And like one of Pavlov’s dogs, her mind and body were responding to his cues. Pixie wanted desperately to break the cycle, but knew only too well what would happen if she did.

He sat down in one of the chairs, pushed on the arms as if testing its sturdiness.

“So, I’m wondering, how well do you do here?”

“It’s none of your business,” she hissed.

“Oh, but it is. You see, imagine my surprise when my girlfriend brought home a copy of a magazine, and there you were on the front of it.”

“Girlfriend? What happened to mom?” she asked without thinking.

He got up and stalked toward her, his eyes dark and hooded, until he was inches away. “I’m speaking. I can see you’ve forgotten how to behave around me. Do you need reminding?”

Pixie shook her head.

Arnie looked up at the ceiling, searching for something until his eyes rested on the black dome in the ceiling. He moved to her left, putting his back to the camera.

“And I find out that she not only works for a TV celebrity in his tattoo shop, hours away from our home, but she’s
fucking
a very wealthy man.” He finished the sentence on a crescendo of spittle.

He trailed his finger along her chin before gripping it tightly. “No need to ask how you afford to live in such an expensive apartment building.”

He knows where I live.
“What . . . what do you want?” Pixie asked.

“What do I want, Sarah-Jane?” His tone was insidiously calm. “To know how much all of this is worth to you.”

“Worth to me? What do you mean?” Pixie pried his fingers off her chin, but Arnie leaned in further, gathering the hair at the base of her neck, just like he used to.

“How much is it worth for me not to ruin your life? You want me to share photos of you high? Sitting on the stool for me like a good girl? You want me to tell them all the different drugs you took?”

Her stomach roiled at the thought. “They already know I was an addict. The day they found me I was already in withdrawal.”

“Have you told them why? Have you told them what you did to earn them? Have you told them why you needed to take them?”

“Have I told them you threatened to kill my mom in her sleep if I didn’t? Have I told them the number of times you held a knife to her throat when she was high, or put your hands around her neck when she was unconscious?”

Arnie laughed. “Seriously, that’s what you tell yourself to help you sleep better at night? I have photos that tell a different story, and you’re the one who comes across as the cheap tease you are, not me. And I can be very persuasive.”

Tears pricked her eyes, but she swallowed hard. “So what do you want?” she asked. Arnie ran a finger down her arm causing a shudder of revulsion.

“We’re going to become friends again,” he said, while studying her mouth. He brought his eyes to hers. “I’ll see you soon, Sarah-Jane.”

Footsteps faded away and the door to the studio closed.

Pixie leaned against the wall and let out a whoosh of air. This must be how Dorothy felt when she was swept up inside that tornado, only instead of landing in Oz, she’d arrived in her own personal hell. She slid down the wall until her butt hit the floor. Her mind scrambled, trying to put everything together.

Taking deep breaths, Pixie tried to clear her head. “You are fine,” she exclaimed out loud to the room, grateful no one else had arrived. “Fine. Fine. So very fine.”

Her first reaction, to run home and hide in bed for a week, was replaced by more practical considerations. What he’d done was intimidating. Threatening, even. But with his back to the camera, and no sound recorded, their interaction would look like nothing other than a reunion between father and daughter, even if it wasn’t a particularly happy one. Her word against his, and she’d lost that battle once before.

Pixie stood and picked up her bike helmet, placing it on the hook Cujo had drilled into the wall for her. She wondered what he would think if he knew the whole of what had happened to her. Sure, Arnie had never raped her, but the revulsion from being used, from being touched by him filled her with a sickening dread.

Over time, her stepdad had started to provide her samples of the drugs he sold to stop her from freaking out. Searching for a way to escape, she took whatever he gave her. Opiates, sedatives, heavy-duty painkillers. Anything to take the edge off the raw fear, and to try to kill the feelings of being worthless and alone.

Tell her, I’ll kill her. Tell anyone, I’ll kill her. Refuse, I’ll kill her. Leave here, I’ll kill her.

She’d done what she needed to do. As a young girl, she’d believed his threats. The mom she’d known before Arnie was drifting away from her. Gone were the Sunday mornings they’d watch old movies together, or the evenings they’d spend listening to show tunes. They’d never been able to afford to go to the theater, but they’d watch snippets on her mom’s phone, and make up the stories to go with the songs they heard.

Pixie, certain that it was only time before his voyeuristic tendencies and inappropriate touches turned to something even darker, had tried to get her mom to leave. She’d even gone as far as getting her mom to sign the paperwork allowing her to leave school at sixteen to earn money to help them get out. No amount of encouragement had worked. She’d suggested moving to another town or state, but her mom had wanted to stay with her stepdad. He paid his way, which helped with the cost of the trailer, and he fed her habit.