The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(25)

“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 f*cking 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.