The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(26)
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.
Pixie stopped short at telling her mom the truth, because she believed Arnie’s threats.
Until that night.
*
The two innocuous, sterile packages sat on the kitchen counter, but to Dred they might as well have been nuclear bombs. He didn’t want to touch them, didn’t want to open them, and certainly didn’t want to follow the instructions from the woman in the navy-suit standing next to him.
The hour before her visit, he’d abstained from eating, drinking, or chewing gum. Thank heavens for in-house visits. “Discretion” was the ultimate keyword in his life.
“Please, Mr. Zander, if you’d open the packet and complete the swab of your left cheek,” she said, her perky voice full of encouragement.
Dred grabbed the first package and ripped the paper. He stuck the end of the swab inside his mouth. Up and down he swept, rotating the stick as instructed.
“You’re doing great, Mr. Zander. Just a couple more seconds.”
At least it didn’t hurt. He repeated the actions a couple more times and held out the stick. The woman took it from him and pressed it between two foam pads attached to a card. Dred swallowed the need to reach over, grab the swab, and set fire to it. Where was Elliot when you needed him? He’d torch it in a second.
Why was he panicking? There was no way the baby was his.
“Okay, right cheek now.” The woman handed him the other packet.
Dred repeated the process, the monotonous up and down, all the while thinking of a little baby in St. Joseph’s hospital. In one regard, Jordan was right. If he was in fact the father, then he needed to learn more about the mother of his child. What kind of person was she? Was she capable of being a good mom? If she was, and she wanted to keep the child, he’d give her whatever she needed to provide an amazing life for her and their daughter. But if she wasn’t . . . the thought sent a chill down his spine. If she wasn’t, she’d have a fight on her hands because it would be a cold day in hell before he’d let any child of his have the upbringing he had. What confused him was how to stop it. There was no way he was equipped to raise a child. And he couldn’t force an adoption if the mom wanted to keep the baby. And they all knew from Lennon’s experience, that even babies adopted into wealthy families couldn’t expect a happy ever after.
He handed the final swab to the woman. Shit, he couldn’t even remember her name.
“Thank you, Mr. Zander. If you could sign these papers.”
She handed him a pen and he scrawled his signature.
“Perfect. Okay, we’ll have these results to you within about five business days.”
They said their good-byes and Dred showed her out.
Dred closed the door and tugged on his anchor. A kid. Him, a father. It couldn’t happen.
He headed down to the studio and started to annotate a melody that had been playing through his mind. It was so unlike anything he’d ever written or sung before, but it was blocking his creativity. The rhythm was slow. Slower than Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day.” More soulful. Shit, was he writing a freaking gospel song? Either way, it needed to come out, because until it did, the other tunes behind it couldn’t get by.
The rest of the guys bounded into the studio, followed by Sam. Nikan dropped a brown paper bag on the small table next to him. No doubt his favorite Nanaimo bars were inside. He pulled one out of the bag and took a bite. Graham crumbs and chocolate and custard-flavor buttercream. So simple, yet so good.
“Okay. Quick business update.” Sam set his coffee on the top of the piano, and Dred removed it immediately. “Great sales in the first quarter. The box set of the first three albums with bonus materials did really well over the holidays, boosting January’s numbers.
“Sales of the rest of the back catalogue received a boost because of it,” Sam continued without missing a beat.
Well, that was good news at least. Dred was fed up with the “it’s not enough” spiel that Sam was constantly spouting. After all, the box set had been his own idea. They could work twenty-four hours a day and it still wouldn’t be enough for their manager.
Dred looked around. Lennon was changing the head on one of his drums. Elliot actually had headphones on and was listening to something on his laptop. Nikan was perched on a stool, tapping on the edge of the seat, and Jordan was on his knees fiddling with one of the amps. Sam was losing them. For the first time, it struck Dred, that they might be outgrowing their manager.
“Sam, did you hear back from Miami about who took the photo of me and Pix at the Miami gig?” Dred asked.
“I didn’t. I’ll follow up. Okay. Saturday afternoon, there’s a new metal radio station starting up in the Distillery District. Dred, I said you and Lennon would swing by on Sunday afternoon.”
“No can do,” Dred said. “Pix is in for the day. Told her I had it free.”
“This is the kind of crap I meant on the plane about commitment. You should jump at the publicity.” Sam stood and banged his hand on the top of the piano.