The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(27)
“What publicity? A brand-new station. They don’t even have a broad listener base. And what’s with all the last-minute activities? It’s less than forty-eight hours away. I’m sure they’ve been opening for months, and we’re likely the biggest band they could score who lives in the city. Why is this about us, and our flexibility?” Dred stood too. “Why isn’t this about you and your shitty planning?”
“Dred. You know better than anyone that any publicity is good publicity. If you want this as badly as you say, you’ll make time to go.”
Nikan stood.
Why the f*ck was everyone getting on their feet?
“I’ll go instead of him,” Nikan said. “It’s not a big deal. Just let them know.”
“Fine. But you guys need to realize this egalitarian shit you keep pulling isn’t what the fans want. They want Dred. I know you all think you are equal, and I respect the hell out of you for it, but it isn’t what keeps the fans happy.”
“Maybe you’re right, but all I know is that we are platinum-selling.” Dred put his guitar away. “You don’t see Slipknot doing a small start-up radio station. I get CanCon rules for protecting Canadian content and all that shit, but why aren’t we doing international? Why aren’t we on the big radio shows in the UK? We cracked Canada five years ago.”
Sam looked at his watch. “As much as I’d love to sit and chat with you about all the ways you think I’m f*cking up, we need to shelve this. I gotta go. I’ll send Lennon and Nikan details for Sunday, and I’ll follow up with security at the arena about the photo.”
Dred watched Sam retreat up the stairs. Needing a new manager would be one more item to add to the list of things to be worried about.
His phone vibrated on the table and he picked it up to check his messages.
Thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit? That’s it. I’m not coming.
Dred laughed. Had she checked the temperature because she was packing?
He texted back. I know all kinds of ways to keep you warm.
There was a pause. A long one. The kind he didn’t like because it meant Pix was thinking about his comment too hard. He grabbed his anchor.
I just bet you do ;-)
A surge of relief flooded through him, but this time he delayed responding. Was his flirting unfair? He’d never felt so conflicted. The pile of shit on his plate kept growing. How much time would he actually have for her?
And would she still want him if she knew it all?
*
“You keep running your hand over your head like that, Cujo, you’re going to lose hair.”
Pixie smiled as they turned onto I-195 toward the airport. His tick gave him away. In truth, she was as nervous as he was.
“Yeah, well, the idea of you heading to another country on your own is facilitating hair loss. I think Drea and I should come along for backup.”
“You freaking out is not helping, Dad.”
“Funny! I feel like your father right now. Feel like I should sit on the porch in a rocker holding a double barrel, scare the f*cker off.”
With her flight around half past seven in the morning, Cujo had insisted on picking her up shortly before five. When she first met Cujo all those years ago, it had taken her months to figure out why this guy would look out for her the way he did. His capacity to care for others was larger than anyone she’d ever met.
“I’m fine, Cujo. Honestly.” It was an exaggeration, but there was no need for him to know she’d debated cancelling.
Even now, she could still make the call. Arnie’s visit had left her rattled. His touch had left an invisible layer of dirt on her skin, one that couldn’t be scrubbed off in the shower.
The evening after his visit, she’d kicked herself for not asking more about her mom. Questions had crowded her mind as silvery slivers of moonlight weaved their way across her bedroom ceiling. Were they still together? Or worse, was her mom aware of what Arnie was doing? Thoughts of her mom condoning his actions turned Pixie’s stomach until the cramps forced her to curl up in a tight ball. Perhaps they’d separated and her mom had finally gotten clean. Pixie knew firsthand how hard it was to come down off all the pills she’d used to numb herself. Her own first couple of weeks in rehab were excruciating. Facing memories of what she’d endured without anything to take the edge off a perpetual nightmare that wouldn’t end. She’d cried for days.
“Say the word, Pix, and I’ll hop the plane with you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not a child. I don’t need a chaperone. You wouldn’t come with me if I went on a date in Miami. This is no different. I’ll be fine,” she said, patting his shoulder.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s me. I feel like I’m taking my kid to her first day of college and I am so not f*cking ready.”
Pixie laughed again. “I’m not that much younger, only ten years.”
“I’m not sure it’s the age thing, Pix. Remember my promise?”
She’d not been able to afford any kind of rehab, but Trent and Cujo had paid for outpatient treatment at a clinic. In the months that followed, it had become apparent they were both on really tight budgets while they started the studio, which made their support all the more meaningful. Trent had told her once about the moment they saw her in the doorway to the shop. She’d reminded them of Kit, his sister who had resorted to cutting herself at about the same age as Pixie was when they found her. They’d felt compelled to help.