The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(28)

Cujo had driven her to her first appointment. It was the kind of day you could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Her mouth was drier than the sand on South Beach, and her head pounded, but she’d been determined to not take any painkillers. The only parking spot had been a block away. The walk to the rehab center felt like a death march. Self-doubt the consistency of syrup pushed its way through her veins, sluggish and dark. What if she failed?

“You can do this,” Cujo said.

How had he known what she was thinking? “I don’t know that I can,” she replied honestly.

“Yeah, you can. You aren’t alone, Pixie. I’m here for you. I promise.”

“Like my boyfriend?” she asked, sickened at the thought of what he might expect in return.

“No, Pix. I’m nowhere near good enough, and I’m too f*cking old for you. But I’ll replace every shithead that let you down.”

“I remember,” she whispered.

“Well, I meant it then, and I do now.”

Pixie sat in silence. She owed Cujo and Trent more than they would ever understand. There wasn’t a way to repay them. Which was part of the reason she felt bad about wanting to start her dress business. She didn’t want to leave Trent or Cujo, but she wanted the opportunity to grow, and possibly make more money so she could get her own place. They’d tried to teach her to tattoo, both of them having the patience of Job, but she was never going to be close to their skills, and it was time they all admitted it.

Cujo pulled up at the terminal and got out of the car. Pixie dropped down from the truck as he pulled her suitcase from the back.

“Okay,” he said, setting the small case on its wheels. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white envelope. “I got you this. If you don’t use it, you can give it back to me when you come home.”

Pixie opened the envelope to find a credit card.

“It’s preloaded with six hundred dollars.”

“What is this for?” Pixie asked, pulling the card out.

“Emergencies. I want you to know you can leave Dred’s place at any time, walk into a hotel, and get a room.”

Pixie flung her arms round Cujo’s waist. She didn’t need the money, and could afford to get herself out of trouble, but that wasn’t what the card was about.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his chest.

Cujo put his hands on her arms and pushed her away from him. “Yeah. Well, Drea said don’t do anything she wouldn’t do, which knowing Shortcake like I do, doesn’t leave much. So be careful.”

“I’m only gone for thirty-six hours, Cujo,” she laughed.

“For now,” Cujo said with a grin.

As Pixie walked toward the airline check-in desk, she wondered if Cujo could possibly be right.

*

Something hit his ribs, hard.

“Yo, Dred. Wake up, man.”

Dred opened one eye to find Nikan standing at the side of the bed with his laptop. He squinted over to the window. It was still dark outside.

“What time is it?” he asked, reaching for his phone. Six thirty. And two texts from Pixie. She’d be at the airport, possibly on the plane. He started to read them.

Nikan whipped the phone out of his hands and flicked on the lamp.

“Asshole. Give that back,” Dred said gruffly.

“In a minute. Look at this.” Nikan handed him his laptop.

Dred blinked in a feeble attempt to focus. Preload Relapse. Nikan spins out of control. He scanned the article and winced at how much was true. Between the end of the promotional tour for the last album and starting the recording of the new one, Nikan had gone back into rehab. At the time, a whole load of shit had been pulling on the strings of Nikan’s sobriety, but he sure as hell hadn’t been found facedown in a pool of his own vomit. Dred immediately wanted to kill the “source close to the band” that had reported it that way. Nikan had made the decision with the band’s complete blessing before he’d touched a drop of alcohol and then the band was behind him one hundred percent when he’d voluntarily gone to get help.

“They’ve gone with the f*cking clichéd First Nations alcohol shit again. I was four years old when we left the res. It’s got f*ck all to do with that.” Nikan started to pace. Never a good sign.

The more Dred read, the angrier he became. The article didn’t just touch on Nikan’s present, but on the band’s past. It wasn’t a secret that they’d grown up in a boys’ home—not that they ever spoke outside the band about what happened before they were put there—but their files were sealed—yet somehow the magazine had gotten hold of the location of Ellen’s.

“Shit, man. We should get Sam on this. Have someone at the label force them to issue a retraction.”

“Retract what?” Nikan sounded defeated. “A fair chunk of it is true.”

“I get that. But what harm is there in talking to the team about damage control?”

“Yeah. Fuck. It’s hard enough staying sober, man.” Nikan ran his hands through his hair.

“You’re on top of this though, right? I don’t give a shit about our stupid f*cking obligations. You need time away, bro, you go.”

If Dred was the leader of the band, Nikan was the head of their family. He was the oldest, was the first to be placed with Ellen, and the first to leave. He’d worked two jobs to afford the crappy two-bedroom apartment above a Greek restaurant on the Danforth for them all to stay at while they found work. Without Nikan at the helm, they were all a little adrift.