The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(47)

Unable to stomach much more, Dred wrapped up the conversation and stepped outside the law office. Sometimes the law protected the rights of the wrong people. He walked the four kilometers home. Spring had finally started to show its face, although right now he’d much prefer an ice storm, one that would match his mood, dangerous and frigid. Dred slammed the front door so hard, the glass around it rattled.

He took his coat off in the mudroom and hung it on his hook. Fuck. The lawyer was right. He was a grown man and he had a f*cking coat hook, like a cubby for kindergarteners in day care. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? He could easily give the family living in his Rosedale home their notice and make plans to move in there. But what would happen to Jordan? Perhaps for now, the rest of the guys could remain at the house with him until all the legal mess was taken care of.

Voices filtered through from the living room. Nikan was angry, which was rare. The paternalistic peacekeeper was the last to lose his cool. Dred wandered through into the living room. Lennon sat on the floor next to the fire. Jordan and Elliot shared the sofa. Sam sat in an armchair, and Nikan was tapping his index finger against the center of his forehead. A sure sign he was pissed off.

“You’re late,” Sam said, his voice laced with frustration. “I don’t ask for much. Just that you turn up on time for team meetings.”

“Fuck you, Sam. If you put the meeting in the calendar for the same time each week, it wouldn’t be so hard to keep track.”

“How did it go?” Jordan asked.

“Don’t ask,” he said, taking the chair across from Sam. “I walked back, needed some space.”

“Where were you?” Sam asked.

“With a lawyer. About Petal.”

Sam leaned forward in the chair, resting his forearms on his knees. “You have enough money to make all this go away.”

Lennon jumped to his feet. “Go away? Go. Away. That’s his f*cking kid you are talking about, you heartless bastard.”

Sam stood. “What? You think coming to live with you guys like the Waltons—all good-night Jim Bob—will be the right thing for a baby?”

It hit a raw nerve. Everything the lawyer said about his living arrangements was true. To do the right thing for Petal, perhaps even for him and Pixie, was to move into his own home, but how could he do that? He looked across at Jordan then back to Sam. “It’s better than living with a junkie of a mother, I should f*cking know!” Dred shouted.

The room dropped silent, the audible equivalent of a mic drop.

Dred forced his breathing back under control. For a moment, he wished Pixie was standing by his side. She had the ability to calm him when he was this wound up. He thought back to Sam finding her in his hotel room. He’d been furious then too, but her hand on his chest had sucked the anger from his as surely as if he’d been connected to a drain.

Everyone slowly but surely returned to their seats. Nikan walked by, squeezed his shoulder, and sat down on the arm of Dred’s chair.

“Why don’t you let me take care of this for you?” Sam offered, his tone reconciliatory. “I can deal with the lawyers. Leave you to focus on the album.”

Dred sat down again. “No thanks, Sam. You take care of my professional life, and I’ll take care of my personal one. What were you guys arguing about when I came in?”

“He wants to add dates to the start of the European leg of the tour,” Nikan said, looking into the fire. “We’ll still be finishing the album. The new tracks won’t be practiced or arranged to play live. We want to add the dates to the end of the tour.”

“Makes sense. So what’s the problem with that, Sam? Because you keep piling all this shit on us, one of us is going to lose it.”

“Fine.” Sam dramatically wiped his hands. “I am done with this conversation. You don’t want to accommodate the label’s wishes, I’ll let them know. But one of these days, you’ll be replaced by someone who is willing and able”—he looked at each of them for a moment—“to do what they want. I’m trying my very best for you guys, yet you never respect that.”

“Sam,” Nikan said, his temper cooled and his peacemaker tone very much evident. “Of course we respect you. But the asks are sometimes ridiculous, and I’m sure you know that when you ask us. Could you at least act like you recognize that? Aren’t we on the same team, or do you work for them?”

“Of course I work for you. I always have,” Sam replied.

“Fine. Then let’s figure this out.”

Hours later, when the conversation was over, and dinner had been eaten, Dred found himself alone in his room. He picked up the phone and called Pixie. The shop was most definitely closed, and he hoped she was at home. The phone rang once then was answered.

“Hey, let me turn this down,” Pixie said.

He could hear loud music playing, a musical as always. Something about the crème de la crème of the chess world and Yul Brynner, which seemed a totally random combination.

The music suddenly died. “What was that, Snowflake?”

Pixie laughed, the sound music to his ears after the day he’d had. “The Chess soundtrack. Written by the guys from ABBA about a cold-war chess tournament. I need to educate you.”

“Yeah. No, you don’t. Sounds boring as f*ck. I can live without it, thanks. What are you up to?” He swivelled on the sofa, put his feet up on the opposite arm to the one he was leaning against.