The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(60)

Deliberately ignoring the buzzer, she headed for the elevator. He’d be pissed she didn’t let him up, but then so was she to be giving him a thousand dollars of her hard-earned money. Money she’d been saving; money she didn’t want to part with.

The elevator pinged open and Arnie stood by the buzzer, pressing it furiously. When he saw her, he jerked away from the panel. “I thought I told you,” he hissed under his breath, “that you will never bar me from your apartment again.”

“And I know I told you, it would be a cold day in hell before I let you into my home. This is the last of it,” she lied, focusing on keeping her face neutral and her stance firm. She jammed the envelope into his hand. “I’m not giving you anymore.”

“I think you’re missing the point, Sarah. This isn’t about you giving me everything you have. It’s about you getting me everything I want. You can go to your TV-star boss or your rock-star boyfriend, I don’t give a shit which you choose. But you will get me more money, or this”—he pulled something from his back pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper—“will make it into the wrong hands.”

Pixie opened it and gasped in shock. Brewster lay on the floor, a giant red stain covering the lower part of his shirt. Right where she’d stabbed him the night she found out her stepdad planned to sell her virginity to the highest bidder. Tears filled her eyes as she took in the look on her own face. The look of abject shock, the absence of any color in her cheeks, and the way the knife hung loosely by her side made her want to weep for the young girl she clearly was. In all her recollections of that night, she always imagined herself as she was now. A grown-up. It shocked her to see how very young she had been when it all happened. The paper shook in her hands.

With a voice that sounded incrementally stronger than she actually felt, Pixie said, “No. I’m done with the threats. You can’t keep taking money from me because of this. I might have been the one holding the knife, but you might as well have been the one to kill him. You took this photograph. If I am in trouble, you are. So take the money, and get the f*ck out of my life.”

Arnie laughed and dramatically bent forward resting his hands on his knees. “Good one, Sarah-Jane. Holy f*ck, you almost had me believing that little speech.” He stood up straight, pretended to wipe tears from his eyes, then narrowed his eyes menacingly. “You can’t prove I took this photograph. You can’t even prove I was there. Let’s play a little Russian roulette, shall we? Monday next week, you’ll give me another thousand dollars, or the police will receive that photograph.” He leaned toward her and breathed deeply as he ran his nose against her neck. “God, you smell good, Sarah-Jane. See you on Monday.”

Pixie stood paralyzed, unable to gather her thoughts. The way his nose had rubbed against her skin made her feel sick. The sight of the knife in her hand, proof that she killed a man, made her so lightheaded, she reached out to the wall for support.

She needed some time. Some peace. Something that would take away the stress and panic while she decided what to do.

Drugs had done that for her once, and she couldn’t possibly . . .

It would only be this once, right?

She knew how to control it now. She knew which drugs were easier to quit. There had been no drugs in her system for so many years, it would only take a small dose to grind the edge off.

It was a good idea.

Pixie snapped back into the moment and shook her head furiously. No. There was no way she was going back to that.

The elevator opened and a couple of neighbors got out. Pixie jumped in and focused on getting back to the apartment. Folding the paper as she walked, she headed for her bedroom where she hid the photograph in the back of one of her pattern books.

Then Pixie reached for her phone and dialed a number she hadn’t had reason to call in a while.

“Hello.” The sound of Justin’s deep voice took her back to a place she didn’t really want to be, despite the fact he was the third part of the Trent and Cujo triumvirate who had saved her.

“Justin, it’s Sarah-Jane.” Justin was the only person who ever called her that. Even when she had wanted to escape it and simply be Pixie, he’d challenged her to not let her past take control of who she was.

“Sarah-Jane,” he said in surprise. “It’s been a while. How are you?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I haven’t relapsed once, but today I need help. I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Meet me at the usual spot. I’m on my way,” he said, and she heard a door slam. “Do you need me to stay on the line with you until I get there?”

Tears pricked the corner of her eyes. No questions, no explanations—Justin would be there for her. “No, but I’ll call back if that changes.”

A car engine revved loudly.

“Okay. See you in less than fifteen. You got this. I know you do.”

Pixie hung up the phone and headed out to meet her sponsor.

It would be a cold day in hell before she’d let Arnie send her back there.

*

There wasn’t much time left on the flight from Toronto to Miami, so Dred took a last look at the band’s priorities list before the flight attendants started the annoying “shut down electronics” announcements. It had taken Sam the better part of a week to pull together an organized agenda of all their bookings and activities for the next six months. It was ridiculous to think it took him that long. Shouldn’t it all be on a f*cking calendar? With all the money they were paying him, Sam had hired an assistant, although Dred suspected her hiring was more to do with her Playboy looks than her organizational skills.