The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(67)

“Yeah, I got it covered,” Dred said, making a move to get out of the limo. Jordan placed a hand on his arm, stopping his progress. Dred looked down at it. “What the f*ck dude, we need to go.”

“You need to go see her, man. It’s wrong that you didn’t let her explain. I love you, brother, but you are behaving like a f*cking ass.”

“Do we have to go through this now, Jordan? Like it couldn’t wait the six painful hours until this shit is over?”

“You’re thinking about it anyway, so might as well. You deserve to be happy, man. And so does she. Trent wouldn’t be this pissed at you if there wasn’t more to the story than you let her tell you.”

Jordan stepped out of the limo, and Dred followed.

Standing amidst the flashing lights and the gauntlet of media outlets, he wished she were by his side. He hated this, the whole self-congratulatory evening with fifty thousand of his closest friends. He’d tried to talk Sam into cancelling their appearance, but they were nominated for Best Metal Performance and were favorites to win.

So he walked the line like he was supposed to, while his mind was firmly on the two other females in his life. Pixie and Petal.

His brothers were on the offensive. Questions about Petal were aimed at him thick and fast, but collectively they ignored them and talked about the band, the album, or the tour.

When the questions became antagonistic, Dred reached for his anchor, his hand coming up empty. Remorse filled him that in a fit of temper he’d thrown away one of the very few personal effects that meant anything to him. He’d find a photograph of him wearing it and have a jeweler custom-make him a new one.

Once inside, they waited for their category. Sure, he clapped when someone won, because you didn’t want to be the jerk the camera panned to, only to find you checking out your phone. He smiled as industry people walked by, occasionally standing to shake someone’s hand. But for the most part, Dred sat still in his seat, detached from what was going on around him.

He hadn’t even realized their category was up, until Lennon and Elliott jumped to their feet. Nikan grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him up, pulling him into a hug.

“Ten minutes and we’re out. Keep it together, bro,” Nikan whispered in his ear.

They jogged down the aisle to the stage. He wondered if Pixie was watching at home. She’d be on the sofa they’d hung out on the day she was ill, likely wearing ill-fitting pajamas to hide the figure he loved so much. He shook hands, smiled, raised the award in the air like he was meant to, but he had no words.

The guys stood back as always, waiting for him to step forward, but he had nothing he wanted to share. Winning awards, especially industry awards, was usually a thrill, but today it weighed heavy and cold in his hands.

Jordan looked toward him and silently tilted his head, but the what the f*ck dude and step up to the podium might as well have been shouted.

Nikan took over. “Wow. This is something else. Thanks to our manager Sam Parker for looking after us all these years . . .”

Dred looked around the huge Staples Centre Arena. People screaming their adoration surrounded him, but he’d never felt lonelier than he did right at that very moment. Lennon slung an arm over his shoulder, a casual act to an observer.

When he’d been a kid, one of the foster homes he’d lived in had a seesaw in the back garden, but he was the only child living there at the time, so he never got to use it. Every time he thought of Pixie and his commitment to stay away from drug addicts, he felt like he was on that seesaw. One minute, one side of the argument would win and he’d start planning his way back to Pixie; the next minute, he’d tip in favor of never seeing her again.

“ . . . So we’ll see those of you watching in Europe when our tour hits the road later this year. Cheers.”

The crowd roared again, and Dred wandered offstage in a daze.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nikan said as he walked up alongside Dred.

“I’m in. Let’s go find a seedy hole in the wall and blow off some steam,” Jordan agreed.

They were heading for the exit when Dred’s phone vibrated inside his leather jacket and he pulled it out. It was Maisey, Ellen’s wife. “Hold on, guys.” Dred stepped away, his heart racing to the sound of the music playing in the background. Some stupid electronic shit he hated. It was nearly ten in the evening in Toronto, why the hell was she calling so late?

“Maisey, hey. Can you hear me?” He pressed his hand against his other ear and found a spot sheltered by crates and scenery.

“Dred, I hate to call you like this, but I have some bad news.”

“What’s happened? Is Ellen okay?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, child. Ellen is fine, but I’m sorry, Amanda Veitch died earlier today. The police who were called to the scene notified social services. And it was a good thing I went along to all those meetings with you about her, because Petal’s social worker, Kate, called me to give me a head’s up.”

Dred’s knees gave out and he dropped to the floor. “Is Petal . . . is she okay?

“Dred, Petal is absolutely fine. But you need to get home as soon as possible.”

“Do you know what happened to Amanda? Was it an overdose?”

“It is too early to tell, Dred. There will likely be an investigation, an autopsy at a minimum. You’ll have to be patient. But hurry, Petal will be put into temporary foster care until you get home.”