The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos #3)(92)

“What do you mean, you created extra interest?” Nikan asked, clutching his arm.

“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “All the stories. I put stuff into the press to generate interest, then got retractions and apologies, even financial settlements to keep you happy.”

Pixie’s mouth was so dry, but she needed to ask. “Why me?” she croaked.

“Because you distracted them. Distracted Dred. Without you around, he was focused. Dedicated. But around you, he was arranging additional trips, missing meetings.”

The ceiling was beginning to move in circles above her, leaving her nauseated. Pixie closed her eyes again. Her head was still spinning when additional voices flooded the room.

“Please, help her. She’s been hit about the head. She’s been in and out for at least twenty minutes,” Dred said.

“What’s her name? Please, sir, can you step out of the way for us?” a different voice said.

“It’s Sarah-Jane. Sarah-Jane Travers.”

She felt Dred’s hand slip away. Come back. She needed the connection. It gave her something to come back to, something to swim toward. She needed to do something to get Dred’s attention. She put all her effort into reaching out for him.

“Snowflake,” he said as he grabbed her hand. “I’m here, gorgeous. You need to stay calm.”

“Please, sir. We need to check her out.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to work around me, because I’m not going anywhere.”

Pixie groaned and forced her eyes open. “No . . . drugs,” she whispered.

“What Sarah-Jane? Can you talk to me?” the paramedic asked.

She tugged on Dred’s hand.

“What, Snowflake?”

“No . . . drugs.” Dred finally came into focus.

“She’s a recovering addict, but she’s been sober for over six years,” he told the paramedic while looking straight at her, his dark brown eyes red-rimmed.

“Is Petal okay?” she asked.

“She’s fine, Snowflake. Let the paramedic do what he needs to do to get you to hospital. We can talk once we’re there.”

Pixie closed her eyes again, aware that for the first time in years, there was no threat, no sword of Damocles hanging over her head. She was free to live her life with Dred.

“Stay with me,” she whispered.

“Where you go, I go,” Dred replied, burying his head against her chest. “Always.”

*





Epilogue


Three months after that awful day, there were several sounds that Pixie had come to associate with happiness. The first was Petal’s attempts to say da-da. Dred was beside himself with joy at her first word. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she said it all the time, to everything she came into contact with. The second was the ringtone of her new phone. The one that was set up for her new clothing company called Partture, a play on “party” and “couture.” With Dred in town, but busy recording the album, and the new body-mod expert taking part of the managing load at the tattoo studio, she had time to ramp up her sewing. And the third was the sound of a key being placed in a lock, because it meant Dred was home, and they were a unit again. She loved the independence she had with her work and friends, but having never had a real family of her own, she wanted to spend as much time as she could with Dred and Petal, even if it was a slightly old-fashioned point of view.

Tonight was no exception. She’d been embroidering the hem of a polka-dot ladybug dress while half-watching Evita on television. Jonathan Pryce was wonderful as Juan Perón. Then she heard the click, and it set her body on fire.

Dred had been texting her on and off all day. Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about the things he wanted to do with her when he got home. Each more descriptive than the last, leaving her all hot and bothered, and desperate for everything he promised.

She heard the door shut, and her body shivered in response.

Dred walked into the living room, placed his guitar case next to the sofa, and flashed his sexy-ass grin. He was dressed head to toe in black, like he was most days. But those jeans fit him like a second skin, and the black T-shirt of some band she’d never heard of was soft as sin and tight everywhere that mattered.

“Hey, Snowflake. How was your day?” He sat next to her on the sofa, took her sewing out of her hands, and pulled her against him. She liked the way he manhandled her. It had taken several weeks for Dred to stop treating her like she would shatter. She’d Rule three’d him more times than she cared to remember. It took welcoming him home one evening in nothing but one of his Toronto Maple Leafs jerseys to force him past it.

“My day was fine. I called mom and we talked some more.” It was a slow process, rebuilding her relationship with her mother. On one hand, Pixie was smart enough to realize from her own experiences that dependency on drugs changed the very essence of who you were. But on the other, she’d been a child when Arnie abused her, and her mom hadn’t done anything to stop it, even after she’d reported it to her teacher.

“How did that go?” Dred asked, running his hand up and down her back reassuringly.

“About the same. She’s keen for us to spend a little more time together, but I’m not there yet.”

“Go at your own speed. She can wait for you.”