“Fuck, yes. Of course. The band . . . they’re my brothers in every way that matters.” Dred cupped her cheeks and studied her intently. “Nothing will happen to you. You have my word.”
Memories of sitting on that damn stool flooded her. Arnie had planned to go fishing with two friends, but first he’d invited the men she didn’t know into the trailer. They’d stood laughing as he exposed her to them and then calmly braided her long hair. Yeah. Was it any wonder she’d needed drugs to get through it?
Pixie shook the memories away. “Don’t let me down.”
Dred kissed the inside of her wrist. Unexpected, yet heartbreakingly appropriate.
“Never,” he said with a grin. “I’d love to take you on a full tour, but we don’t have time. We have reservations in an hour and a half.”
He grabbed her case and led her upstairs. The house seemed to split on the upper floors almost like an apartment building. Each door had a lock, but they were mostly open.
“This is Elliot and Lennon’s floor,” Dred said walking toward the second flight of stairs. “Nikan is over there,” he said, pointing to a door on the right as they reached the landing. “Jordan has the attic, and I am right here.”
He pushed open the door to what looked like a spacious bachelor apartment and placed her case on a large bed. A brown sofa sat in the large bay window with a small coffee table in front of it. Several guitars hung from hooks on the wall, and an electronic piano sat beneath them. Cables ran from the keyboard to a laptop on a black desk, where speakers and what looked like a mixing board where almost hidden by piles of sheet music.
It looked like a super high-end dorm and didn’t really match Dred at all. He seemed too big, too uncomfortable in the space, even though it was his room.
“Fuck. This was a bad idea,” Dred mumbled as she looked around.
She turned to face him, but the look on his face stole the words from her mouth. He looked wrecked. Broken.
“There’s a bathroom through there. We need to leave in an hour. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Without waiting for an answer, he left the room and slammed the door behind him, taking Pixie’s feelings of safety with him.
* * *
Watching a deflated Pixie push Tabülè around her plate, Dred was fully aware it was his fault.
Despite his best intentions, seeing her in his room buried any ideas he had about their future. At least for the time being. How could he expect her to fly all this way to see him to stay in a bedroom in a shared house? Granted, the architect who’d worked on the conversion for them had ensured every individual space was at least a thousand square feet, but still. He had roommates. And for the first time, it seemed really fucking weird.
He’d never leave Jordan. There was no way Jordan would ever feel alone again, and if that meant living with the dude until they were old and gray, so be it. But how on earth could he explain that to Pixie? What words could possibly express the bond they had?
This was why he avoided relationships. Or at least that was what he’d told himself over the years. Staring at Pixie as she reached for her wine glass, he realized the reason was a whole lot more complex than that. He honestly didn’t feel like he was worthy of her. She was so fucking special, and he gave her a bedroom in a shared house.
Tabülè, the Middle Eastern restaurant on Queen Street was one of his favorites. Everything from the ma’anek, the spicy Lebanese sausages, to the tawük, skewers of seasoned chicken, was so good, he always ordered way more than he could eat, yet neither of them was enjoying the food.
Fuck. He pulled on his anchor until the clasp at the back cut into his neck.
“I’m sorry, Pix.”
She looked over to him, her hazel eyes wide yet lacking their usual sparkle. In that off-the-shoulder top, all he could think about was nibbling his way along her collarbone.
“What happened? Why did you get mad?” Pixie put her knife and fork down.
“Because I do sometimes. Walking away to cool down is better than destroying what’s in front of me. I was disappointed.” Crushingly so. Because impressing Pixie seemed more than important. It was crucial. And less than two kilometers away, north of Bloor, he owned his dream home. Yet the Bay Street CFO he currently rented it to was living his own perfect family life in it.
“Why were you disappointed?”
“I wanted you to enjoy being here with me, in the hope I could convince you to come here again. Instead, I take you to the grown-man equivalent of a frat house. A fucking expensive, twelve-thousand-square-foot building that always felt like home until you were in it. Then I wanted to be somewhere else with you. And that’s fucking selfish.”
Dred sighed. They should call it a night, maybe order pizza.
She held his hands. “Something really bad happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“To you?”
“To all of us.”
Pixie nodded. “Do you still want me here?”
“Yes. But if I had half a brain, I’d put you on the next flight home.” He attempted a smile.
“Well.” Pixie made some weird gesture with her hands, like she was opening a magazine. “This is an invisible worry box. All those things on your mind, put them in there.”
“Pix, I’m not—”
“Now. Please.” Pixie sat a little straighter, head tilted, and pierced him with her glare.
Dred rolled his eyes, and pretended to place his worries in the box. Jordan. Not being enough for her. The house. Not being worthy of her. His mom. Not being worth loving. It was dumb, foolish even. But remarkably, he felt calmer. And he hadn’t needed his anchor.
“All done?” asked Pixie.
“Yes.” He watched as she made a show of closing the lid and tying a bow around the box.
“Now,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m Sarah, but you can call me Pixie.” She held her hand out.
He shook it, then kissed the back of it. She’d told him her real name, and he remembered from his time at her apartment in Miami that it was something she really hadn’t wanted to share. The idea she would pick now to tell him ignited a flicker of hope in his chest. A deep burning that told him he hadn’t totally blown it. “I’m Theodred, but you can call me Dred.”
Pixie smiled at him, and the flicker turned into an inferno. But for the first time he could remember, the slow grind of anger that hummed under his skin wasn’t there. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm.
They ate the rest of their dinner, and enjoyed künafa ashta with its sweet custard and pastry layers for dessert.
“Oh my goodness, I feel so full,” Pixie exclaimed as they left the restaurant.
Dred put his credit card away and flagged a taxi. He took her across town to the Roof Lounge at the Park Hyatt so she could see the city, not that they’d be able to stay out on the tiny terrace for long because it was too cold to enjoy it.
“Lennon owns a condo a couple of minutes’ walk over there on Bloor Street.” He pointed west as they pulled up and a bellman rushed to open the door. “It used to be the Bedford Ballroom. He says he lost his virginity in the washroom over a decade ago so it has sentimental value.”
Dred paid the driver and they headed up to the eighteenth floor. Once there, he took Pixie’s hand, leading her straight through the small bar and to a door on the opposite wall.
“Wow.” Pixie walked over to the railing and looked out over the city.
Yeah. He felt the same way every time he came up here. He stood behind her, and pulled her into his arms.
“So, that’s the CN Tower. It was the world’s tallest tower for thirty-four years, right? I read that on Wikipedia.”
“Something like that. And there’s the SkyDome where the Blue Jays play. It’s named after some corporate sponsor now, but it’s still the SkyDome to me.”
He remembered the Christmas when Maisey bought them all tickets to go watch a game the following July. It had been a beautiful summer day. The roof was wide open, and there
was a slight breeze blowing in off Lake Ontario. One of the rare and perfect days of his childhood.
“In the taxi, you mentioned that Lennon owns a penthouse close to here. Why does he not live in it?”
Pixie turned and leaned against the railing. Wind flipped her hair across her face. He pushed it out of the way and kissed her lips.
“Let’s take this inside, and I’ll explain.”
Once they had drinks in hand, double Balvenie for him, and for Pixie, some fruity drink with a cocktail umbrella, they found a seat.
They managed to snag one of the fireside sofas and took their coats off to get settled. Pixie curled a leg underneath her and faced him. He couldn’t resist running his fingers over her thigh. He took a large gulp of whiskey and leaned toward her so he could keep his voice down.
“We’ve all lived together for about fifteen years . . . some a little longer, some a little less. What do you know about group homes and crown wards?”
“Not much.”
Where was he going to start? He had no idea. All he knew was he felt a compelling need to be honest with her.
“When your parents die or can no longer look after you, they try to find a family member to take you in. They call it a kinship arrangement. While they figure that out, you’re put in temporary foster care. If they can’t find any family, they put you up for adoption. In Ontario, if you don’t get adopted, and have been permanently removed from your family, you remain a permanent ward called a crown ward.”
Pixie squeezed his hand. “How old were you?”
“Eleven.” He took another sip of whiskey, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat.
“And you’ve all lived together ever since?” Pixie removed the umbrella from her drink, sucked on the end, then tucked it behind her ear.
No one else in the upscale lounge would have dreamed of doing something like that. Yet with her sexy-as-fuck tattoos and a colorful umbrella behind her ear, she was more beautiful than any of them. He slid his fingers further along her thigh and watched her eyes flare in response.
“Yeah. We all had . . . adjustment issues. You pretty much get kicked out of the system at eighteen. Maisey, our social worker, encouraged us to look out for each other, but it was hard adapting to being on our own. So we agreed to live together to help get through it. But those issues have never been resolved.”
“Do you think they ever will?”
“I have hope. They’re my brothers. Leave no man behind and all that.”
Pixie gazed at the fire, and Dred finished his drink. He continued to stroke her leg, and in spite of the conversation, it turned him on as he brushed higher and higher. If only he could feel her skin rather than the tight black denim she wore.
“I respect you more for that than anything you’ve said to me before.” Pixie turned back to face him. “I mean it.”
Dred leaned in and brushed her lips. “Thank you.”
“I need to go to the washroom. Be right back.”
He watched her walk toward the exit, and pulled out his phone, needing to scribble down the lyrics in his head.
This is crazy. So, so crazy. And it’s painful. So, so, painful.
It was going to make a great chorus, if only Pixie could inspire him with the rest of the song.
* * *
Desmond said a man came to the condo looking for you today. You got two guys on the go, sweet cheeks? :-) P.S. Hope the rock star is treating you like a princess.
Pixie read Lia’s message over and over, then glanced up at Dred who was busily building a fire. From a fun afternoon, they’d had a serious evening, although the mood had lightened considerably once she’d returned from the bathroom. Instead of another drink at the bar, they’d decided to return to Dred’s home and watch a movie.
Yes to the princess. No to a second guy. Can you charm Desmond into giving me a headshot from the security cameras?
The head of security in their apartment building had a soft spot for Lia. The man Desmond referred to had to be Pixie’s stepdad. The idea of him turning up unannounced at her home made her skin itch.
“There. That should keep us going for a while.”
Pixie watched Dred stoke the fire. There was something very . . . manly . . . about it. Plus, she got to check out his ass. His mighty-fine ass. Which was tough, because she was in knots from his flirty kisses and the way he ran his fingers along her thigh all night.
And there was the crux of her issue.
While attending rehab, the counsellor had tried to help her unravel her mangled feelings about intimate relationships. Her synapses were crossed after years of conditioning. Her stepfather had been a voyeur. He used to make her watch pornography, and he’d get off on her response to it. Sometimes he’d make her read erotic stories to him or his friends who’d laugh at her as she stumbled through the pages. It confused her. Sometimes the material aroused her in spite of the insidious fear that crawled through her. It left her feeling dirty, something that had dogged all of her attempts at adult relationships.
The sweet sugary smell of popcorn filled the air, and a bottle of whiskey complete with two glasses sat on the table in front of her.
With a loud clang, Dred replaced the poker in the stand and moved the fireguard back in place. He stepped back, but seemed to watch the fire snap and crackle for a moment. Eventually, he joined her on the sofa that could well have been a bed given its size.
“Come here,” he growled, and effortlessly pulled her up against him. “Fuck, I’ve eaten burgers that weigh more than you do.”
Pixie couldn’t help but laugh. When she’d first seen Dred fill the doorway of Second Circle, his size had intimidated her, which was strange, because she was so used to being around Trent and Cujo. Now she felt secure in his embrace. “I’ll take that as a compliment. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I don’t gain weight. I hated being scrawny when I was younger.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not scrawny now.” Dred rubbed his hand down her side, tracing the indent of her waist and sliding his hand under the hemline of her blouse. He reached for the remote and turned on the wall-mounted television “What do you feel like?” he asked, pulling up the movie menu.
It was hard to make a decision with him touching her. He dragged the tips of his nails, which she’d noticed were filed at funny angles, lazily across her skin. Painfully aware of the way his body surrounded hers, it was a wonder she could remember her own name.
“Action? Horror? . . . I’m drawing a line at chick flicks”
“Musical? You don’t want to watch Pitch Perfect? Or Les Miserables? Will you join in our crusade? Who will be strong and stand with me?”
Dred put a hand over her mouth, cutting off one of her most favorite songs. “I’d rather eat my own arm,” he deadpanned.
She giggled and put him out of his misery. “Old-school horror. Well, old school for me. Nightmare on Elm Street, Poltergeist, Hellraiser. Something like that.”
“Aren’t you a constant surprise?” Dred scrolled through the list. “How about The Shining?”
“Perfect.”
Dred started the movie and settled back into the sofa, and Pixie got comfortable leaning against him. She could hear his heart beat. A slow-and-steady throb that beat in time to the haunting melodic notes of the opening scene. The camera panned across the lake, and caught up with a vehicle winding its way through a dense Colorado forest, but Pixie could barely pay attention.
What was it about this man’s fingers? Perhaps it was the heat from the fireplace that was warming her, or the way Dred’s teasing strokes had moved from her back to an inch beneath the waistband of her jeans.
Maybe if she focused more on Kubrick’s exceptional directing and the symbolism of room 237, the arousal she felt would diminish. Or maybe if she dissected Jack Nicolson’s performance as Jack Torrance, it would drive away the need to slide her hands across Dred’s chest to feel if those pecs were as hard as she imagined.
Pixie sat up and reached for her whiske
y—maybe the sharp bite would quell the feelings. It felt strange to end their first date in his arms, or even his bed for that matter, but with Dred it felt different. She turned the stout crystal tumbler in her hand. Dred leaned forward and took the glass from her, placing it back on the table.
Like he did with the fire, he stoked flames within her. She turned to face him, and he cupped her cheek.
When his lips meshed against hers, they carried none of the softness she’d experienced over the course of the day, instead they reminded her of all of the pent-up energy he’d unleashed the night of the concert. A vital expression of his hunger.
“Fuck,” he growled against her mouth.
His kiss consumed her and turned her inside out, leaving her all kinds of raw.
He tugged her to him and she fell forward, hands pressed against the contours of his solid chest. Strong hands ran down her back, the sensations too overwhelming to consider the implications of where they were heading. He reached under her butt and lifted her so that she straddled him. She’d never been with such a physically intimidating man before, and his raw strength turned her on.
She forced away feelings of guilt, attempted to sever the past and present.
Dred pulled away from her. “Sorry, Pix, I . . . Fuck . . . Ten more seconds.”
Pixie fought against the riptide he created. Just when she felt like she had her head above water, Dred groaned against her lips, his muttered curses of desire pulling her back under. She was drowning. Pixie pushed against his chest, torn between the fear and desire of continuing.
“Sorry, Pix. Being around you is . . .”
“Yeah. I know.” She sighed, collecting her emotions that seemed to have run all over the floor like errant marbles. She fidgeted on his lap.
“As good as that feels, Pix, I’m trying to ignore the way your ass feels pressed against my cock.” He looked down at her, his eyes giving none of his feelings away, but the hard ridge of his erection said enough.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Dred lifted her off him and lay down lengthways on the sofa. He held out his hand to her. “Come back here, Snowflake.” She liked the way he called her that. It had a purity to it she wasn’t sure she possessed.
The Purest Hook (Second Circle Tattoos) Page 10
