Chapter Six #4
The more Dred read, the angrier he became.
The article didn’t just touch on Nikan’s present, but on the band’s past. It wasn’t a secret that they’d grown up in a boys’ home—not that they ever spoke outside the band about what happened before they were put there—but their files were sealed—yet somehow the magazine had gotten hold of the location of Ellen’s.
“Shit, man. We should get Sam on this. Have someone at the label force them to issue a retraction.”
“Retract what?” Nikan sounded defeated. “A fair chunk of it is true.”
“I get that. But what harm is there in talking to the team about damage control?”
“Yeah. Fuck. It’s hard enough staying sober, man.” Nikan ran his hands through his hair.
“You’re on top of this though, right? I don’t give a shit about our stupid fucking obligations. You need time away, bro, you go.”
If Dred was the leader of the band, Nikan was the head of their family.
He was the oldest, was the first to be placed with Ellen, and the first to leave.
He’d worked two jobs to afford the crappy two-bedroom apartment above a Greek restaurant on the Danforth for them all to stay at while they found work.
Without Nikan at the helm, they were all a little adrift.
Nikan stood up and swung his arms around as if preparing to exercise. “Nah. I got this. I’ll give Sam a call.” He collected his laptop and left.
Dred flopped back on the pillow. None of the nine families he’d stayed with over the years had breathed a word about his issues.
Like the time he destroyed the newly decorated bedroom of his second foster home because they wouldn’t tell him where his mom’s ashes were scattered.
He wondered occasionally if any of them ever would.
An exposé like that would be worth serious money.
Perhaps someone would sell him out eventually, and in some way, he’d already accepted it would happen.
Maybe it was na?ve to hope it wasn’t before he’d made enough money to not give a shit when it did.
Shit. Pixie. He scrambled for his phone.
On my way to the airport . . . Cujo’s driving is making me carsick :-)
It was almost laughable the way Trent and Cujo, two of the biggest guys he’d met, protected her when she could clearly kick his ass on her own.
And another message.
Boarding now. See you in a few hours if we don’t crash and burn.
Was she scared of flying? He hadn’t thought to ask.
Lying in bed thinking of you. Think about that instead.
The phone vibrated.
Sitting on a plane, possibly thinking about you (and not dying) too x
Three and a half hours later, Dred stood in the Toronto airport wearing a gray hat pulled low over his forehead.
He looked down at his phone, shoulders hunched, in a feeble attempt to fade into the background.
Periodically, he’d look up to check the board, and his heart sped up a little when he saw that Pixie’s flight had landed.
At his feet were two cups of Tim Hortons coffee, a double-double for him, white for her, and a bag containing his favorite honey cruller donuts.
The doors opened, and Pixie walked out pulling a bright purple carry-on.
He saw her before she found him. Yeah. With sparkling eyes and a bounce to her step, excitement emanated from her.
When had he last felt that outside of performing, that genuine, heartfelt optimism?
Wanting to draw out the moment of anticipation a little longer, he waited for her to find him.
Looking at Pixie’s figure in that fitted sweater dress and open leather jacket made his balls tighten.
The smile that broke out across her face when she finally saw him lit up the terminal.
With a squeal, she let go of the case handle, and threw her arms around his waist. “I’m in Canada. And I’m alive. I feel like I should kiss the floor like the Pope does or something.”
Dred laughed and wrapped her in his arms, savoring the feeling of her pressed up against him.
He sighed, enjoying the vibration he felt when they were together.
Some couples felt a sense of peace, but he felt the hum of potential.
Of something . . . more. “It’s good to see you, Pix.
” He kissed the top of her head. That lovely shock of deep purple hair.
He wondered what color her hair was naturally.
So many things they didn’t know about each other.
Banking all worries of recording, and DNA tests, and timelines, Dred stood and held her, turning from side to side gently as he took comfort from her very presence.
Pixie moved with him, her head buried against his chest.
The exterior doors slid open and an icy blast filtered through, piercing them with its sharp fingers. Pixie shivered as she looked up at him. “I feel like I survived the plane ride but I think Canada’s lame-ass attempt at spring might kill me.”
Christ, those eyes. And those ruby lips that had KISS ME written all over them. Dred lowered his head to hers.
“I told you, I’ll keep you warm, Pix,” he murmured before pressing his mouth to hers.
Her lips were soft, and she tasted of peppermint.
He threaded his fingers through her hair.
The way her body fit up against his was sweeter than a two-part harmony.
Lust gripped him with a fervor he’d never felt before.
He couldn’t get enough of her, his hands wanted to be everywhere at once.
This wasn’t a kiss. Kisses in his world were fleeting moments of enjoyment, a temporary distraction.
But this. Her mouth opened against his and his tongue danced, fucking danced, with hers.
It was honey crullers, an epic song lyric, and the Leafs winning the Stanley Cup all rolled up into one erotic package.
His hand tightened around her, holding her indecently close. When she moaned into his mouth, he came undone. Her hands crept up under his T-shirt, her smooth fingertips cool against his skin. An airport cart wheeled by and beeped.
Shit. They were still at the airport. Struggling to regain his composure, he ran his nose along Pixie’s jaw to her ear.
Fuck all the people going by him in a whirl. Fuck the group of tourists laughing as they walked by. And fuck the Greater Toronto Airport Authority for building the airport so far away from his fucking bed.