Chapter Seven #2
“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.”