Chapter Thirteen #2
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 fuck 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.”
“Can’t you take her? I’ll come and get her from you as soon as I get home.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Dred, but get home quickly and we’ll figure it out together. I’ll have all the details for you when you land.”
“Six hours, seven tops. I’ll figure it out.”
“Fly safe, Dred. You’re all she has now.”
Dred picked himself up off the floor and rushed to the band who was celebrating with Sam. “I need to get back to Toronto. Now!”
“Let’s go,” Nikan said.
“Guys, wait up.” Sam ran up alongside them with their wall of security. “What’s going on? You should stay. Go to the after-party.”
“Petal has been placed in foster care. Amanda died today.”
“Let’s hustle. Sam, can you get a jet? We’ll need to go back to the house to get your passport,” Elliott said.
He heard Sam talking to someone, hopefully getting him on the next available plane, while the security team hustled them through the rear entrance of the Staples Centre.
“What the fuck,” Lennon said, once they were all in the limo and on their way to the Hollywood Hills. “What happened?” he asked, frantically. “Is Petal okay?”
Dread swallowed hard and nodded, trying to bank the overwhelming feelings from his childhood of being left alone. He reached for his phone and dialed Petal’s social worker.
He promised his baby girl that he would always be there for her, yet at forty-one days old she was going to spend her first night in emergency foster care.
And it sickened him to the very core that the pattern of his life was already repeating for her.
* * *
“It’s quiet today,” Trent said stripping the protective plastic wrapped around his tattoo equipment. He’d just finished up a neck tattoo for a regular client.
It was only three in the afternoon, but the studio was unusually empty. Eric was processing the credit card of a young woman visiting from Phoenix who’d wanted a spiritual saying tattooed on the inside of her forearm, and he’d done a kick-ass job with the calligraphy.
“Yeah,” Pixie acknowledged, heading to Eric’s station to clean it for him. “Although it’s a bit like the calm before the storm of the weekend.”
“Do you want to practice some more, Pix? We could work on lettering. You were starting to get the hang of it.”
The front door swung open and Cujo ambled in for his shift. “Hey, guys. Are we closed or what?” He looked around the studio at all the empty stations.
Eric’s client said good-bye and left.
“Was about to give Pix another lesson on lettering, unless you want to do it so I can head out early. Gotta get the painting I’m doing for Harper’s anniversary present finished then head to the airport for filming tomorrow.”
“Anniversary of what?” Cujo asked.
Trent laughed. “Of the day I kissed her on a pavement outside a pool hall.”
“Yeah, well, on our anniversary, Drea’ll get me as a gift, and that’s enough. Harper needs one of your paintings as consolation for ending up with you.”
“Asshole.” Trent shook his head.
Pixie watched as Trent and Cujo disappeared into the office.
Thinking about how happy the two of them were hurt, but not as much as watching the New Music Press Awards on Sunday had, curled up on the sofa with her favorite ice cream.
A pain akin to needles being driven into her eyes had tortured her as she watched Dred step out of his limo and walk the red carpet into the Staples Centre.
But seeing him onstage with his mask firmly in place sucked the very life out of her.
Beneath the frozen smile were flat eyes.
To the average observer, the confusion of who was meant to speak could be attributed to the excitement of the moment.
But Pixie knew different. The subtext between the band was there.
Dred was off his game, and everyone else was covering.
It was nine days since she’d seen him. And each one of those nine days hurt.
There was no lessening over time. Every morning she woke up thinking about what she’d lost, and it hurt all over again.
She battled with the same questions. Would telling Dred the whole truth, with the risk of losing him anyway, be worse than the way she felt right now? She doubted it.
Pixie picked up her phone, tempted to break the silence between them. If she took the first step, made the first move toward reconciliation, what would he do? Ignore her, maybe?
But first she needed closure with Arnie, and so it all came full circle.
He still had her trapped, he still had a measure of control over her life.
And she hated it. He hadn’t been around since the incident and she was on tenterhooks, waiting to see if he would follow through on his threats to expose her.
A na?ve part of her wanted to believe Dred had scared Arnie away.
Lord knew he’d been furious when he hit Arnie, but it was impossible to believe that her stepfather would walk away from an opportunity to extort serious money.
Trent and Cujo returned from the office. “You ready for your next lesson?” Cujo asked.
She’d circled around Trent and Cujo for days, dodging Cujo’s suggestion of going to see a lawyer because admitting to someone else that she killed a person was a step she wasn’t ready for.
There was one lie she could stop perpetuating though, and to ease her conscience she made a decision to solve it right now. “Can I talk to you guys for a minute?”
“Sure, Pix,” Trent said, slinging his jacket over the desk. “What’s up?”
Pixie took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be a tattoo artist. I’m sorry. I really don’t want to hurt your feelings after you’ve all tried so hard, but I don’t think—”
“We figured,” Cujo said, resting both hands on the counter. “We’d even said we’d talk to you about it after all this other stuff was over.”
“You did?” Pixie’s eyes pricked with tears born of relief.
“Yeah,” Trent said. “Your heart needs to be in tattooing. And yours isn’t.”
“But you guys wanted me to do it, and I didn’t want to let you down. I was useless at it.”