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.”
“The good news is that I opened the studio today to train Truly, our new body-mod expert, how do to it.”
“That can’t be her real name,” Dred said with a laugh.
She slapped his chest. “Says the guy named Theodred. If she says her name is Truly, who am I to question it? Anyway, it means fewer early mornings for me from now on.”
“Mmm . . . more time in bed sounds perfect,” Dred said, kissing the side of neck.
Pixie tilted her head to the side to give him better access. “Petal was a dream for Elisa. She had a great day—ate well, slept well, pooped well as always. I got a bunch of sewing done. And I kept getting steamy texts from this guy I know.”
“Steamy texts, huh? Any you found interesting?” He raised an eyebrow in her direction.
“At least two of them I’d like to try,” she laughed. “How was your day?”
Dred smiled. “Less fun. Lawyers, lawyers, and more lawyers. Rewriting our contracts, officially severing Sam. I’d much rather talk about which of the two messages you’d like to try.”
As the story had unfolded, it became apparent that Sam had become obsessed with making Dred and Preload world famous rock stars. It was part ego, of managing the largest act, and part greed. To do that, he tried to prove he was invaluable to them by creating messes, blaming others, then looking like the hero for resolving them. It was a complicated situation. Once he’d become aware of the band’s plans to fire him, his only goal was to ruin them. Even the exposé he’d been threatening to sell was designed to hurt them. Fortunately, somewhere over the years, Dred’s personal lawyer had insisted a confidentiality clause was added to their contract with Sam. It offered them some protection, but didn’t mean Sam wouldn’t breach it. Neither Sam nor Arnie could touch them now. Both were being held, denied bail due to the flight risk.
“How was the recording today?”
“It was really productive. Even got to rearrange a couple of the songs for the tour. But I finished one I’ve been working on for a while. I started it when I first met you. Could probably tell you the exact moment I came up with every line. Can I play it for you?”
“Won’t it wake Petal?”
“No. It’s not really for the band. It’s for you. And us. And my story to get here. And the question I am going to ask myself every single day of our lives together.”
He stood and pulled the guitar from its case, but it wasn’t one of his flash electric ones. This was a traditional acoustic guitar that was clearly old, and a little beaten-up in places. He sat on the coffee table facing her, resting the guitar on his knee. The soft blues, almost gospel-like quality to the tune shocked her. She’d expected loud and angry. A metal take on the love song. But this . . . it was spiritual, almost heavenly.
I can’t live without you
I can’t breathe without you
I can’t even sing this song without you
Lord what am I gonna do
This is crazy
So, so crazy
This is painful
So, so painful