“What is this for?” Pixie asked, pulling the card out.
“Emergencies. I want you to know you can leave Dred’s place at any time, walk into a hotel, and get a room.”
Pixie flung her arms round Cujo’s waist. She didn’t need the money, and could afford to get herself out of trouble, but that wasn’t what the card was about.
“Thank you,” she whispered into his chest.
Cujo put his hands on her arms and pushed her away from him. “Yeah. Well, Drea said don’t do anything she wouldn’t do, which knowing Shortcake like I do, doesn’t leave much. So be careful.”
“I’m only gone for thirty-six hours, Cujo,” she laughed.
“For now,” Cujo said with a grin.
As Pixie walked toward the airline check-in desk, she wondered if Cujo could possibly be right.
*
Something hit his ribs, hard.
“Yo, Dred. Wake up, man.”
Dred opened one eye to find Nikan standing at the side of the bed with his laptop. He squinted over to the window. It was still dark outside.
“What time is it?” he asked, reaching for his phone. Six thirty. And two texts from Pixie. She’d be at the airport, possibly on the plane. He started to read them.
Nikan whipped the phone out of his hands and flicked on the lamp.
“Asshole. Give that back,” Dred said gruffly.
“In a minute. Look at this.” Nikan handed him his laptop.
Dred blinked in a feeble attempt to focus. Preload Relapse. Nikan spins out of control. He scanned the article and winced at how much was true. Between the end of the promotional tour for the last album and starting the recording of the new one, Nikan had gone back into rehab. At the time, a whole load of shit had been pulling on the strings of Nikan’s sobriety, but he sure as hell hadn’t been found facedown in a pool of his own vomit. Dred immediately wanted to kill the “source close to the band” that had reported it that way. Nikan had made the decision with the band’s complete blessing before he’d touched a drop of alcohol and then the band was behind him one hundred percent when he’d voluntarily gone to get help.
“They’ve gone with the fucking clichéd First Nations alcohol shit again. I was four years old when we left the res. It’s got fuck all to do with that.” Nikan started to pace. Never a good sign.
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.