“They are lucrative, Dred. You know how much you make on Inked. Jordan could do with the exposure. And the drum deal makes sense too.” Sam looked over toward Lennon.
“You concerned about getting your cut? Because we made you a shit load of money last year.” Dred remembered their first meeting with Sam after a small gig on the Danforth. The low turnout nearly defeated the band. Sam had approached Dred, said he wanted to help them secure better events. He even volunteered to do it for free with a view to getting a percentage when they hit it big.
“It’s not about the money,” Sam insisted.
“It’s always about the money, Sam,” Nikan said. “Dred’s right. Go find us deals that make sense. If Lennon says the drums are shit, then they’re shit. And we can’t afford for our arena tour to sound anything less than perfect. You’ve been around us long enough to know Jordan prefers hanging with us. So don’t force it, man.”
“Look.” Sam closed the file and rubbed his eyes. “The label wants me to maximize your exposure. They’re nervous, uncertain how well received your next album will be. I’m trying to make you guys as much money as I can, so you are set if it all ends tomorrow.”
“Do you really think that’s a possibility?” Nikan asked.
“There are bands who don’t have the same . . . limitations.” Sam looked toward Lennon, eyes closed while tapping on the table to the beats pounding through his headphones, and Jordan, who’d completely checked out of the conversation. “Those bands are willing to work harder. Go farther. Take more risks.”
“Our last two albums went multi-fucking-platinum. The North American leg of the tour sold out in two hours. What more can we do?” Dred slammed his hand down on the table.
“I’m just the messenger, Dred.”
Damn, Sam was right. “Sorry.”
Nikan left his spot and went to talk to Elliot. It was one of the perks of travelling on a private jet, the freedom to move around and still work. As lead and rhythm guitarists, they often collaborated, and had brought their guitars on board.
“If you don’t like that news,” Sam said, “you are really going to hate this. You may need to do a DNA test.”
There was only one reason he could think of why a DNA test would be necessary, but he asked the question anyway. “Why?”
“A woman has come forward claiming she had your baby at St. Joseph’s Hospital yesterday.”
“What the fuck?” Dred leaned forward.
The baby couldn’t be his. He always wrapped it up. There was no way in hell he was bringing a kid into the world. Not until he was totally established and the band was at a point in its career where they could slow down. That was if he had any children at all. His childhood had been a series of rotating doors to flophouses, shelters, basement apartments, and foster homes. What kind of parent would he be to a child?
“She had details of your encounter that line up with the days you were in Toronto in the spring.”
“Sam. You know me. I always take precautions. Carry my own wherever I go. This has to be bullshit.”
“Okay. I’ll go back to them and say that we need a lot more information before you’ll consent.”
Shit. It couldn’t be his. Because if he ever did have kids, it would be with a woman who was in love with the guy dropped off at the group home.
Not the rock star.
Chapter Two
Pixie studied the chaos unfolding in the studio and decided to make some tough decisions. Most tattoo artists wanted to avoid clients who couldn’t take the pain, so the screamer in Cujo’s chair was driving everyone crazy. Eric had ended up with a guy who refused to admit his low tolerance for needles going in and out of his skin. Instead, he asked for a ten-minute break every half hour. Lia’s client kept adding on, and adding on, and adding on. As a result, they were running about an hour behind schedule.
Trent had lucked out. A regular from New York had swung by to get some work done on his chest piece and was taking the ink work like a pro.
Pixie looked at the booked clients and the walk-in list and knew something had to give. Collecting a couple of twenty-dollar gift cards, she approached the last two walk-ins she’d accepted. Without too much fuss, she was able to reschedule them for the next day.
Pixie wandered over to Cujo’s client, Michelle, who was having an ill-advised ribcage tattoo as her first-ever ink. It was too big, and the area too sensitive, for an ink virgin. Cujo had been straight with her about the scale and placement, but Michelle had been adamant.
“The good news is we have a bunch of options,” Pixie overheard Cujo say to her. “We can stop, and you can come back another time to get it finished, or we can change the design to make it smaller by removing these details.” Cujo pointed to parts of the sketch he’d drawn up for her.
“If you decide to stick it out,” Pixie added, joining the conversation, “you can move into the private room at the back.”