I had phone sex and liked it.
Pixie grinned to herself as she locked her bike up against the fence behind Second Circle. She’d been scared when Dred had offered to show her how he was touching himself. Having been forced to sit through hours of pornographic films, the thought of watching Dred on video had caused her to want to yell “Stop!” But he’d listened to her, and stopped the movement of the phone toward . . . She shivered at the thought. Since he’d told her to think about his . . . well . . . she couldn’t stop herself.
It was thirty minutes before opening, but loud music was already playing. Metal really wasn’t her thing, but the guys loved it. She stepped into the studio where Cujo was singing along to whatever was playing.
“Figured I’d put lover-boy on for you,” he shouted when he saw her.
Pixie turned the dial, reducing the volume. Ask her who was the better Evita, Madonna or Elaine Paige, and she’d be able to write an essay on the subject. When it came to metal, she had no clue what constituted good, but this sounded better than most of the stuff they played.
Cujo’s phone stood in the docking station, Dred’s face staring back at her from the album cover. It was a weird sensation.
“When are you guys seeing each other next?” Cujo asked.
Not soon enough. They’d made tentative plans on the phone the previous day. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of their call. “Dred’s in Barcelona. Flying back to Toronto today. It’ll be at least another couple of weeks. He has a show in Brazil coming up, too.”
Cujo walked to the cupboard and pulled the door open. Usually it stuck and needed a good yank, but for some reason today it didn’t. Inks and supplies flew out of the cupboard hitting the floor. A few popped open, sending random lines of ink across the floor.
“Shit,” Cujo called out, looking down at the yellow ink splattered across his jeans.
Pixie let out a giggle, and he eyed her dangerously. “Need some help there? You go get cleaned up, I’ll deal with the cupboard and floor.”
“Thanks, Pix.”
She started by gathering up the bottles that were unaffected, and after stepping carefully through the mess, she put them back on the shelves. After dealing with everything that was salvageable, she grabbed a pair of gloves and wiped up as much of the ink as she could. The floor would need a good wash. Once the worst of the ink was wiped up, she gathered the paper towels she’d used and walked them straight outside to the garbage. She dropped them into the Dumpster and removed the latex gloves, throwing them into it too before she closed the lid.
“Hello, Pixie.” Arnie’s voice washed over her and around her as he walked down the alley toward her. Her stomach tightened.
“What do you want?” she asked as she turned to face him.
“I don’t like the way things ended last night, Pixie. I can call you Pixie, right? That’s what your friends call you.”
Hearing the affectionate name Cujo had given her all those years ago from the man who’d nearly ruined her life sullied one of the few things that were important to her. “No, you can’t,” she said, with more bravery than she actually felt. “I’d rather you didn’t call me anything at all.”
Arnie laughed and rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Well, too bad, Pix,” he said, popping the p and practically hissing the x.
“Leave me alone. These head games of yours are ridiculous.” She looked back toward the rear door. Cujo would come looking for her if she didn’t reappear soon. And who else was on shift? Why couldn’t she think straight? If it was Trent, he’d come park back here. Lia and Eric would use the front door. She didn’t want anybody else to witness this.
“I want money.”
“Money?”
“Of course money. Unless you want to pay me in other ways.” His eyes coursed down her body lasciviously. Down the body he’d said wasn’t good enough to fuck. The body that he claimed had breasts the size of walnuts. He licked his lips and looked back at her face, and the urge to vomit grew stronger.
“I don’t have any to give you,” she lied. Her children’s clothing business was her dream, and there was no way he was going to take that away from her.
“You really thought it was going to be that easy? That I’d take a fifty dollar bill, like a scrap thrown under the table to a dog, and disappear?” Arnie laughed. “Look around you, Sarah-Jane. You live in a great condo. You work for a TV star. You have a rock star boyfriend. You can do better than a miserable fifty.”
“I’m not paying you money.” There had to be a line. Maybe the time had come to face up to the consequences of what she had done. Surely she could give permission to the addiction center, and her counsellors to reveal what she had shared with them all those years ago as part of her therapy.