It was two days until Amanda’s cremation. He’d paid for it, since no one had come forward to claim her. Even her lawyer was unable to provide any further next-of-kin information. The autopsy had proven drug overdose, but both her roommates at the house, and her sponsor, were adamant it was accidental. They all agreed that having a baby had changed her. Dred had no clue what the truth was, but his heart hurt for the loss of his child’s mother, and he’d said silent words of thanks to her for giving him their baby girl.
Dred shook his head and drank more coffee. Petal was safely at his house with a nanny friend of Ellen’s. The guys were going to look after her overnight while he was away. He’d served notice on the Bay Street CFO in his Rosedale home. By the time the European tour was over toward the end of the year, he wanted to be able to move in, and when he got back to Toronto, he was meeting with some designers and contractors to hopefully make that happen. Jordan could move in with him or stay with the rest of the band, but Petal needed a stable, loving home that didn’t have half-dressed women parading through it.
Which was why he needed to talk with Sam. They were behind with their recording because he’d barely had time to breathe. Petal needed a passport to travel with him and it had physically burned to leave her in the nanny’s arms. He’d nearly had the limo driver turn back when he hit the 427 for the airport. And the tour was going to need to accommodate her. They’d need two buses to be fair to the other guys. Having a baby along wasn’t going to work if they didn’t plan for it properly. And they’d need a nanny, possibly even two, given the whacked-out hours they worked on tour. Holy fucking shit. His head pounded like it was going to explode.
Trent walked in and sat down in the chair next to him. The temperature dropped a solid twenty degrees, as the usually good-natured and easygoing friend he knew greeted all the show staff but didn’t so much as look his way.
Filming was going to be a fucking disaster, but he wasn’t sure it was possible to make it right even if he tried.
“Hey,” Dred said, uncertain where to begin. The makeup lady walked toward Trent.
“Go fuck yourself,” Trent replied curtly, and the makeup lady hurried away to the other side of the trailer.
Great start. “Look, I know you’re pissed. But can you at least let me explain?”
Trent stared at his own reflection in the mirror, but his lips were in a tight, angry line. “Did you let Pixie?” he said after a couple of moments. “Explain, I mean. Did you sit down next to her on that step we found her crying her heart out on and hear her out?”
Touché. “You know I didn’t.”
“Yeah. So fuck you and your explanations.”
“Did I ever tell you my mom died of a drug overdose?” Dred felt sick to his stomach, but he needed to shock his friend into talking to him. He needed to find a path out of this. A path that would lead him back to his friends, his daughter, and Pixie. He was done wearing the son-of-a-junkie tag once and for all. He needed to be a different man—for all of them, but even more importantly, for himself.
Trent turned in his chair to look at him, his expression neutral.
“Yeah. I mean I’d seen her knocked out for days with drugs before. Even seen her hospitalized. The first time she OD’d, I was apparently four. There was one time when I was seven when I was taken into care because the teacher at school noticed I’d been wearing the same shirt for four days. When they visited the house of the person we were staying with, they found my mom high, banging some john. So when she OD’d the last time, I didn’t understand how serious it was. Overdosing was just something that happened.”
He’d held her in his arms, like he always did. It was the only time he could hug her close like he wanted to, without her pushing him away. “I didn’t realize that her mouth being wide open was a state called primary flaccidity. There was usually a sickly gray color to her skin. How was I supposed to know that this time it was pallor mortis? I didn’t even know what the fuck that was at twelve.”
The realization hit him hard. There was nothing he could have done to stop it. How could a four-, or a seven-, or a nine-year-old child stop a parent’s addiction? “It was well before everyone had cell phones, not that we could have afforded one. I ran outside and screamed for help, and once I was sure someone was calling an ambulance, I ran back into the house we were crashing at and held my mom as she turned cold.”
Chilled by the recollections, Dred stopped and took a long draw on the coffee. Baring his soul needed more than caffeine, but it was all he had.
“I’m sorry, Dred. That you went through all that.”
Dred nodded and ran his thumbnail down the stitching along the inseam of his jeans. He needed to bring his sorry-ass story home. “When that guy said Pixie was a junkie . . . I couldn’t deal, man. I spent years watching my mom fall deeper and deeper. And to bring this pathetic fucking melodrama to a close, I now have full custody of Petal because Amanda, her mom, was an addict who . . .”
Dred rubbed his hands across his face. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “Anyway, I got shit I need to deal with too. And it got in the way of me being there for Pixie. How is she?” He looked at Trent, and for the first time since he’d entered the room, Trent didn’t look like he wanted to kill him.