Dred walked to the living room window and looked out onto the street. Nothing. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the time of Pixie’s text message telling him she was in the limo he’d booked for her and was on her way from the airport. Tapping his fingernails on the windowsill, he calculated the time to get to the house, and by his reckoning, he still had seven more minutes to wait.
How did he feel knowing she killed someone? Her revelation was shocking, but he felt relieved. Relieved that her stepdad and the asshole he did the poker deal with hadn’t been able to rob her of the one thing she’d held sacred for so many years. The fact that someone had to die for the violations committed against her was a trade-off he’d make over and over.
They’d talked for another two hours. Eventually Petal woke and wouldn’t be pacified until she’d been fed. But before then, he told her about his mom, about the way she died. And about Amanda. Pixie had shared her escape to Miami and how she’d been mugged and lost all her money. She’d told him about the decision to sleep in the doorway of an old store, shaking and nauseated, and of being woken by two of the largest men she’d ever met. He’d never felt more like an idiot when she explained that the man in the photograph he’d seen the day he’d left Miami was actually her sponsor. Her much older, married sponsor. He’d asked her to not believe what she read in the press, yet he’d done exactly that at the first opportunity he was given.
The more he learned, the more he respected Trent and Cujo. The truth was, he’d never had any decent male role models in his life. Trent and Cujo were real. Genuine. Dred’s confidence was part mask and he knew it. He wanted to be more like them. Less broken, more solid. If only he knew how to get there.
The love he felt for Pixie was overwhelming, but it was going to take more than a kiss and make-up sex to solve their personal issues. For once, his money could be used for something meaningful. The best therapists in the world came at a price, but they both still clearly needed help—and lots of patience and time.
Silence surrounded him like a fog. Petal was out of the house with Jordan and Lennon. They’d left in Lennon’s tinted-window Land Rover with a plan to drive out to the West End to take Petal for a walk along Lakeshore then stop by the Cheese Boutique in Swansea to pick up dinner. The diaper bag had been filled with multiple spare outfits, enough diapers to bail out the Titanic, and several bottles of formula. Nikan and Elliott had left before breakfast, deciding to go visit friends over in Newmarket. Everyone’s foot was off the gas, their equipment sat unused in the studio. It had been a couple of days since they’d recorded anything new. Their energy and inspiration were running on empty.
He’d looked out of the window again, regretting his decision to not collect Pixie in person. As much as he wanted to do the whole standing in arrivals with flowers and shit, the paparazzi had been driving him insane since news of Petal’s arrival and Amanda’s death. It had been Pixie who had insisted on meeting him at the house.
He checked the time on his phone, went through the math again. She should pull in any minute.
Dred looked around the living room. The house was spotless and flowers littered the place. Perhaps he’d gone overboard, but what the fuck did he know about dating, or what had Ellen called it? Wooing. Who the hell said “wooing” anymore? Whatever its name was, he was likely shit at it, but flowers seemed easy enough, even if the florist had stared at him in shock when he told her his budget.
He felt like a raccoon on ice, his emotions slipping and sliding all over the place.
The black town car pulled up to the gate and buzzed. “Motherfucker.” Dred fumbled for his phone in an attempt to open it quickly.
By the time the car came to a stop in front of the house, Dred was already outside. He yanked the car door wide open, and Pixie got out. Fuck, she’s lovely. He stepped forward and cupped her face gently. “I missed you,” he whispered, staring intently into her whiskey-colored eyes.
Simply holding her made all the locks inside him click into place. He’d been such a dick to her, and yet here she was, giving him another chance when he didn’t really deserve one.
Pixie stepped up onto his toes, and he shifted his hands to grab her around the waist. And yes, while he wanted to whisk her inside to the warmth of his bed, he was willing to stand and simply stare into her eyes that were telling him a story all their own.
“I missed you, too,” she said softly.
Their lips met, and the feeling was indescribable. A combination of coming home, of being the luckiest man alive, of gratitude, of lust and love.
The driver coughed discreetly, and Dred pulled away from her. “I placed your cases in the hall, Miss.”
“Thank you,” Pixie replied, and Dred was grateful, because the lump in his throat solidly blocked anything he wanted to say.
The limo reversed slightly, then exited through the gates. Dred took her hand and led her inside, through the house, and into his bedroom.