Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (6 page)

At the thought of donuts, I’m suddenly starving. It’s well past dinnertime, so I consider my options. I could try to find something in this apartment, but it might be gross, or at the very least, suspicious. Do I want to eat Gavin Slater’s food, considering what a dump the rest of his apartment is?

“Baroo!”

Jasper’s yodel alerts me to the fact that he’s probably hungry, too. We scour the kitchen pantry and cupboards and deduce that Gavin is out of dog food.

Typical.

My opinion of him has gone from “irresponsible hottie” to “over-privileged ass.” He doesn’t know how good he has it, or else he’s bent on destroying what
should
be a really good life.

I tow That Bitch into the living room and open it, swapping my rumpled, sweaty linen skirt and blouse for shorts and a T-shirt. I bandage a quarter-sized blister courtesy of my long hike in flats and put on cotton socks and running shoes. Finally, I hitch Jasper back up to his leash and hit the elevator button, wishing I had Dan’s company credit card with me. Gavin is
so
going to pay for this dog food.

Jasper and I take the scenic route to the grocery store, two extra-long blocks to find Jasper relief in a pocket-sized park. When we get to the store, I’m overwhelmed—even though it’s half the size of stores back home, it’s packed to the gills with stuff, every square inch covered in products.

I realize that moving to a new place doesn’t just mean learning a new grid of streets, like the fact that Fifth Avenue is sometimes Museum Mile and Sixth Avenue is sometimes Avenue of the Americas.

Moving means learning a new way for
everything—
from a grocery store’s layout to the subway system to how to walk on streets without being a major pain in the ass (hint: if you want to slow down while walking,
pull over
and let other people pass).

I buy a bottle of wine and the most expensive bag of designer dog food I can find to make up for poor Jasper’s incarceration. I know I should get myself some real food, but I can’t stomach the thought of cooking until Gavin’s place is sparkling clean.

It’s a good excuse to spend a little more of my dwindling savings on my ultimate comfort food: dumplings. We pick up a container of piping hot Chinese pork and shrimp dumplings at a take-out place and head back to the apartment.

Jasper and I dine al fresco on the terrace. He dives into a monster bowl of dog food—I have no idea how much to feed him—and I pig out on wine and dumplings. I give him a few bites of my dumplings because it feels wrong not to share.

“So what’s your story, Jasper?” I say out loud, even though I know this takes me one step closer to being a crazy cat lady who talks to her pets. All I know is he’s a boy. Not how old he is, how long Gavin Slater’s had him, or if he can do any tricks.

Jasper whines and cocks his head at me.

Something’s wrong.

Jasper’s nose is getting puffy and his cheeks are swollen. I get down on my knees and stroke his neck. He gurgles. His eyes are wide and fearful—is he struggling to breathe?

I panic. What’s wrong with this dog? What did I do?

I race to the foyer and hit a button for the intercom. “Charles! It’s Beryl! You’ve got to come help me! Jasper ate something and now I think he can’t breathe!”

“He’s choking?”

“No, his face is puffing up.”

“Allergic reaction,” Charles diagnoses. “Keep him breathing. Give him mouth to mouth if you have to. I’ll be up in thirty seconds.”

I rush back to Jasper, who is lying on his side, wheezing. I pry open his jaws and he whimpers. I spot a dumpling-bit in the back of his throat and swipe it out with my finger. Those Red Cross Infant CPR classes I took for babysitting a decade ago are coming in handy.

Charles barrels through the front door with a bottle of translucent liquid. He pulls back Jasper’s head and pours a dose down his throat. I freeze, watching to see if it works.

Jasper’s breathing slows, no longer the frantic panting. As I see his body relax, mine does too, melting into a puddle on the terrace floor next to this weird little dog.

“What did you give him?” I ask Charles.

“Benadryl,” he says. “Poor little Jasper. Did he get into something he shouldn’t?”

I gulp, trying to decide whether to lie. But since Charles is my only friend in New York besides Jasper, I tell the truth.

“I gave him part of my dumpling.”

Charles walks over to my sad little wine-and-dumpling dinner. “Pork and shrimp, right? From the place on Seventy-Fifth? These are really good. But Jasper’s allergic to shrimp.”

Oh.

I am
so
not cut out for this.

In what crazy parallel universe did I think I could just take over Gavin Slater’s dog and his apartment and everything would be OK? I’m deliberate. Prudent. Careful. Safe.

I’m blowing it.

“I didn’t know,” I admit in a tiny voice.

“Don’t worry,” Charles reassures me. “You were just trying to be nice to him. He’s a basenji—an African dog. Their breed is finicky and about as obedient as cats, but basenjis were originally bred to hunt lions.”

“Lions?” I can’t hide the skepticism in my voice. Jasper is barely a step up from a purse-dog. “What were they—bait?”

“They’re tougher than they look.” Charles strokes Jasper’s side as he recovers. “These dogs are from Kenya, same place my parents are from, and they can’t handle shrimp or most seafood.”

“Now you tell me,” I mutter.

Charles doesn’t hear me. “But cheese is another matter. This dog is so cheese-obsessed, he will do anything for cheese, even high-five me. I keep dog biscuits for most residents’ dogs, but I keep cheese in that little fridge under my desk for Jasper.”

“How old is he?” I ask.

“Gavin got him maybe three months ago, and he was still a little puppyish then,” Charles says thoughtfully. “So I guess something less than a year? It’s a real shame Gavin had to travel so suddenly. Jasper’s a nice dog.”

Ah, yes, the sudden travel. Strike three hundred and forty nine against Gavin Slater, Rock Star and Dog-Neglecter.

A much-recovered Jasper and I say goodbye to Charles, but I feel anger blooming in my gut along with the wine. Who the hell does he think he is? I decide to send him a message.

Dear Mr. Slater,

You’ll be pleased to know your apartment is being cleaned and we have sorted, paid, and filed all of your bills. You will see each bill itemized on your client account statement, with charges against the credit card you have on file with us.

Additionally, we learned that Barks in the Park will no longer board Jasper, so we have arranged for a house sitter to care for the dog at your apartment until you return. Please advise us of your return date so we can make arrangements.

Sincerely,

B. Sutton

Keystone Property Management

“You’re welcome.” I scowl and hit SEND to dispatch the email even though it sounds snotty. After all, he’s paying Keystone a ton of money to deal with the details of life that most humans handle as a matter of course.

I imagine he takes our service, and most other things in his life, for granted.

It’s late when I take Jasper downstairs for a quick pee. Charles trades him a bite of cheese for a hand-to-paw high five.

I realize that I’ve got to figure out where I’m sleeping and if any of the bathrooms are sanitary enough for a shower tomorrow morning. I don’t want a repeat of the frigid, dripping shower from this morning’s hotel room.

Back in the apartment, I explore beyond the living room and Jasper follows me, his toenails clicking on the hardwood. A massive granite island lit by pendant lights strung from the ceiling divides the living room and kitchen.

Under the grime, the kitchen is beautiful—it has a huge, glass-door Subzero fridge, a deep double sink facing the terrace and view, and a six-burner stove with a grill top.

But the abundance of takeout cartons, which I still haven’t eliminated entirely from the apartment, suggests that not much cooking is done here.

I turn a corner and discover an office dominated by an old wooden desk with papers strewn everywhere, so thick I can’t see the floor. I leave the glass French doors to that room closed and move on.

I find a small powder room next, with some kind of sludge filling part of the sink bowl. I’m getting good at suppressing my gag reflex, so I hit the drain lever and as it glug-glug-glugs down the sink I note that the toilet paper roll has just a scrap clinging to it. Mental note to buy more.

Jasper runs ahead of me as we climb a steep, spiral metal staircase to the upper loft of the apartment, which is open to the living room below. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights are breathtaking—New York shimmers like a jewel with a million facets.

I catch my breath and stare, feeling for the first time like I’m really
part
of New York. I’m doing this!

But my sense of elation is extinguished when I turn my back on the lights and focus on Gavin’s master suite, which is worse than the living room was. Here’s where much of the stink starts, and I get wafts of mildew and sweaty laundry and I
really don’t want to know
what that yellowish-brown stain is on the rug next to his bed.

Now I’m doubly thankful I booked the carpet- and upholstery-cleaning package.

Jasper, on the other hand, is unperturbed by the mess and settles into his familiar bagel shape in the middle of Gavin’s gray striped comforter. I right one bedside lamp that’s tipped over and leave the other broken one on the floor.

I take a peek in the master bathroom—beautiful and filthy, as expected—and walk to the opposite end of the loft and down the other spiral staircase.

I work my way through the rest of the apartment, finding a dining room, two more bedrooms with their own bathrooms, a room covered in acoustic foam with instruments and some sound equipment, and a dark theater room. I marvel at how one person can live so large, yet with so little regard for all of it. Either that, or Gavin Slater went on a serious bender.

I choose the cleaner of the two bedrooms; it’s tucked on the opposite side of the loft from Gavin’s bedroom, away from the worst of his destruction. I haul That Bitch into the room, hesitate, and then decide to unpack. I’m house sitting, after all—I should make myself comfortable.

Jasper perches on my bed, undeterred by my disapproving look, and watches me unpack. I yank open a mahogany dresser’s drawer and my brows lift with surprise: it’s full of clothes.

I pull open the rest of the drawers and every one is filled with women’s clothes, some of them dusty with disuse. I find beautiful cashmere, custom-cut denim and frilly lingerie. I feel envy stab my gut; the only time I could afford cashmere and designer jeans was when my mom and I found them on our frequent scavenger hunts at Goodwill.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d much rather pay seven bucks than three hundred for a sweater, but when I see price tags on a good chunk of the clothing, it feels like that much more of a waste.

Why is Gavin Slater wasting his life?

I pile the mystery woman’s clothes on the bed in the other bedroom, then fill the drawers in my room with my stuff.

The wine and last night’s fitful sleep finally hit me and I dump myself into the bed. Jasper curls his little dog-bagel body behind my knees and we sleep.

***

My phone chirps me awake the next morning and I’m thoroughly disoriented—never have I slept better, sinking deep into a plush mattress, wrapped in silky sheets and a lighter-than-air down comforter. I may never leave this bed.

I put it off a few minutes by scrolling through my phone’s alerts.

Shit. I forgot to call Stella. She sent me two more messages last night after I fell asleep—more apologies, and she begged for a chance to see me tonight. I text her back and tell her to name the place.

On Facebook, I feel a stab of envy—Jeff hasn’t bothered to de-friend me since our breakup, and one of his roommates tagged him in a picture from their weekend at the lake, hot girls in tow.

I’d like to post a comment that I am currently sleeping in a sexy rock star’s bed, but I take the high road and resist. Instead, I change my profile picture to a shot of Jasper, curled up and sleeping.

My heart beats faster when I see an email from [email protected].

Photos weren’t necessary. I knew the place was a shit pile when I left. Do me a favor and delete the pix. I don’t need more negative press right now.

Not sure when I’ll be back in New York. Is Jasper OK? He’s a good dog. Neurotic, but good. It was a mistake to get him. I thought it would help.

Heading to Nairobi. Internet service is spotty. Have Barry get rid of all of the clothes in the guest room and don’t let the cleaners touch my office. I’ll send more instructions to him later.

—Gav

I harrumph, annoyed Gavin thinks I’m a dude. Jasper perks up his ears. Gavin’s letter is full of little short sentences but it doesn’t appease me. If anything, it makes what’s going on even more of a mystery.

Why would he trash his own place? And why would he tell me (or at least my male alter-ego, Barry) to get rid of all of the beautiful clothes? They must be worth thousands.

I pull on yoga pants, a jog bra, and a T-shirt, then grab Jasper’s leash. We descend the elevator and cross Central Park West to lose ourselves inside the park.

After seeing practically every other dog off-leash, I let Jasper go, too. I alternately walk and jog while Jasper trots beside me, occasionally veering off the gravelly bridle trail to inspect the bushes. We cross under arched stone tunnels and then turn at the northwestern tip of the lake into a lumpy, verdant spiderweb of pathways called The Ramble.

Even though I can still hear the traffic from Seventy-Second and Central Park West, and even though I can hear a traffic helicopter circle overhead, I still feel like I’ve slipped out of New York City for a slice of life back home.

The greenest thing on Seventy-Second is Gavin’s building’s awning—there’s not a tree in sight. I can’t imagine how barren New York would be without Central Park.