Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (7 page)

My hometown is insanely green—trees everywhere you look. When I tell people I’m from Oregon, they immediately think of rain, but that’s what makes it lush almost year-round. Trees in my neighborhood are a lot taller than The Ramble and tend to be evergreens, but I breathe in the fragrance of earth and leaves anyway.

Do your worst, Gavin Slater
, I think.
You can dish it out and I can take it.

If I can just harden up my gag reflex.

Then it hits me—this could actually be a
great
gig! I was skeptical at first, but Dan’s idea to expand his business makes sense. I can take care of short-term vacationers while Dan handles long-term folks who only live in New York seasonally.

There’s no way every rich person in New York City is as gross as Gavin.

I can walk dogs, do errands, take deliveries and get owners organized. I can be the ghost, the house-elf, the helper who makes everything just so, welcoming the very wealthy back to homes in perfect order.

I round the southeast corner of the lake, accelerating my pace to jog Jasper back to the west side of the park. I hitch him to his leash before we cross Central Park West that’s swelling with cars in the morning rush.

I shower, change and let in the cleaning crew, right on time at 9 a.m. I show the three uniformed women around and feel like a jerk as I point and nod—I should have taken Spanish as my language elective, not German.

Satisfied that they get the gist of what I need, I make a move to leave and the eldest woman comes at me, gesturing wildly.

“No se puede dejar al perro aquí mientras limpiamos! Hará más trabajo! Más lío!”
The leader of the cleaning crew is pointing to Jasper.

“I’m sorry.
Yo no habla Español
,” I confess, feeling stupid.

“You can’t have dog here,” the woman repeats. “No dog. Or no clean.”

Jasper looks and me and yodels. “Baroo!”

I sigh. “I guess it’s take-your-puppy-to-work day, Jas. Just don’t get me in trouble.” I hitch him back up and throw my heels in my purse; even in flats, the twenty-block walk to Midtown is going to take quite a while. I didn’t need a jog this morning after all.

I text Dan that I’m on my way and jump on the elevator.

I’m a sweaty mess by the time I reach the office, even though it’s only 10 o’clock. I drag Jasper into the ladies’ room and try to repair the damage by washing my face in ice-cold water and re-applying mascara around my hazel eyes. I use the Tic-Tac container full of bobby pins that I keep in my purse to engineer an up-do since my curls are shot to frizz.

Yes, I keep bobby pins in my purse at all times. And band-aids, breath mints, a nail file, cuticle trimmers, toothpicks, a USB drive … well, you get the idea.

I’m a Girl Scout. Deal.

I finally settle at my desk and open my email again, debating how to respond to Gavin’s note. I check with Dan, who walks by my cubicle on his way back from a meeting.

“So this is the rascal?” Dan asks, and puts out his hand to pet Jasper. The dog gives him several dry licks. “What kind of dog is it?”

“He’s a basenji.” I give him the CliffsNotes version of the mighty African lion hunter that Charles described. I still don’t believe it.

“And I almost poisoned him last night,” I add, hoping Dan will ignore it. But of course he gapes and waits for an explanation.

“I was trying to being
nice,
” I say. “I shared my dumplings with him. Turns out, he’s allergic to shrimp. I didn’t know.”

“Well, take good care of this dog,” Dan says. “He’s your ticket to a place to live, and Gavin’s a major client, considering what we’re billing him for cleanup and management.”

“You didn’t tell me he’s a rock star.” It’s a non sequitur but I can’t help myself.

“I didn’t think it mattered. Here’s the thing, Berry: our clients aren’t just rich. They’re private-jet rich. British-trained butler rich. And they all have this complex about wanting to be treated just like everyone else, but also wanting to be special.”

“You mean, don’t make a big deal that he’s a rock star?”

“Exactly. You make it a big deal, you go all fangirl on him, and he’ll freak. It’s like you’re invading his space. But you treat him like you don’t know who he is, like this is just a professional relationship, and he’ll be OK letting you into his life so that we can do what we need to do.”

I roll that around in my head. “But you said clients want to be treated special, too.”

Dan nods and pulls a chair from the cubicle next to me to sit. “I mean special, as in, special requests. Special treatment. Extra mile stuff. We want clients to know they can ask for the moon and we’ll deliver.”

“So if he asks me to—?”

“You’ll do it,” Dan cuts me off. “Clients pay enough that you have pretty much unlimited license to do what’s needed, so long as it makes them happy. Just do it.”

“I’ve been thinking. Your idea of house sitting in addition to the property billing and management we do already? I’d like to try that.”

“You’re talking my language,” Dan says, grinning. “I’ve already sent feelers out to several clients. Assuming you can handle the billing stuff as fast as you handled Gavin’s, I’d say you’ve got the capacity to take on a half-dozen house-sitting clients at any one time.”

My eyebrows shoot up—this is starting to sound like a
real
job, not just an assistant’s post.

“If your question is the money, don’t worry. I’ll pay you a percentage of their fee on top of your salary, so you can earn a pretty decent living.”

I throw my arms around Uncle Dan, right there in the office, and thoroughly embarrass him. And then I get to work.

***

I return to Gavin’s apartment after work, giving Charles a broad smile and a small box I picked up on my way home.

“Cookies!” he exclaims. “You didn’t have to do that, Ms. Sutton.”

“Yes, I did, Charles. And my name’s Beryl. After what we went through last night, it’s the least I could do to thank you for rescuing Jasper. I got black-and-whites in case you’re allergic to nuts.”

Charles chuckles and tucks them behind the desk. “I know I’ll enjoy them. Thank you. So what are your plans this evening? Your cleaning crew left about an hour ago.”

I shudder. It took three people the entire business day to put Gavin’s house back in order—and that’s just the scrubbing. I don’t relish my organizational responsibilities, afraid of what I’ll find. And yet, curiosity is driving me to do it.

“Out for drinks,” I tell him and double-check directions to the bar where I’m meeting Stella. She texted me the address, more apologies, and some really creative expletives about Blayde. But I’m not about to offer to be her roommate again.

I head upstairs and revel in the strong, fresh smell of cleaning products. The entire apartment shines, rugs vacuumed in a perfect fern pattern, and not a single dust mote on any surface. Gavin’s white leather-and-chrome furniture looks stark and pure now that layers of grime, trash, and cigarette butts are gone.

But his couch sits at a funny angle. It’s damaged, and I make a mental note to fix it. I also see the cleaning team has removed the dead houseplants. Another mental note: buy replacements.

I switch to a lower-cut top, bigger earrings, brighter lipstick and my highest heels.
This is New York, baby!
I want to fit in with the glamorous women who seem to be everywhere, looking like polished gems next to cheap plastic tourists.

But who am I kidding? I’m still a Girl Scout, so I stick a pair of foldable flats in my purse for when the heels get to be too much.

I give Jasper his dinner and go meet Stella.

The bar is half-full but the music full-blast when I enter. It’s called Perdition, maybe a take on hell for Hell’s Kitchen. I see Stella at the bar flanked by men, neither of them Blayde.

Like I said, that girl shrugs off bad boys faster than I can change my nail polish.

She hugs me and her perfume makes my eyes water, but I’m genuinely happy to see her. Her hair is darker, more deep red than medium brown, and it’s cut in an angular bob that looks ultra chic with her black minidress and silver-studded ankle boots.

Stella motions for a drink for me and we push through the clog of people in the middle of the bar to back benches with overstuffed cushions. The music isn’t as loud back here so we can catch up without shouting.

“First things first,” she says, and hands me a check—it’s all my rent money plus a hundred bucks. “I feel terrible that I forgot about your flight and that Blayde was so rude. I can’t believe you were stuck in a gross hotel.” She shudders.

“I’ve handled worse,” I say, thinking of the decrepit apartment my mom and I shared the first few years after my dad’s death. Life insurance companies aren’t wild about private pilots and my dad put off finding a policy until it was too late. “What was so important that you forgot about me?”

Stella’s eyes shift to the ceiling and I’m afraid she’s going to lie to me. But her face tells me she’s working up the courage to tell the truth.

“I was kind of … wasted.”

“All day?” I choke back my shock, trying not to channel my mother.

Stella winces. “Well, Blayde and I got back together last Friday, and then he moved back in, and I was going to call you but I wanted to find you a new place to live first, so I called a bunch of people. But then we had a fight…”

She trails off and knocks back her drink, then stands and signals a server for more. For a tiny person, she holds her liquor better than anybody I know, so
wasted
in Stella’s world means something a whole lot different than
wasted
in mine.

I once saw her drink two of Jeff’s frat brothers under the table—one after another.

“Anyway, I went out without him after our fight Saturday, and I was meaning to call you, but I had to blow off steam, you know? So I had some drinks at a club and hooked up with this guy who took me to an after-party. It was pretty wild, and sometime around dawn I just kind of passed out.”

Stella’s words come tumbling out and she looks embarrassed. She takes the new cocktail the waitress hands her and drains half of it before turning to me.

“I didn’t mean to. I’d planned to be home before you even got to my place, so I could work it out with Blayde and you could crash on our couch for a few days.”

I shake my head, my anger cooling as a streak of worry creeps into my brain. This is pretty extreme, even compared to Stella’s antics in college.

Stella’s head sinks even lower as she finishes her confession. “When I woke up, my phone was dead. And when I got home, Blayde told me I had to move out. Like, right that minute. He already had most of my stuff packed.”

I frown at the memory of the boxes in Blayde’s living room. That was Stella’s stuff. I lean back against the padded bench and search for the right words. All I can offer is: “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry. I said you could live with me and now we’re both homeless. Will you forgive me?” Stella reaches her arm around me and we hug it out. I have to forgive her. She’s one of my only friends in New York.

Stella tells me she’s crashing with one of the reporters at her paper while his roommate is on vacation. She takes another swig of her cocktail and then pauses. “Wait. Where are
you
living?”

I explain my house-sitting gig but tiptoe carefully around the name of the client. I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone.

“Come on, Beryl! I’m your best friend in New York. You’ve got to spill. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

I hesitate, then make her pinky-swear it. “You know the song, ‘Peace of Madness?’”

“Oh my God! Of course! I have both of Tattoo Thief’s albums.” She opens iTunes on her phone and shows me the album covers. They’re striking. The first album,
Feast
, features a naked woman whose torso is covered strategically by sushi.

The second album,
Beast
, shows the same woman’s face in profile, her naked back turned to the camera. Three parallel gashes cross her back, as if a lion took a swipe at her, and the makeup or computer graphics are chillingly realistic.

Stella cues “Peace of Madness” and I hear the chorus from her phone’s speaker over the din of the bar.

I’ll give you peace

But it’s not enough

It never was

You want your next fix

A peace of madness

“So are you telling me you’re housesitting for Tattoo Thief?” Stella’s wide-eyed enthusiasm is contagious and I can’t resist spilling a few details—I’m watching a dog, cleaning up the place, and not sure when he’ll be back.

“Which one is it?” She demands the name.

“Gavin Slater,” I whisper, and she shrieks.

“Gavin Slater?!?! As in, fuck me, Gavin Slater? I want to be your sex slave and I want to have your gorgeous blond babies, Gavin Slater?”

Stella’s really lost it. “That’s the guy. I’ll admit, he
is
pretty hot.”

“You’ve
met
him?” More shrieking, and she gulps her drink to settle down.
“Hot
doesn’t even cover it. He’s totally
lickable
. So spill. On a scale of zero to sixty-nine, how hot is he?” She wiggles her eyebrows and I laugh.

“Seventy.” I lick my lips, but then I think Stella’s going to melt down with excitement, so I quickly assure her that no, I haven’t met him, haven’t even spoken to him on the phone, and “for all he knows, I’m a dude. Named Barry.”

“So let me get this straight: You’re sleeping in the bed of
The
Gavin Slater, and letting him think you’re a guy? Honey, you’re doing it
wrong
. You’ve got to drop hints. Get to know him better. Let him get to know you.”

“And then what? Let him get into my panties?”

“Why not? When’s the next time you’re going to have a chance with a rock star?”

Stella doesn’t say it to be mean, and I’m not offended (much). Honestly, the mention of panties has me squirming a bit, thinking about Gavin, getting hot in places that should be on ice after my split with Jeff.