Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (16 page)

“Yes.” I plant a gentle kiss on his shoulder and squeeze him tightly even though our bodies are still slick with sweat. “So that’s why you wanted us to go slow?”

“I wasn’t planning on going
anywhere
.”
He traces a line from the hollow of my throat down between my breasts. “But you wreck me, Stella. When I’m close to you, I can’t
not
touch you.”

This admission floors me, and instantly I recognize that he’s right. So many small gestures since I met him add up—holding my hand to lead me through the restaurant, sitting thigh to thigh in the cab, the piggyback rides, massaging my feet.

Each of these touches was a spark, a hum of current that tapped into my body’s energy until I couldn’t
not
touch Tyler either. He’s created a magnetic pull over me.

But something else is pulling him away.

EIGHTEEN

I escape the apartment early to avoid weirdness between me and Tyler. I hate the walk of shame and morning-after small talk, so I rarely stay with a guy until morning.

Hell, I rarely talk to them again.

But it’s impossible to avoid that special brand of awkward when the guy who gives you a toe-curling orgasm also happens to be your roommate. Like a coward, I put it off.

At work, I call the photographer Heath forwarded to me and her name seems familiar. We chat a few minutes as I explain my story. Then I realize that Violet is Neil’s roommate and he forwarded her name to Heath.

“What musicians have you photographed? Any story I’d recognize?”

“I haven’t really shot musicians,” Violet says. OK. Weird. “I usually do fine art photography. Not photojournalism.”

Yikes. This could be a one-way trip to disaster. But since Heath told me to use her, I’m not going to question his judgment. “What made you switch?”

“Oh, a bunch of reasons,” she answers vaguely. “Anyway, when do you want to do this shoot? You said there’s lots of natural light?”

We plan to meet at
The Indie Voice
in the afternoon and go to Tyler’s loft together. Considering she didn’t recognize Gavin when he helped pick up my stuff, I’m pretty sure she won’t go fangirl on the band and expose the location of Tyler’s loft, but I make her promise anyway.

As we climb the steps to Tyler’s loft, I can hear the band above us rocking an intense, fast-paced song with a catchy melody. I haven’t heard it before.

Violet follows, towering over me but rail-thin. An enormous bag of camera equipment bounces on her hip and she has a tripod slung over one shoulder. We’re both soaked with sweat by the time we hit the top stair landing.

I unlock the front door, immediately disappointed by the heat. The air conditioning is still toast and I apologize to Violet, who shrugs. The band ignores us, even though I catch Dave’s eye and he nods. The other girls aren’t here yet and I relax slightly, leading Violet to the couches to wait until the band takes a break.

She puts her bag on the couch and assembles a camera out of pieces and parts—lens, body, fill flash, and some other doohickeys I don’t recognize. I have no idea how to help her so I pull out my reporter’s notepad and scribble notes for my story, trying to look busy.

Dave calls for a break and the guys disperse to the bathroom and kitchen. Tyler comes straight to me and I introduce him to Violet with careful formality.

I glance at Violet and shake my head slightly at Tyler, begging him to play it cool. Heath and Neil don’t know I live here, so Violet shouldn’t either. I wish I’d called Tyler to get our stories straight.

Tyler angles his body so I’m between him and Violet. “You OK?” His voice is a whisper and he curls his finger to brush the crook of my arm inside my elbow. It’s an intimate, questioning gesture.

I nod and my face heats with the memory of last night. “We’re good.”

Tyler grins when I use the plural. We
are
good.

Tyler entertains Violet with a grandiose tour of his loft and then Dave takes over, going back-and-forth with Violet on how the instruments should be moved and the band members positioned to take maximum advantage of the light.

The fact that Tattoo Thief is soaked in sweat and Jayce has his shirt off doesn’t hurt. Gavin sheds his T-shirt as well, his freckled shoulders shiny with sweat. Tyler ribs him for showing off but Dave nods approval.

At first I think this is all a bit much for an action shot, but Dave slips back into his manager role and positions the band to its best advantage.

Violet is quiet and thoughtful as she works, taking dozens of pictures as the guys regroup for the rest of the practice session. She never gets too close to them, seeming to hide behind her camera like a shield.

They run through a dozen songs and I itch to go to my room to change, but I’m afraid it would alert Violet to the fact that I live here. Instead, I sneak over to the kitchen, fish the dwindling bottle of vodka out of the freezer, and down several shots while Violet’s preoccupied with the band.

Tattoo Thief resumes practice and sometimes Jayce calls a halt mid-song to work through a chord progression, or Gavin stops them to change the lyrics. They play off each other—Dave as the foundation, Tyler building on that with strong chords, Jayce the virtuoso instrumentalist with his guitar, and Gavin as lead vocalist, shaping the song’s melody.

Sweat trickles down my spine as alcohol swamps my buzzing nerves. I relax toward the end of their practice set, taking pages of notes to create a story about the birth of a song.

I jump when my phone rings. It’s Beryl, waiting downstairs for me to let her in. I open the warehouse door to find her and two of the busty girls from the concert. They’re even more scantily clad than last night and I doubt it’s because of the heat wave.

The girls barely acknowledge me and climb the stairs ahead of us, whining about the lack of an elevator or air conditioning. Beryl and I exchange looks—they’re Jayce’s
friends
and they’re on a mission.

Violet packs up her cameras as one of the girls settles on Jayce’s lap, winding her arm around his neck. He grins and pinches her ass and she squeals but snuggles closer to him. The other girl frowns and turns her gaze to Tyler, and instantly I feel possessive.

Not that I have any right to be. We’re not a
thing
, are we? The girl fawns over him, bending low toward him as he sits on a stool, offering an eyeful of cleavage. His gaze flicks to me and she moves slightly, cutting off our connection.

I have competition.

Gavin draws Beryl close for a deep kiss and I love that they’re in love. The chemistry between them is real and fierce and I feel protective of that. I don’t want one of these groupie bimbos messing things up for Beryl.

Or for me.

Dave says Kristina will meet us at The Wren, an unpretentious East Village bar. He calls a car and Tyler shakes off the bimbo, coming close to me and planting a soft kiss on the top of my head, maybe to reassure me.

I look at him with alarm, and then at Violet. She saw it, and now it’s only a matter of time before Neil knows. And then Heath. I push Tyler away even though I want to pull him closer, to mark my territory against the groupies.

How am I going to explain this? I offer to walk Violet downstairs, and as we descend, I try to concoct a plausible, platonic lie.

“We’re just friends. If that’s what you’re wondering. I’m friends with Beryl and she’s with Gavin and…” I trail off, not sure how to explain my relationship with Tyler.

Violet clears her throat and offers me a sad smile. “Stella?” I look at her guiltily. “I won’t tell. Thank you for this chance to cover the band. I don’t need to tell Neil about … anything else.”

My breath leaves my chest in a whoosh, the vodka and heat making me dizzy. “Oh.” It’s all I can manage.

“I’m not the reporter. There’s nothing I need to do but turn in my photos, and you’re not in them, don’t worry.” Violet’s voice is quiet. “So Beryl’s with Gavin, and Dave’s with Kristina, and you’re with Tyler?”

“I think. I hope.” I trade this truth for her silence.

“And Jayce? Who’s he with?” Violet’s inflection is a little sharper, a little more curious.

“Flavor of the month.” I shrug. “That’s what Tyler said. I don’t know what either of those girls mean to him. Probably nothing.”

“Oh.” This time it’s her turn for a short answer.

“Do you—do you want to go out with us tonight?” Something in her sad, drawn face makes me suspect she’s as lonely as I felt a few days ago.

She shakes her head, motioning to the camera bag and tripod slung over her shoulder. “I’ve got to take this stuff back to my apartment and upload the pictures. I probably have a long night of editing. Are you going to turn your story in Monday?”

I nod.

“Well, maybe I can show you the best stuff this weekend, see if it jives with what you’re writing. And I did find a few of your things in my room. Want to meet for coffee and I’ll give them to you?”

Am I making a new friend? The thought warms me and we make plans for Sunday. I hear the band and the girls coming down the stairs.

“It’s funny what a camera sees,” Violet says when I pull open the ground-floor door. “Not the truth, but reality. Sometimes they’re not the same thing. You know?”

I shake my head.

“I’ll show you Sunday. Bye, Stella.” Violet turns to walk up the street as a black stretch limo pulls up to the warehouse. The girls squeal and pile in on either side of Jayce. Tyler takes my hand and squeezes, waiting as everyone else climbs into the car.

“Everything OK?” His brown eyes crinkle and I bask in the warmth of his smile even though the summer evening is still oppressively humid. “I hope I didn’t blow your cover.”

“She won’t say anything,” I tell him.

Tyler runs his thumb along my jawbone and smiles wider.

“Then let’s go have some fun.”

NINETEEN

Kristina’s waiting for us at The Wren at a big table near the front windows and we order a round, laughing and talking like normal people. But when the waitress stares slack-jawed at Gavin, Beryl stiffens. It’s only a matter of minutes before more people start pointing at us.

The bimbos, Shelly and Teal, take selfies with Jayce until he makes them quit. Kristina and Dave ignore their antics, huddled in a quiet side conversation, and I just take it in, sparring with Jayce about the best bands I’ve seen.

The bar fills quickly, but it’s not a typical Friday night rush. People who come in immediately look around, spot us and take photos with their phones. Some of the brave ones say hello and ask for autographs.

“Time for a change-up!” Tyler says. He dons his aviator shades and hoists me out of my chair. He whispers something to Gavin and then we make a break for it, running a couple blocks south on Bowery.

“What about the others?” I ask, hustling to keep up with Tyler’s long gait.

“They’ll come. That’s what we do when people find us. Someone tweets about where we are and so we scatter, but we just regroup later.”

I laugh at the chase and we head to DBGB, a modern restaurant bar with walls covered in culinary quotes. By the time we’ve ordered another drink, Gavin and Beryl appear. Gavin’s wearing a dark, shaggy wig that looks like it belongs on a 1990s grunge band and I burst out laughing.

“Seriously? That’s the dumbest wig I’ve ever seen.”

Gavin’s ice-blue eyes wink at me. “Don’t knock it. It’ll buy us another half-hour at least, but damn, it’s scratchy.”

We order another round and Tyler, Beryl and I play our lyrics game. Tyler gets me with a
The Book of Mormon
reference and I draw a blank.

“New location,” Gavin announces, looking at his phone. “The others went to The Bowery Hotel and they found a good hiding spot.”

I teeter on my heels as I follow them a few blocks, floating on alcohol and laughter. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten such a head start on them with the vodka at Tyler’s place, because they’re just getting warmed up while I’m pretty sauced.

In the dark haze of The Bowery Hotel’s bar, no one recognizes Tattoo Thief immediately and I’m grateful, but I hate the fact that the last two seats are on opposite couches. Tyler sits next to Teal, who immediately snuggles up to him.

The couches are slouchy velvet and we cluster around a table where Shelly and Teal are doing shots of Patrón. Kristina sneers at them but Beryl and I go for it with the rest of the band, the sting of salt and sharp tang of lime following each tequila shot that burns down my throat.

Tyler starts spinning a laughter-filled anecdote and everyone lightens. His grin is contagious—I swear this man could create his own weather systems.

Kristina taps my knee and I force myself to stop staring at the rapidly diminishing space between Teal and Tyler. “Tomorrow, can you come over to my place?” Kristina asks Beryl and me. “We can figure out what we’re wearing for the
Spider-Man
premiere.”

That thought takes my mood down a notch and I frown. “I don’t have anything to wear,” I confess, hoping I don’t also have to confess that I don’t have the money to buy something new.

Kristina’s sour expression is broken by a light laugh. “That’s the point, silly. I got Marchesa to dress us all. They’ll come over with a bunch of gowns and we get to pick.”

Beryl’s eyes widen. “That feels so … Cinderella.”

Kristina rolls her eyes. “You get used to it. The dresses are a loan. But it wouldn’t look good if Tattoo Thief showed up with arm candy dressed the way we are right now.”

I stiffen at her comment, but I can’t disagree. I might look fine for a night out at a bar, but I’m nowhere near premiere-ready.

“What about…?” I incline my head toward Shelly and Teal.

Kristina shakes her head. “Jayce hasn’t decided who he’s going with yet. Anyway, they’re not part of our group.”

“Yet?” Beryl asks.

Kristina’s face darkens. “I’ve seen it too many times to count. The girls who leech on to them because they’re rock stars, not because they’re Jayce or Gavin or Tyler, don’t deserve to be a part of this.”

“And it’s your prerogative to shut them out?” I challenge Kristina—why does she get to decide who’s in and who’s out? I should be grateful that I’m included, but the alcohol makes me quarrelsome.