Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (19 page)

Violet pushes her laptop across the table and I stare at the photograph on the screen, angling it away from the Sunday brunch crowd at a cozy restaurant called Hearth.

The light in Tyler’s loft is golden, shining off the band’s sweat-slicked muscles and gleaming instruments. Each band member’s face is deep in concentration, their expressions absolutely immersed in their instruments.

I’m open-mouthed and panting slightly, drinking in every detail of the full-screen image. “If I hadn’t been there when you took this…”

I can almost hear the deep thrumming of Tyler’s bass chords as I look at the picture.

Violet smiles. “Do you think it will work?”

“Oh,
hell
yes. This is ferociously sexy, especially because it doesn’t look like they’re trying to be sexy. It looks like you got a sneak peek without them even realizing you were there.”

“Awesome. That’s what I wanted—something candid that didn’t look like another posed rock-god photo.”

I giggle. “But you’ve got to admit, those abs—”

“Yeah. I know. Some girls go for abs and some go for butts and legs, but I’m obsessed with shoulders. And biceps.” Violet takes a quick drink of her coffee as if she’s just admitted to something naughty.

“Anyone’s biceps in particular?” I raise my brows to tease her and Violet’s pale neck flushes with embarrassment.

“No. Stella, cut it out.” She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes closed, wisps of deep red hair escaping from her messy bun.

I push the laptop back across the table to Violet and sit back in my chair to give her space. I’ve touched a nerve, and we don’t have the history Beryl and I do for teasing. “Sorry.”

I wait.

“Violet, seriously, I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d …”

What? Overreact to the slightest suggestion that she could be attracted to one of the guys? I’m pretty sure even eighty-year-old women find Tattoo Thief attractive.

Violet looks up at me with eyes lined with worry. The dark circles beneath them when I first met her are lighter, but not entirely gone beneath her translucent skin dusted with freckles.

Violet closes her laptop lid. “Let’s not go there, OK? I’ll send that picture and a couple more over to your editor tonight. And I brought your stuff.” She gestures to a bulky cloth bag at our feet.

“Thanks for schlepping that over here.” We’re not too far from the Lower East Side apartment she shares with Neil, and I’m curious. “So how do you know Neil?”

“Friend of a friend. I got a job teaching last September and had to move really quick, and his ex-boyfriend had just split.”

Ah, the lovely real estate cycle of New York relationships. I swear people are more freaked out about finding a new place than breaking up. I was when Blayde kicked me out. Maybe that’s why Neil and Violet took pity on me and let me crash in her room while she was gone.

“You’re a teacher?”

“Was.”

“What did you teach?”

Violet grimaces. “I wanted to do art education, but there’s not a lot of funding for that, and nothing full-time. So I also taught sex ed.”

I laugh. “That sounds like a blast. Did you have to show horny eighth graders how to roll a condom over a banana?”

Violet presses her lips together to hide a small smile and drops her voice. “My favorite question was, ‘What if you can’t find the hole?’”

I throw my head back and laugh, but Violet’s nodding. “True story, true story.”

“Wait. You said you were a teacher? What happened?”

“I got fired.”

I’m still laughing and I can’t rein it in. “For what? Explaining how to find the hole?”

Violet’s creamy complexion pales and she shakes her head, her eyes rimming with tears.

“Oh, God, Violet. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to make fun of you. That sucks. I’m sorry you got fired. You don’t have to—”

“Unprofessional conduct,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t reveal anything else. I’m curious, but I don’t want to push her. After the way Tyler pushed me yesterday, I understand acutely the need for space.

I haven’t touched alcohol since Tyler and I talked, even though I craved some hair of the dog yesterday afternoon. And I’m not ready to answer the
real
question: where is this going with Tyler?

That thought kept me awake long into last night as I tossed and turned on my air mattress.

“So, are you going to get a different teaching job or freelance more? Because you’re really good.” I offer Violet this compliment to lift the mood and because I mean it.

Violet snorts. “I doubt I can get a teaching job again. But I’ve always been into photography, so I’m giving this a shot. I was really grateful when Neil recommended me to your editor and you took a chance on me.”

“The nudes in your room are impressive,” I add. “Do you sell those?”

“I don’t do nudes anymore. I’m working on a different kind of project now.” Violet gives me a tentative smile. “It’s a secret.”

TWENTY-TWO

“You wanted sex. You got it.” I steel myself against Heath’s criticism as he glances over my story on his screen. I filed it an hour ago but had to wait for Heath’s reaction while most of my colleagues took off for Monday night happy hour specials.

I
so
need a drink right now. Even though I’m avoiding Tyler and the hardest part of our last conversation, I’m at least doing this for him. In case he asks. Which he hasn’t.

He’s hardly said more than a few words to me, just instructions for the premiere tomorrow night. I can’t believe he still wants me to go.

“It’s sexy, I’ll give you that. But where’s the conflict, Stella?” Heath asks.

I want to snap my fingers in front of my chest and say, “Eyes up here, buddy,” but instead I cross my arms over the small amount of cleavage he can see. “I think the conflict is in building the song, the different ways each member of the band wants to take it.”

I wait for Heath’s reaction as he scans my story again. It’s not the breathless scandal he’s asked for. Repeatedly.

“Look, you’ve got inside access. What can you give me that really
feels
like an insider is there? Because I can’t believe it’s all roses. What about the band dynamics? Maybe there’s a seven-year itch, like Gavin going solo?”

I shake my head. “He’s not going to do that.”

“Did you
ask
him?” Heath presses.

“No, uh, not really. But I get the sense that they’re sticking together.”

“Getting the sense
and
reporting the story
are different, Stella. You either get in there and dig for the answers I want, or forget writing and just drool over them like a little fangirl. Got it?”

I recoil as if he’s slapped me.

“Who are you closest to?”

“What?”

Heath’s voice rises. “I said, who are you closest to? Which member of the band will give you what you want?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Bullshit!” Heath’s face is red. “There’s always a leak. There’s always someone who’s pissed off with the way things are and willing to spill their guts if you ask the right questions. If you give them some
incentive.”

The way he says the last word sends spiders crawling up my spine, the sickening realization that he’s basically asking if I can sleep my way to a story.

“The question is, how far are you willing to go to get what I want? Because if I don’t get what I want, you don’t get what you want, Stella. And I thought you wanted to be our lead music reporter.”

There it is. The quid pro quo. If I can get a provocative story on the band, something that drips with sex and scandal, Heath will give me—what, exactly?

Heath pulls open his bottom desk drawer. “It’s five o’clock. Drink?” The speed with which he changes gears astounds me.

He pours amber liquid from a whiskey bottle into his coffee mug and I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

“Loosen up, Stella. You act like a kid sometimes. I know what happens backstage, the drinking and the drugs and the sex. If you didn’t act like such a”—he fishes for the word—“
prude
, I’ll bet the band would be a lot more forthcoming.”

I bark back a laugh. Prude is something I’m not. And I’m not a kid, either, but Heath’s offer of a drink feels like a test. How far am I willing to go to get a story?

One little drink won’t hurt anyone.

“Pour me one.”

“Good girl.” Heath pours and I hate him even more for praising me like a puppy. “So when are you seeing the band next?”

I drink the shot of whiskey in one gulp and it slides like fire down my throat. “Tomorrow.”

“And can we agree you’re going to make
sure
that this next story is not something I could fucking read in a church newsletter?”

“I get it.” My voice is edged in steel. “I’ll dig for better facts.”

Heath growls. “Not facts, Stella. The
story.
Readers don’t give a shit about the facts if you’re giving them a great story.”

***

Heath taunts me at work the next day with little snide comments about how much he’s looking forward to my next story. The weight of his expectations—and the threat of what will happen to me if I don’t deliver—hang over me.

I rush through a series of quick write-ups for our website that are mostly cobbled-together press releases fleshed out with a few easy phone calls.

I’m always, always aware of my inch count for the week, and honestly it’s easier to fill my unspoken quota with half-assed journalism like this than with the in-depth features I really want to do.

I file five articles before the end of the day, then take the subway to Gavin’s penthouse on the Upper West Side to get ready for the premiere with Beryl. I’m nervous and wishing for a few shots to calm my nerves, but I remember my promise to Tyler and resist.

I’m trying. Really. I felt so guilty about the whiskey in Heath’s office yesterday that I window-shopped SoHo and ate at a hot dog stand instead of heading back to Tyler’s. He was out when I got home, and I never heard him come in.

The next morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter:
Go to Gavin’s tonight to get ready with Beryl. I’ll pick you up there.

No signature. No warmth. Just the command. My heart sinks with the knowledge that my sudden departure Saturday morning—especially after he told me he was crazy about me—created a deep rift between us.

***

Beryl opens Gavin’s door and her face is flushed. “You ready for this?”

“Not hardly. How about you?”

“Still freaking out. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to appearances. When Gavin walked us out of
The Late Show
, I practically went blind from all the camera flashes.”

I balk. “Tyler said all I have to do is sit with him and watch the movie. Are we going to have to walk by the press? Like on a red carpet?”

Beryl shrugs—she’s almost as new to this as I am. “Maybe? It’ll be whatever Tattoo Thief’s label wants. Gavin said usually the guys run through the press together and the girls go in separately.”

I relax. As much as I wanted to be in the spotlight when I came to New York, I don’t want to be caught by the business end of a camera lens. For one thing, I’m not
with
Tyler. And for another, Heath’s going to expect a hell of a lot from me if I show up on Tyler’s arm.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Beryl reads me perfectly.

I nod. “But I promised Tyler I’d be there. And it’s too late now to back out.”

If I did back out, who would Tyler bring? Teal? My jealousy and curiosity trump the smart move—staying behind the scenes.

Gavin’s intercom buzzes.

“Jemma Townsend is here for Beryl Sutton.” The disembodied voice crackles through the speaker.

“Hair and makeup,” Beryl tells me, then presses the intercom button. “Send her up.”

Whoa. First the dresses and now a professional ’do. Once again, I’m out of my depth. Beryl opens the door and a striking blonde sweeps in, offering us air kisses.

“Look at you two! You’re gorgeous!” She cups my chin between her thumb and index finger, turning my face left and right to see me better. “Your eyes are stunning.”

I’m speechless. Jemma could be on a magazine cover and
she
just called me gorgeous. Beryl leads us to the same bathroom that she and I got ready in a month ago, when I was on a mission to get over Blayde and I thought she needed to get over her old boyfriend Jeff.

Now we’re dating rock stars. It’s surreal.

Jemma deposits a large, lumpy bag on the floor and opens a massive tackle box filled with makeup.

“Hair first, then makeup. Are you going up or down, Beryl?”

Beryl fingers her long, curly brown hair. “It’s hot. Up?”

Jemma nods. “Perfect. I’ll start with your hair then. Stella, what do you think?”

My bob feels like it only works with one style, but I want to try something new tonight, something that Tyler hasn’t seen before. “Do I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice, honey.” Jemma’s bubbly attitude gives me confidence. She curls, twists and pins Beryl’s hair into a wild nest that looks effortless.

When she gets to me, her fingers filter through my hair and scoop it up from the nape of my neck. I close my eyes as she works, feeling her pin and spray my bob until it’s high at the crown and smooth at the sides, an almost-up-do I never thought possible.

Beryl and I giggle and gossip through Jemma’s makeup session, speculating on whom Jayce is bringing and if he’s even capable of seeing the same girl for more than a few dates in a row.

I dress in a guest room and take my time with final preparations, regretting my decision to wear something saucy under my dress for Tyler. Hooking thigh-highs on a garter belt is more complicated than I expected and getting the stockings’ back seams straight is maddening.

“Beryl? Can you help me zip?” I call through the partially open door of the guest room. I feel fingers on my back and my zipper snakes partway up my spine, but the touch is too intimate to be my best friend.

Tyler.

I turn and his broad hands linger on my waist, his eyes shining with appreciation.

“You look …” Tyler doesn’t finish his sentence and his lack of words makes me feel beyond beautiful. He’s dashing in a slim-cut dark suit and white shirt that’s open at the collar. An undone bowtie hangs around his neck and though his hair is combed back, a few days’ worth of stubble lingers on his jaw.