Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (3 page)

“Beryl, I owe you more than an apology. I know what I did was selfish and wrong, and I can’t believe Gavin asked me to be here tonight.”

My face crumples as I prepare for the onslaught, like I’m bracing myself for a punch.

There’s something worse than the pain of being hurt.

It’s the pain of hurting someone you love.

Beryl’s mouth is pressed in a hard line, so I glue my eyes to the floor and wobble on stupidly tall shoes that pinch in the wrong places.

“Do you forgive me, Beryl? I’m so sorry I did that to you, making your video public. I was just—it was just so perfect, so much better than every crappy show I’ve been sitting through—I just had to write about it. And the only way I could get the chance was if I had an exclusive. The video.”

I kick myself and wish my mouth would just stop. I’m ruining this apology.

Beryl glances at Gavin and back to me, her voice hard. “You could have ruined everything.”

“Beryl, if you don’t forgive me, I
have
ruined everything.”

She snorts, her next words scathing. “No. You just established yourself as the next up-and-coming music journalist. Lucky you. I guess using a friend is a small price to pay for getting what you really want.”

I want to run from Beryl’s hurt, angry sarcasm that feels like a thousand needles jabbing me at once. I can’t take the way her anger has made her bitter. I duck my head again and beg. “It was selfish. I didn’t think—I didn’t think I’d lose your friendship.”

“You were wrong.” Beryl stands and thrusts her arm toward the door where I came in. Her cold hazel eyes are unrelenting. “You’d better leave before you steal something else.”

“Beryl.” Gavin growls her name and both of our heads spin to see him rise from the table. The rest of the dining room is quiet, witnessing this confrontation, and my humiliation is complete. “You forgave me. I used Lulu to get what I wanted and you still forgave me. Is what Stella did really unforgiveable?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the weight of the gift Gavin is giving me. Even if Beryl doesn’t forgive me, even if I can’t be part of her life anymore, I want to make this right. But how can I protect her and protect my job? I imagine Heath’s reaction if I don’t land another story.

He’s not one for second chances. And I’m not sure they really exist.

“How can I be your friend if I can’t trust you?” Beryl asks. My heart breaks as I meet her gaze; tears well in the corners of her eyes and she glances at the ceiling, blinking hard against them. “I let you in on the secrets I wasn’t supposed to share with anyone, and you just
sold
them.”

My face twists with renewed pain. “You’re right. I don’t deserve your trust right now, but I’m going to try like hell to earn it back. Here.”

I dig into my purse and pull out a sealed envelope. I push it toward her, willing Beryl to take it from me before I lose my nerve. Finally, she turns it over in her hands as if she’s not sure what to do with it.

“I didn’t know how else to show you how sorry I am, so I brought you this. Even if you don’t trust me right now, I want to show you that
I
trust
you
.”

Beryl turns and walks a few steps from me, leaving me awkward and alone at the side of the room. I cross my arms and try to hold in the sobs that threaten to break from my chest. I hear Beryl rip open the envelope’s seal.

Most of the people at the table resume muted conversations while a waitress bustles into the room with a wide tray of salads and appetizers. Gavin sits and his eyes are trained on Beryl. Tyler’s watching me.

I wish there was something to hide behind. Or drink. My wineglass has been refilled but it’s at the opposite end of the table and I want something much stronger than Pinot Noir.

So I just stand there, waiting for Beryl’s reaction, hoping that what I’ve given her—proof of my ugliest secret—will be enough to convince her that I’m truly sorry.

My head is bent in shame and I stare at Beryl’s shoes. I know she’s done reading when they turn and point back to me. I drag my head up to face her again.

“I didn’t know,” she says, and her voice is tender. It’s the voice that comforted me on my worst nights in college where there was no one else to help.

“Now you do,” I whisper.

“How could you—?”

“Can we please not talk about it tonight?” My eyes are pleading for this concession as Beryl tucks the documents back into the envelope and hands them to me. They’re proof of a deep rift from my past, and they changed everything about my world. “I just wanted to show you that I’m sorry. Truly.”

Beryl grabs me in a rough hug that I’m not expecting. “Stop it. I forgive you. And we’re going to talk about this later.”

She releases me and our eyes lock. “But don’t you do that to me again or I’ll kick your ass and never tell you another secret. Besides, I’ll bet these guys would give you an exclusive if you’d just ask.”

“We would,” Tyler confirms, and I stagger back in surprise as his tall frame appears between us. “But you have to ask
pretty please
.”

His whole face smiles and he radiates a contentment that I’m desperate to feel again. Beryl relaxes and smiles back at him, probably as glad as I am that his presence shifts our tense mood.

“OK,” I mumble, not sure what he really wants. “Pretty please?”

“With a cherry on top,” Tyler prompts and I balk. I have to look up, way up, to meet his rich brown eyes and he seems so amused I’m afraid he’s laughing at me.

“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” I say it in a child’s singsong cadence.

“And sprinkles? And whipped cream?” Tyler’s eyes dance and I squirm under his gaze. He’s torturing me on purpose. Beryl grins and I’ll bet she’s enjoying the show.

I go for broke. “Yes, and nuts and hot fudge and anything else you want.” I put out my hand to shake on the deal as if I’m ready to make him an ice cream sundae. In exchange for—what exactly?

“Well, that’s an offer I can’t refuse.” Tyler pumps my hand slowly, up and down, sending a shiver up my spine as his large hand completely envelops mine. “You just promised me
anything.
So my answer is yes, you’ll get your exclusive. Stick with me, little lady.”

FOUR

“Stella’s going to do another story on us,” Tyler announces to Jayce and Dave, and they exchange twin looks of surprise.

I’m still annoyed by the
little lady
comment, but when Tyler pulled me away from Beryl to meet his band mates, I could hardly refuse.

“We can’t just let her write about Gavin, right? I’m going to give her an inside scoop on Tattoo Thief.” Tyler introduces me to Tattoo Thief’s lead guitarist and Jayce’s biceps flex as he shakes my hand.

The drummer, Dave, doesn’t extend a hand to shake—he ignores me completely and pivots his body toward Tyler, his jaw tight. “Why would you do
that?
After the shitstorm she just caused, that’s the last thing the PR department is going to let you do.”

Tyler laughs. “Live by your rules, Dave, and I’ll live by mine. Besides, I’m pretty sure Stella’s got a different approach this time.” His gaze shifts to me and I fidget.

“I have a lot to make up for,” I whisper, my head bent. “I just wanted—I just wanted to show the world how great that song was.”

“There’s more where that came from,” Jayce adds. Dave glares at him. “It’s all Gavin can talk about since he got back. Less post-production. More acoustic. He wants to transform our sound.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Tyler says, the way a parent might dismiss a child’s threat to hold his breath until he gets his way.

Dave stands up straighter, his thick, ropy muscles tensing. Beneath his close-cropped dark hair and olive skin, his face is a mask of control.

“Tyler, no. Don’t do this. You can’t trust Stella farther than
she
can throw
you
, and I don’t even like her being here tonight. Who knows what she’s going to write tomorrow?” Dave turns to me and growls, “And this conversation is strictly off the record.”

I want to spit back that a source can’t demand to go off the record after the fact, but I resist.

“Gavin invited her.” Jayce counters with a shrug, brushing back thick, golden hair that falls in unruly waves just below his collar.

“Without asking us,” Dave adds.

“He asked me here to apologize to Beryl,” I say. “But I also have a job to do. I can’t say no to what Tyler’s offered.”

“You never should have
offered
it,” Dave snarls through clenched teeth. He moves a few inches closer to Tyler, his posture taut and aggressive.

“Easy…” Jayce warns. His voice is calm but his body language is commanding, as if he’s ready to break up a fight. A couple of inches taller than Dave and several inches shorter than Tyler, Jayce easily outweighs both of them with his muscled bulk.

“Dave, chill. You’re not the manager anymore. And if Chief is mad about it, it’s on me, OK?” Tyler’s not backing down and I’m grateful, considering that something has to be on my editor’s desk by the end of the day tomorrow.

“Be careful, Tyler,” Dave warns.

“Screw careful. Life’s about being brave,” Tyler shoots back. His optimism rocks me and I want to feel that too. Badly.

Tyler hoists my chair from the end of the table and brings it around to settle next to his place just in time for the entrées. We’re served family-style, with heaping bowls of fettuccine Alfredo, mushroom ravioli, braised beef, and lemon chicken piccata.

Tyler insists on serving me heaping portions and I devour them, slipping into a conversation that doesn’t feel like an interview.

He tells me about growing up in Pittsburgh, starting the band in his mom’s garage and struggling to make it when Tattoo Thief first moved to New York four years ago.

But he gets far more from me, teasing out my college major, how I got my job, how I met Beryl, and even my unfortunate housing situation at Neil’s place. With each question and each bite of food—rich and flavorful food like I haven’t had in weeks—I feel my walls crumbling a little.

I don’t know why Tyler is being so nice to me, but his cheerful presence exudes peace. The pressure on my chest that threatened to choke me when I arrived at the restaurant is lifted. I feel lighter, more whole, as if I’ve been dying of a disease and he’s found the cure.

This is a very dangerous place to be.

“How did you get into music?” Tyler asks, his warm brown eyes focused on mine.

“I’ve loved it since I was a kid. I spent every cent of my allowance on music and I still remember when I got my first iPod. I stayed up all night making playlists.”

Tyler’s slightly crooked grin appears. “Do you play anything?”

I flush and look down at my plate. “Yeah. I took some lessons. Piano and …” I don’t really want to have this conversation.

“And what?”

“And voice, and violin, and tap, ballet, and jazz.” I tick off my overscheduled adolescence on my fingers. “Even some ballroom and gymnastics.”

“Whoa. Sounds like you were insanely busy.”

“Yeah. I did my homework in the car when my mom drove me to lessons. Sometimes I had two a night.”

“So what happened? Do you still play or sing?”

I shake my head quickly and the wine sloshes in my brain. I should probably slow down on it, but it’s loosened my tongue.

“I quit. Decided to do journalism instead.”

“Bullshit. When you were talking about your iPod, you looked like you need music to breathe. What happened really?”

The waitress clears our plates and I’m grateful for the interruption. I sip my water and turn to Tyler. “Sounds like you’re trying to do a story on me. Which would be totally boring. What about you? Did you always plan to be a rock star?”

He laughs, a big goofy boom that makes some of the others look up at us. “No, I started out as a drama geek. I did musicals and just picked up the bass when I was waiting around during rehearsals.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. This isn’t something I’ve ever read about Tyler. “Musical theater? What shows did you do?”

“All the high school standards.
Hello, Dolly
, and
Oliver
and
West Side Story
. My favorite was
The Music Man
.”

“Meredith Willson. I know every word,” I confess, and then shut my trap when Tyler looks at me keenly.

“Really?”

I nod and whisper my admission. “I did shows, too. That’s what I wanted to be. That’s why all those lessons.”

Tyler pushes his chair back and his baritone carries over the crowd in a dramatic barbershop quartet-style warble, a familiar tune that asks how there can be any
sin
in sincere, or
good
in goodbye.

I can’t help but grin ear-to-ear.

Tyler trails off and he mock-bows to our audience. Jayce hoots with laughter and a few others clap.

“You’d better watch out, Tyler,” Beryl pipes up from across the table. “Stella’s good at that game. Knows every song. Don’t bet her or she’ll beat your ass.”

Tyler chuckles and leans closer to me. “I just heard a challenge, didn’t you, Miss Stella? You ready to go head-to-head with me?”

My eyes widen but I know I can take him. “What are we playing for?”

Tyler thinks for a moment and then settles on the prize. “If you win, I’ll take you to see our practice space. For your story.”

Oh,
hell
yes. If I make this my next story, I won’t have to drag Beryl and Gavin into it. I feel my shoulders relax for the first time since arriving at the restaurant. “Done.”

Tyler laughs. “That confident, are we? What will you give me if
I
win?”

I’m stumped for a moment. There’s nothing I can give a ridiculously famous rock star who probably has more cash in his wallet right now than I have in my whole bank account. “If you win, I’ll take you to my favorite place in New York.”

“Where’s that?”

“I guess you’ll just have to win to find out, won’t you?” I sass.

The game is on and we take turns quoting lyrics in an attempt to stump each other. We go six rounds and I see his Andrew Lloyd Webber and raise him a Stephen Sondheim. He squeezes me with a Rodgers and Hammerstein but easily guesses my Jonathan Larson.