HEIDI JOY TRETHEWAY
For my rock star husband.
PROLOGUE
It’s no wonder rich people are always going on about their shrinks. I’m pretty sure they have split personalities.
I’m talking rich, not the platinum-card and Mercedes crowd. Think bigger than my-kid’s-in-private-school, I-have-a-full-time-maid, come-visit-our-beach-house wealthy.
No, I’m talking private-jet rich. British-butler rich. Buy-your-own-island rich. These are the people I’ve gotten to know in intimate detail.
I know they eat Cheetos on their ten-thousand-dollar couches. I know they have Jersey Shore and some really crappy porn on their DVRs. I know who wears granny panties and who leaves their toenail clippings everywhere.
It’s disgusting. C’mon, people.
See what I mean? Split personalities. You’d think the rich would live better than this, yet some of them keep enough junk around to embarrass half of those poor folks on Hoarders. They just have more room for storage.
You’d assume rich people live pristine lives, perfectly groomed, homes immaculately cleaned, not a gross habit to be found.
That’s bullshit.
I know. I’m the one they hire to take care of the mess when they’re gone, taking their private jets to their private islands, British butlers in tow.
I’m their house sitter.
I’m the ghost, the house-elf, the dog-walker, delivery-receiver, fridge-stocker, unseen errand-girl who keeps everything running until they come home.
Lucky for me, I’m on their payroll.
Lucky for them, too—I keep their secrets.
Until now.
CHAPTER ONE
When failure rubs its stinky butt in your face, it smells like coffee.
I know this.
It’s the smell that assaults me each morning when I unlock the doors of the Mug Shot Café.
It’s the smell that rules my day.
And it’s the smell that clings to me each afternoon when I give the till to the assistant manager, pull my bike from its hiding place behind a Dumpster, and pedal home to the apartment I share with my mother.
I’m twenty-two. If living with your mother after you graduate college doesn’t reek of failure, I don’t know what does.
First customer today: an extra-hot, half-caf, sugar-free, non-fat latte with whipped cream.
I consider telling her we charge extra for whipped cream—we don’t—just because her order is so annoying.
Or, I could charge a service fee for taking her order while she furiously texts with dagger-like fingernails. I consider slipping real sugar into her latte, but settle for the Awkward Pause.
She takes the hint, puts down the phone and pays.
Next batter up: Isaac. One of my favorites. He’s always in a suit, orders the same three-dollar drink, drops the same two-dollar tip, smiles and says thank you. I have a little crush on him. Our friendship started when I thanked him for thanking me.
You have no idea how often service workers don’t get thanked. One customer told her daughter that she didn’t have to thank me because I was just doing my job.
Some job.
Next?
Yoga pants lady (who is not en route to yoga): soy chai latte.
Next?
Bike messenger: extra-dry cappuccino.
Next?
“Berry?”
I look up, surprised to hear my childhood nickname. The nametag on my apron just says MANAGER.
“Uncle Dan?”
I squint like an idiot, fumbling to greet the man I last saw nearly a decade ago. He’s not my real uncle. But he was my dad’s best friend.
“Berry, you’re all grown up!”
I cringe with the same embarrassment I felt as a child. Each time he visited Eugene, Oregon—his hometown and mine—he’d remark on how tall I’d grown.
“I’m sorry,” he recovers quickly. “I know that sounds ridiculous now. It’s been way too long.”
“Yeah.” Wow. I’m just full of scintillating conversation. “What are you doing here?”
I try to make the question neutral, but it comes out kind of choked. Seeing him transports me to a too-bright spring day and a darkened funeral home. I stood between my mom and Dan, who gave the eulogy. Dozens of my dad’s friends packed the room, too many brown leather flight jackets to count.
Flustered, I make Dan a drink.
“Can you take a break? I’d love to catch up.” Dan seems overly enthusiastic, overly apologetic. “I never meant to go so long without seeing you and your mother.”
The morning rush is mostly over so I saddle the lone barista with both register and bar duties. She scowls but I pull off my apron and pour a tall glass of tap water before joining Dan at a table that wobbles a little. Mental note to fix that.
“What are you doing in town?” I ask, genuinely curious. Dan’s folks moved to Florida, so my dad was pretty much the only reason he visited Eugene after high school.
“High school reunion. Thirty years.”
“Make you feel old?” I don’t mean to be rude. Sometimes I just say whatever pops into my head. Sue me.
“Yeah. I mean, I can’t believe I’m old enough to be the father of a real adult. Look at you, Berry! You look wonderful.”
I blush hard, because I feel anything but. My long, curly dark brown hair is looped back on itself in a messy ponytail. I’m wearing my standard uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, and I skipped makeup this morning. At 5:15 a.m., I’d rather have a few extra minutes of sleep.
Dan, on the other hand, looks like he’s channeling Anderson Cooper: he’s slim, toned, and perfectly shaved. It’s an unseasonably warm early June, but Dan looks cool and crisp in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and gray trousers.
I realize I haven’t responded to Dan’s compliment and unintentionally gave him the Awkward Pause.
“Thanks. I guess I look a little different than last time.” I gurgle out a weird laugh, transported to my 13-year-old self, all knees and elbows and frizzy hair. Top off my look with braces anchored by neon rubber bands. I defined awkward teen.
“I didn’t know you worked here. I was actually hoping to see your mom this trip, but she—”
“Never returned your calls,” I finish for him. “Yeah. Don’t expect much. She’s all wrapped up in her counseling practice and she doesn’t have much of a life, social or otherwise.”
Dan’s face drops but then he rallies. “So tell me about you! Are you happy working here?”
“Oh, definitely. Being a coffee bar manager is, like, my dream.” Sarcasm drips from my words, and I kick myself. I don’t need to be snotty.
“Did you go to college?”
“Yep. I majored in journalism at the University of Oregon. It was a little weird commuting to school with mom while she finished her master’s in counseling. I worked here at the coffee shop all the way through.”
“So after graduation, you just stayed?”
“Of course not. I did what every journalism student does—I got a job at a little weekly paper. I covered local politics and school board hearings. Edge-of-your-seat stuff, let me tell you.”
“And then?” Dan sips his latte, gently probing.
“And then I quit. I was reporting a really bad story, one where two kids died. I worked crazy hours and made two bucks over minimum wage. So I quit. My old boss, who owns this place, hired me back as manager. Believe it or not, this gig got me a raise.”
“So you’re happy.” Dan leans back in his chair and I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement.
I hesitate long enough that it becomes a question, hanging in the air between us, growing more significant with each moment.
I want to tell hi
m I’m just paying my dues and that I have a plan to do something different, but the truth is, I don’t. I don’t know where I’m going next, or if I’ll ever figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
I just wasted four years on a journalism degree and it took me less than a year to figure out that being a reporter sucks.
Dan’s dark gaze is sharp and knowing, as if I’ve already admitted this. I could never get away with lying to him as a kid, either.
“I’m stuck,” I finally admit. “Stuck here, stuck with this.” Do I look as pathetic as I sound?
“So get un-stuck.”
I roll my eyes. He makes it sound easy. He probably has a zillion frequent flyer miles, while the farthest I’ve ever been from Eugene was a youth group trip to Seattle. Six hours in a yellow bus rumbling up Interstate 5 hardly qualifies me as a world traveler.
“I’m serious, Berry. You can do something new.”
“Beryl,” I finally correct him. I gave up my childhood nickname a long time ago. Plus, I think Beryl is equal parts tough, hip, and classic. I can rock a name like Beryl.
“Sorry,” he says. “Old habit. But I’m serious. You should see the world. At least get out of this town. You have no idea how blown away I was when I moved to New York City.”
“Easier said than done.”
Dan waves his hand, dismissing the paralysis I feel. New York seems larger than life, a towering megatropolis that I’d get lost in. But Dan talks about moving there like it just takes a plane ticket and a little luck.
I know it also takes a pile of cash that I don’t have. I’m still saving for an apartment in Eugene.
I once read a whole BuzzFeed article about how hard it is to rent an apartment in New York, with hilariously horrifying pictures from Craigslist. Anything in my price range is guaranteed to have rats, roaches, and bedbugs. And that’s just the start of the creepy neighbors.
“Let me make it easier, then,” Dan offers. “I’m in real estate. I do high-end property management and I need an assistant. It’s not super-glamorous—a lot of it is grunt work—but I need someone who can do research, be super-organized and write well.”
He names a figure roughly twice my current salary and my eyes pop out of my head.
“Berry—Beryl, sorry—that doesn’t go as far as you’d think in New York, but it’s a start. So get yourself un-stuck. Move.”
I roll the idea around in my head, taking a huge drink of water from my glass and sputtering. Smooth.
“Mom will hate the idea.”
“Of course she will. You’re her only child. Maybe I can talk to her and help her understand? It’s time you leave the nest, explore a bit, and try on a new kind of life for size.” Dan’s eyes are shining with enthusiasm. Clearly, he’s fallen head-over-heels for New York.
“Why are you doing this?” I’m still suspicious. Even though Dan was there for many of my birthday parties as a kid and even some of our Christmases, I’m smart enough to know opportunities like this don’t just drop out of the sky.
Dan rubs his chin and I think he’s debating telling me an adult truth or the kind of generous lie meant to placate a child. “I guess I feel a certain responsibility. I’m sorry I dropped out of your life for so long. Your dad would have wanted me to be there for you. You’re stuck here and he would have wanted you to have an adventure.”
I feel tears threaten to spill over my lashes. “Be safe, but have an adventure,” was the phrase my dad so often repeated. It was his driving force, and he was always pushing me to do more and be more.
Until one day when he wasn’t there. And then I needed to just be safe, so I could be there for my mom.
“I do have a friend there…” I start, feeling the weight of the gift Dan’s offering.
“Call her. Or him. Or whatever.” Dan pushes his business card across the wobbling table. My lone barista sends murderous looks my way. “Let me know what you decide. I’ll be around for a few days. Or maybe I could stop by and say hello to your mom.”
“I’ll call you,” I promise, and give him an odd side-hug because I’m not sure what else to do. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
CHAPTER TWO
I consider ignoring Dan’s offer, sticking with what I know and what’s comfortable. But as each customer enters and orders, I roll the idea over in my head, imagining what life could be like.
New York seems enormous and scary. I think of the cop shows and crazy-confusing public transit. The closest thing we have to a subway in Eugene is a dedicated bus lane with grass down the middle.
I swear I am not making that up.
I pedal home to an empty apartment. I’ve got two hours between the end of my coffee shop shift and the start of my second job, three nights a week at a brewpub. While the coffee shop pays enough for my bills and part of the rent, I’ve been funneling tips from the pub into another account, hoping to move into an apartment with my boyfriend, buy a car, or even travel.
But so far, I haven’t done any of that. I want to blame it on the responsible part of me that does her homework before making a big decision, but maybe I’m just scared.
My mom won’t be home until after I have to leave for my shift, so I call Stella. She’s the one who always makes me feel braver than I am.
We were in J-school together (that’s the journalism program, to insiders) and we were pretty tight. At the college newspaper, I was the news editor and she was the rabble-rousing opinions editor.
“Stella?”
“Beryl! What’s up? How’s the coffee shop?” We haven’t talked on the phone in months but we don’t need much time to catch up since we’re Facebook friends. She’s read my status updates and I’ve read hers, which are mostly insane stories of New York nightlife.
So I cut to the chase. “I’m thinking about moving to New York.”
“Really? That’s brilliant!” she trills, and I can hear her Squee! through the phone, which encourages me.
“I got a sort-of job offer from my dad’s best friend, and I think I want to go, if I can find a place to live.”
Stella’s voice catches. “Oh, Beryl, you have no idea what perfect timing this is. You’ve got to come live with me.”
Is it really this easy?
“I was freaking out about rent, and if you move here, all of my problems are solved!”
“I thought you were living with your boyfriend? What’s his name? Knyfe?”
“Blayde. That rat bastard. I’ll spare you the details, but the thing is, we split up and rent’s due in three days and I didn’t even know what I’d do…”
Nobody calls me impulsive. Impetuous. Spur-of-the-moment. Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. Nobody calls me that, because I’m Not. That. Way.
It’s hard to be a carefree teenager when your mom’s having a meltdown. But now Mom’s fine and my life sucks. So that’s the moment I make up my mind.
Failure isn’t going to rub its stinky butt in my face one more day.
“I haven’t talked to my mom or Jeff yet.”
“But you will? Come on Beryl, they can’t make up your mind for you.”
“It’s complicated. I was planning to move in with Jeff.”
“So? I was planning to be a Broadway star. Plans change. Roll with it.”
“He’s not going to understand.”
“Beryl, listen to me: ‘Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor.’”
“Into the Woods. The butcher’s wife.” I smile, remembering our game. I score a point each time I can name a lyric’s source in musical theater. She forced me to listen to soundtracks when we spent late nights working at our college newspaper.
“Score one for you. That’s from ‘First Midnight.’” Stella laughs and I warm inside. I miss her. She’s daring when I’m careful, feisty when I’m the peacemaker, and the troublemaker when I’m the good girl.
But being the good girl is getting me nowhere. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m going to talk to Jeff. And my mom. And if I can get their
blessing—”
“Shut up. Even if you can’t.”
“Even if I can’t get their blessing—”
“You’re coming.”
Damn, she’s good. “I’ll send you the rent tomorrow,” I promise. “And I’ll be your new roomie! I’m booking the first flight that doesn’t cost a gazillion bucks.”
“I love you, Beryl!”
“Ditto.” I click off my phone and start to panic.
***
I take a shower, straighten the apartment and put on my brewpub uniform—denim shorts and an embroidered black polo. I give it the sniff test and it passes.
I try to think of what to say as I ride to Jeff’s apartment, hoping to catch him home from work before I have to report in for my next shift. I leave my bike at the bottom of his apartment’s stairs and knock on his door, opening it when there’s no answer.
Jeff is sprawled in his usual butt-shaped dent on his couch, fat black headphones on his head, totally absorbed in a shoot-em-up video game. I hook my rear over the edge of the couch and plant my legs in his lap. He smiles but keeps furiously pressing buttons on the controller.
I pop a few buttons on his shirt beneath his loosened tie, letting my hand wander down below his belt buckle. He tenses and then slumps as he curses, drops the controller and pulls the headphones over his close-cropped dark hair.
“You’d better be offering something more than a tease, considering you just got me killed,” he grumbles good-naturedly, his hands snaking beneath my polo shirt. I can tell he’s equal parts annoyed and horny.
The usual.
“Maybe after my shift,” I say, kissing him lightly. If we take things further, I’ll be late. “I want to talk to you.”
Jeff pulls back, studying me with curious eyes. His olive-skinned face shows a bit of stubble and his eyes are puffy, no doubt from gaming long into last night. I’m glad I didn’t bother to stay over. I wouldn’t have had his attention anyway.
But now I’ve got it. “I’m thinking about moving,” I say, feeling Stella the angel (or devil?) on my shoulder as she smacks my head for that indecisive statement.
Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) Page 1