Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  She looks haunted.

  I flip open my laptop and get ready to Google more about Lulu Stirling when a G-chat window pops up.

  Gavin: Beryl.

  Across ten thousand miles, he calls my name and my heart leaps. How can I let him affect me like this?

  Me: I’m here.

  Gavin: What are you doing?

  I hesitate, unwilling to admit my full-court-press toward stalkerdom.

  Me: Looking at magazines.

  I push the Spin magazine aside guiltily.

  Me: Picking out your new furniture.

  Gavin: I wanted to talk to you more. I found another Internet connection.

  Me: We can chat. What are you doing?

  Gavin: I’m going to head west today, toward Lake Victoria. I need to listen to Maasai songs.

  Me: Why do you need that?

  Gavin: I need new music. I need a new inspiration. I’m stuck.

  Me: That sounds familiar. I was stuck too, you know.

  Gavin: How?

  Me: My life. I was stuck being the manager of a coffee shop. Stuck in my hometown, which compared to New York is small and boring. I was stuck until last week, when my Uncle Dan offered me a job. This job.

  Gavin: I got you un-stuck?

  Me: Yep. Thanks for that.

  Gavin: Beryl, you don’t know how fantastic that is.

  Me: I do. I feel more daring and adventurous than I’ve ever been in my whole safe, sane, responsible, boring life.

  Gavin: I need to get un-stuck.

  Me: ???

  Gavin: That’s why I’m here. Why I’ve been traveling. Partly to forget, to get away. Partly to get un-stuck.

  Me: Why are you stuck?

  Gavin: I lost my muse.

  Me: Lulu?

  Gavin: Yes.

  Me: What happened?

  Gavin: Overdose. When Lulu died, I freaked out. I tore up my house, I tore up myself. I went on the world’s most disgusting booze-and-takeout bender. You have no idea.

  Me: Actually, I do.

  Gavin: Oh. Yeah. Sorry.

  Me: Trust me—it gets better. Never all the way, but different.

  Gavin: But it might get worse. There was a reporter. The first day I left my apartment after Lulu died, he followed me and pushed a camera in my face and asked me if I was responsible. He accused me. And I was so freaked out that I ran. I got a flight to Madrid, and then hopped to Rome, and then Istanbul, Jerusalem, Cairo, and Nairobi. I just kept going.

  Me: You left Jasper. That sucks.

  Gavin: I know. I feel terrible about that. I just couldn’t take it. He was a constant reminder of her.

  Me: He was Lulu’s?

  Gavin: I got him for her. I thought that might bring her back from the edge, give her someone to take care of, someone who loves her unconditionally.

  Me: The edge?

  Gavin: I admit that I’m no angel. I hit booze. Some pot. But she went deeper. Heavier. She was an addict. She couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. I saw her wasting away, the drugs eating her up. I couldn’t bring her back and I’m afraid I didn’t try hard enough.

  Me: Sounds like you loved her.

  I feel tears leaking from my eyes as I write that.

  Gavin: I did. We were together for a long time. And even when she was using, I needed her. She inspired almost every song on my albums, or helped me work them out somehow. And she never wanted credit for helping me write. So I gave her credit with the album covers themselves. Made her the art that went with my music.

  Me: Did you ever try to get her help?

  Gavin: Of course I did. But it was always on my terms—I couldn’t let her get far enough away from me in a closed treatment program.

  Me: You blame yourself.

  Gavin: Yes. I kept her close to help my music, and that kept her close enough to the lifestyle. She decided she wanted drugs and their dealers more than she wanted me.

  Me: You can’t let the guilt eat you up, Gavin. You tried to save her. Some people just don’t want to be saved. What happened with the reporter? Did he ever write the story?

  Gavin: No. But I keep wishing he’d ask me again. Like, I’d just run into him in Nairobi and he’d ask me if I was responsible for Lulu’s death, and I could finally say yes.

  Me: Yes?

  Gavin: When treatment didn’t work, I got her the drugs.

  Me: You did? What the fuck, Gavin?

  I feel my heart racing, panicked. I was almost ready to forgive Gavin for all of his other selfish, slovenly behavior, and all the shit he left me to clean up. But to think he was responsible for Lulu’s death—I’m not sure anyone can be forgiven for that.

  Gavin: Don’t you dare judge me. You have no idea what it’s like to watch the person you love killing themselves, little by little, every day.

  Me: So it’s suddenly OK to enable them? Hand them a time bomb and walk away? She was an addict!

  Gavin: I thought that was the only way to keep her safe—off the street, away from dealers who took advantage of her.

  Me: Or maybe it’s just like you said—you needed her to help your music.

  She needed a hero, and you took advantage of her.

  I’m seething as I type. I want an explanation, something that will reconcile his unforgivable actions. But as my eyes flash over our chat, I see that he’s given me the explanation and it’s an ugly truth.

  He’s not the hero. He’s the villain. Maybe his self-imposed exile is not too harsh a penalty. Maybe he deserves it.

  I wait, my heart begging him to type something to redeem himself. But I get nothing. His green bubble goes gray.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I won’t take no for an answer. You get the most badass little black dress you can find and fuck-me shoes, and be ready by nine.”

  Stella’s on a mission. Blayde is history and she firmly believes that the best way to get over one man is to get under another. She says I’ll feel a million times better about the breakup with Jeff once I see who else is on the market.

  “You’re freaking me out,” I say. “Who owns fuck-me shoes? Other than strippers and prostitutes?”

  “Every woman needs a pair, honey,” she drawls. “They’re like a giant neon sign for guys that says, ‘Hey cowboy, tonight’s your lucky night!’”

  I run my hands through my hair and go to my closet. Bumpkin Fashion’s not gonna cut it for the dance club Stella has in mind. I head to the other guest room, where Lulu’s clothes lie on the bed.

  They’re begging me to take them.

  “I think I might have something,” I say, fingering a short black dress with a silver chain detail in the front. “But we’d better put comfortable fuck-me shoes on my shopping list for next time. I’ve got to be able to dance in them.”

  “Once you’ve had a few drinks, you won’t be able to feel your feet,” Stella says. “That’s my secret.”

  I suppress a snort. In college, Stella’s drinking wasn’t a secret—it was more like a public address. The frat boys loved her antics and sometimes I tagged along.

  “So how are we going to get there? On the subway?”

  “The train. New Yorkers call it the train.”

  “Sorry.” I’m still learning the lingo, but at least I know Houston Street isn’t pronounced like the city in Texas. “The train. Or do you want to take a cab?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll bring my stuff over and we’ll get ready at your place. I’ll do your hair.”

  I’m sure Stella’s far more into seeing Gavin’s apartment than giving me a beauty consultation, but I hear myself agreeing. My thick, curly hair takes forever to tame, especially if I want it straight and sleek.

  Which I do. It feels more New York.

  I give her the address and she promises to be here in an hour. That’s enough time for me to take Jasper on a short walk, shower, and shave the old growth forest off my legs.

  ***

  I’m in cutoff sweats and my green-and-yellow University of Oregon T-shirt when Stella arrives, looki
ng chic in painted-on skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that bares her shoulders. A fat bag on her hip signals that she’s brought supplies.

  They’re not just for my hair. She pulls out a half-empty fifth of vodka and we each do a couple of shots in between her cooing over the views, the palatial kitchen and the rest of Gavin’s oh-mygawdcanyoubelieveit apartment.

  I give her the full tour with the exception of Gavin’s office, which is still littered with papers. I show her how to give Jasper a high five and she giggles, transformed into the less-worldly version of herself that I remember meeting in our sophomore year newswriting class.

  “Show me what you’re wearing, and then I’ll do your hair.”

  I hold up the black dress and she approaches it reverently. “Where in the hell did you get this, Beryl? This is some expensive shit.” The label is a name I’ve never heard of.

  “Good thing it has built-in bra cups,” I say, changing the subject from the dress’s provenance. “There’s no way I can wear a bra with this.”

  “In that dress, nobody will be looking at your shoes,” she confirms, eyeing the slim pickings in my closet. We head to the bathroom and under her skillful hands my hair is transformed.

  I close my eyes as she brushes, irons and sprays. I haven’t heard from Gavin since he admitted what happened to Lulu last night, and I’m still reeling from his admission. His bubble is gray and I don’t want to email him. I don’t even know what I’d say, or if I want to say anything at all.

  No wonder he ran. If I caused someone’s death, I’d be running from guilt, and the law, their family, and who knows what else?

  “Jeff doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  I start. “Huh?”

  “Remember Jeff, you goof? Or have you already forgotten him?”

  I blush as she irons out the final sections of my hair, admitting as much.

  “Awesome, Beryl! Way to rebound. There’s hope for you yet. Repeat after me: A bad boy can’t break your heart.”

  I think for a moment, but I’m stumped. “What song’s that from?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a good rule to live by.” Stella smiles wickedly and I can tell bad boys are on her personal menu tonight.

  Maybe that’s not a bad idea. Forget rock star Gavin. Forget good boy Jeff. Bring on the bad boys.

  We stand side-by-side in the bathroom mirror to apply our makeup—she draws on dramatic cat eyes with liquid liner, and I dust smoky gray powder on my lids.

  “More,” she commands. I follow her lead.

  I wiggle into Lulu’s dress and I’m surprised by my own curves. When I first saw photos of Lulu, I thought my body was chunky by comparison. But in this dress I realize it’s all about packaging and proportion. With my rounded hips and decent boobs, I could be that curvy pinup I envied.

  I present myself to Stella for inspection. The dress is sleeveless, above the knee, and shaped carefully with darts to hug every curve. A stark vee neckline runs more than halfway to my navel, and strands of delicate silver chain close the vee from mid-boob down to its point, revealing far more cleavage than I think I’ve ever displayed, even in a bathing suit.

  Stella gives me a wolf whistle and I offer a naughty wink in return. She’s changed into a short red halter dress that shows off her slim, toned arms and shoulders.

  And no bra.

  “Stella, I can see your—”

  “Nipples? Yeah. They’re the new butt crack.”

  I step into my boring black pumps as she explains that the trend used to be wearing ultra-low-rise jeans, which gave a peek-a-boo view of your butt crack.

  “That trend’s over,” she says authoritatively. “The new sexy is going braless to show the outlines of your nipples.”

  I roll my eyes. Those are two trend trains I never want to get on board.

  “Got enough pre-func?” I ask. Our pre-function vodka shots have warmed a nice little trail down my throat and I’m feeling more relaxed than anxious.

  “Got my buzz on. But of course we need one for the road.” Stella pours us each another shot.

  I knew she’d say that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The cabbie commits a dozen moving violations before depositing us a half-block from our intended destination. It’s after ten and recently dark since we’re approaching the summer solstice.

  It’s still early for clubs but Stella’s not waiting around. As I said, she’s on a mission.

  We dive in to the club’s darkness and spinning lights, laughing loudly, smiling hugely, and dancing like the whole scene is a party thrown in our honor.

  Pretty soon it feels that way as more people crowd onto the floor. I’ve hit the perfect mix of adrenaline and alcohol that fuels total, unsloppy abandon.

  There’s nothing like this in Eugene. It’s a good day when a bar can get more than a dozen people moving to the music.

  Stella and I are here with hundreds, but it’s easy for me to keep track of her in that bright red dress, even as more guys separate us. I’m grinding against some guy with truly fantastic thighs beneath his denim—that’s what I hold onto as he grabs my waist, pressing his pelvis into my rear.

  I just let go.

  For once I’m not self-conscious, sizing myself up and wondering what everyone else thinks of my dance moves. I’m not comparing my curves to much slimmer girls like Stella. And I’m not wondering how much damage the humidity did to my flat-ironed hair.

  I’m just here and feeling like a vixen in my sensible shoes and stolen/borrowed little black dress. Jeff doesn’t know what he’s missing, and I’m only just discovering what I would have missed if I’d stayed in Eugene forever.

  Thighs of Steel has a strong grip on me from behind while a Wall Street type presses against me from the front, smiling roguishly as his eyes trickle down my cleavage.

  I fight the urge to look down at what he’s inspecting. They’re just boobs.

  Wall Street pulls me closer, bringing his button down right up to my chest and I become a Beryl sandwich, swaying to the music as the guys grind against me, my dress riding higher on my thighs. I catch Stella’s eye and she gives me a thumbs up.

  The music changes and Wall Street’s left hand slides from my side down to my hip on its way to my ass—the same ass Thighs of Steel is protecting like a birthright. Meanwhile, Wall Street’s right hand cruises from my arm to my breast and I flinch, unprepared for that bold move.

  I feel both men’s chests harden, feel them both stand taller. I want to duck out of the line of fire—there’s definitely some kind of standoff going on that I’m not privy to, considering the fact that I can’t see Steel’s face.

  Wall Street tries to take my hand to pull me away to another part of the dance floor, but Steel is one step ahead of him, spinning my hips around and wrapping me in his arms. I barely get a glimpse of his face before it’s buried in my hair, his breathing tickling the side of my neck as he rocks me to the beat.

  This is the most erotic dance I’ve ever experienced and I’m loving every minute of it. I love the standoff, the predators, and being the prey. It takes all of the guesswork out of it and—I’ll cop to it—I like being the prize.

  The song changes again and Steel leads me off the dance floor and around a corner to the back side of the bar, where little couches with just enough room for two are strewn at angles under a red glow.

  “An IPA for me and whatever she likes,” his head swivels and I’m arrested by expressive, chocolate-brown eyes looking down at me. Even in my heels, this guy is tall. And built. But I’ve got to order and I’ve forgotten the word cosmopolitan.

  “I, uh,” I stutter, “a vodka-cranberry?”

  The bartender nods and Steel takes both of our drinks to a couch in the furthest corner where I don’t have to shout too loudly to be heard.

  “I’m Anthony,” he says, handing me my drink and offering to clink glasses. “Prost.”

  “Beryl,” I tell him. “Cheers.”

  “Cheryl?” he leans in, givi
ng me his ear.

  “Beryl!” I yell. “With a B!”

  Anthony grins and pulls back to give me a little space, his powerful thigh solidly against mine as we sit.

  I like it.

  “I’m glad you picked me,” he says. “That other guy was all over you.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  “Guilty,” Anthony says, and has the decency to look it a little. “But at least I wasn’t grabbing at you the way he did.”

  “You were grabbing me.” Why am I arguing with this guy? His short brown hair and recent shave, not to mention perfectly pressed shirt, suggest some gentlemanly qualities.

  “Beryl.” His sudden intensity stops me cold. “I felt you flinch.”

  I take a big gulp of my drink and drop my gaze, suddenly hyperaware of his body next to mine. Finally, I nod.

  “I wasn’t trying to go all caveman on you. I just thought you deserved more respect than that.”

  “And grinding is super-respectful?” I ask it before I can stuff my sensible shoe-wearing foot in my mouth.

  What the hell am I doing shutting down this massive wall of man in front of me? He could go all caveman on me, throw me over his shoulder and walk us out of here. And I might like it.

  Anthony grins, showing charmingly crooked but very white teeth. “Beryl, I read the signs. You were into it. I never would have gotten so close if you hadn’t kept pressing that delicious rear end of yours into me.”

  His expression heats and I flush, suddenly thinking about all of the regions south of my navel, rear included. Anthony takes the empty drink that I don’t remember finishing from my hand and puts it down on the table next to his nearly empty beer.

  Then his hands are on me, one banded around my shoulder to bring my face within inches of his, the other resting on the bare skin above my knee.

  I know it’s coming. I know it. I close my eyes and feel like I’m on a roller coaster that’s inched to the top, suspended in a weightless moment before it rushes to the bottom. I breathe in slightly and catch a hint of his cologne and soap and sweat. And something else—I don’t know if it’s pheromones or just plain man.