Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  No contest. I go for Lulu’s clothes and choose a deep burgundy dress that’s ruched at the ribcage, skirt flaring from its high waist. I think I remember a picture of Lulu wearing it at a red carpet event.

  The dress screams siren and it feels ridiculously expensive; with my perpetually pale skin and dark, straightened hair I feel vampy, polished and sexy.

  I put on my new Stella-approved fuck-me shoes. How appropriate. That’s what I want—ferocious, intense, mind-bendingly hot. I want him to make me forget my name, to take me and claim me and make me his own.

  Soft and sweet has its place, but not tonight.

  I arrive at Sant Ambroeus a few minutes early and I’m thankful Gavin’s not here yet—I need a few minutes to cool down after the five-block walk from the subway.

  I’ve heard the line that guys sweat and girls glisten. That’s crap. I’m trying my best to not soak Lulu’s gorgeous, light-as-air silk dress.

  I don’t know if Gavin made us a reservation under his name or a pseudonym, but when I peek at the reservation book I don’t see anything I recognize. I ask for an outdoor table and I’m grateful the hostess doesn’t make me wait.

  A server brings me a glass of water and a basket filled with five kinds of bread. I work myself into a carb-frenzy trying each kind. Then I give in to my nerves and order a full carafe of sangria, telling the server Gavin will join me soon.

  I fiddle with my phone and people-watch. Two tables away, a couple is deep in conversation and I catch bits of gossip about people I’d never want to meet. Their sweet-faced beagle is having doggy dreams of a magnificent chase while tied to the low, wrought iron fence that separates our tables from the sidewalk.

  I pour a second glass of sangria, the same color as my dress, with bits of apple and berries floating in it. It’s smoothing out my rough edges but I’m increasingly worried that Gavin isn’t here.

  A man in a pale gray suit and loafers but no socks is seated at the table next to me. With his round, horn-rimmed glasses and coiffed hair I get an artistic vibe.

  His guest soon joins him, a fiftyish man with coffee-colored skin and a barrel chest beneath his crisp linen shirt. I eavesdrop with abandon, pretending to be absorbed with an app as the two discuss a famous woman’s influence in fashion and music.

  At one point Horn Rims explains that he’s working on a biography, though this piece will probably appear in short form in the Times first.

  “She’s been at the bleeding edge of New York culture for decades,” the interviewee says, and then details her sexploits through the 1970s and ’80s.

  The details make me flush and I’m desperate to hear the subject’s name, but I never catch it. My frustration rises.

  Fifty minutes, two more glasses of sangria and three-quarters of the breadbasket later, I’m fuming.

  I’ve run the emotional gamut from concern to worry to fear, and from annoyance to anger to outrage. Now I’ve tipped past the point of no return.

  I don’t have Gavin’s mobile number. He didn’t take a phone on his trip and I don’t remember him picking up a phone when he left the apartment so suddenly. I don’t even have Gavin’s home number—I never thought to program it into my phone.

  Just as I’m about to abandon ship and put this ruined evening behind me, I hear a familiar ping.

  I dive for my phone, nearly dropping it in my haste to read the text.

  You said you wanted to take it slow, but I can’t get you out of my head. Is this slow enough?

  Anthony.

  I stare at my phone, fingers poised to text back.

  I know better than this. But right now I’d say “what the hell” to almost anything, from another drink that’s sure to have my head pounding in the morning, to an ill-advised tryst with a hot, protective, well-mannered, responsible builder.

  Me: Your timing couldn’t be better.

  Anthony: Awesome. When can I see you?

  Me: How about tonight? My plans just fell through.

  Anthony: It’s my lucky day. Want me to pick you up?

  Me: Let’s meet up—name the spot.

  Anthony: How about 750? It’s a wine bar a few blocks from my place.

  Me: See you in 20.

  I stuff the subtext of this location in the back of my mind, choosing to believe that I’m really just swapping the prospect of a good date with Anthony for a non-starter with Gavin.

  I kick myself for not moving my stuff over to the Steens’ earlier today.

  I should have known better. I should have known Gavin would come home and slide back into his irresponsible ways.

  I should have known I wouldn’t be the first thing on his mind when he got back.

  I should have known that Gavin’s tattoo isn’t just about how he treats his things or lives his life.

  He was reckless with Lulu and she died.

  He was reckless with my heart and I feel it breaking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  A cab whisks me up Tenth Avenue to 750 Milliliters in Hell’s Kitchen. The wine bar’s street-facing wall is rolled up like a garage door and a half-dozen tables line the sidewalk. Behind the long, slender bar more than a hundred bottles of wine are fitted in an electronic pouring system to give patrons freedom to sample everything.

  Anthony’s behind me in a heartbeat, his hands circling my waist before I have a chance to speak to the hostess. I melt against his chest and offer a heartfelt smile of gratitude—I don’t want to sit alone for one more minute tonight.

  The sultry night feels decadent and alive, and Anthony suggests I try a flight of sparkling wines. We spread baked brie on pepper crackers and fresh pear slices, eat candied pecans and morsels of chocolate, and laugh as we catch up on the last two weeks.

  Is that all? It seems like our last date was years ago, considering everything that has happened. I don’t mention Gavin.

  I have another glass of champagne and it’s the one I know I’m going to regret in the morning, sending me on an ugly slide from seriously buzzed to seriously drunk.

  It’s not pretty. If I were more sober, I’d be apologizing to Anthony for acting like an ass.

  But I’m not apologizing—I’m being a goddamn flirt, my hands cruising dangerously up his Thighs of Steel and teasing him to distraction. He actually grabs my wrists to restrain me from touching him, which makes me even hornier.

  I feel my hair slipping out of its up-do and I don’t care. I shake it out and lean into Anthony’s shoulder, my tongue tracing the cords on his neck.

  “We’d better get you home,” Anthony says finally, helping me to my unsteady feet and wrapping his arm around my waist to keep me from stumbling as we walk. “Where are you living now?”

  “Oh, I’m between places,” I say, waving my hand to dismiss the details. “I thought we’d go to yours.”

  Anthony’s eyebrows peak but I slip my hand in his back pocket and squeeze, encouraging him to hurry us home faster. He moves us along, my fuck-me shoes barely touching the sidewalk on our way to his brownstone.

  I collapse in a lump on his couch and ask if he has any wine. Or whisky. Or tequila. I’m on a roll.

  “Have some of this first.” He pushes a big glass of water at me.

  “Wine.” I pout.

  He drops his voice an octave and it’s threatening and thrillingly dangerous. “Drink. This. First.”

  I obey.

  I hear Anthony in the bathroom brushing his teeth and he comes out in nothing but boxers. I stick out my lower lip. “No fair! I wanted another strip-tease.”

  “Maybe another time, darlin’.” He pulls me to my feet and gives me a soft kiss on the forehead. “Now we’ve got to get you undressed and in bed.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” I holler, and Anthony shushes me, pointing to the ceiling to indicate neighbors. I drop my voice to a stage-whisper: “Finally, someone who’s ready to jump into bed and have some fun.”

  Anthony looks pained and he turns my shoulders away from him, indicating I should climb
up the ladder. He gives my butt a push and I wiggle it back at him, enjoying his hands on my ass.

  “Get up there, Beryl.” He follows me closely up the ladder as I fail to connect with a couple of steps. But I make it, and I let Anthony find the zipper of my dress and inch it down, revealing a burgundy strapless bra and matching panties—more of Lulu’s things.

  My Eugene underpants were Jockey For Her. Lulu’s lacy unmentionables make me feel like the New York-Beryl I want to be tonight and forever.

  Anthony’s hands trace my ribcage gently and he leads me to bed, laying my head on a pillow and pulling the covers up to my chin. He sits on the edge of the bed by my hip.

  What the hell? This is the lamest seduction scenario I’ve ever experienced.

  Not that I get seduced much. But I watch chick flicks. That counts.

  I reach out to feel the hard planes of his tanned chest and pull him closer. Anthony’s eyes tighten, then he yields to my pull and gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  “Right now, you should be tearing off my panties with your teeth,” I slur, trying to form a stern expression. “You should be ravishing me.”

  “Aw, Beryl, you’re not playing fair,” Anthony’s thumb traces my lip and I move to bite it. I miss. “I’ve got a million reasons to do what you want—you’re sassy and sexy and sweet.”

  I muster my sauciest expression and move my hands to the obvious bulge in Anthony’s boxers, but he grabs my wrist, halting my progress. Again.

  “As much as I’d love to ravish you, I think there’s something else you’d better do first.”

  I stick out my lower lip and pout. “What?”

  “Tell you what, you just snuggle in here and I’ll be back in a few minutes and show you, OK?”

  I yawn involuntarily but promise I’ll wait.

  ***

  My mouth is coated in cobwebs, my throat is sprinkled with sand and my head is full of concrete.

  I turn on my side and run into a hot wall of muscle beneath a smooth blue duvet.

  Anthony.

  Yesterday thunders into my brain: Gavin comes home. Gavin pushes me away. Gavin stands me up. Anthony takes me home. And then?

  And … I’m not sure.

  I know I got into this bed on purpose.

  I know I saw Anthony stripped down to his boxers, his hard length pressed against me as he unzipped my red dress.

  OMG. WTF? WTFFFFFF!

  I need to trade Lulu’s scarlet dress for a scarlet letter.

  I close my eyes against the light creeping into Anthony’s apartment and imagine the Walk of Shame branded on someone who is sleeping around while living at another guy’s place.

  I roll my tongue around in my mouth, trying to find some lubrication. I reach down my body and feel my panties still on, which is a good sign, and I don’t feel that intimate ache of the morning after.

  Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought.

  Maybe I didn’t just throw myself at Anthony like a brazen hussy. Maybe I didn’t just cheat on my non-boyfriend with another guy who is also not my boyfriend.

  Shit. When I put it that way, I do sound like a brazen hussy, don’t I?

  “Morning, sunshine,” Anthony rolls over to face me. His liquid chocolate eyes are sparkling with mischief and I’m suddenly very, very aware of how naked I am. I clutch the sheet to my chest. “Aw, don’t worry about that,” he drawls. “I won’t peek at anything I haven’t already seen.”

  He chuckles and my look of horror only makes him laugh louder.

  “What did you … uh, did we … what did you do to me last night?” I stammer.

  His face is suddenly serious. “Beryl, I’m an honorable guy. And I promise I didn’t do anything other than get you out of your dress and into my bed so you could sleep off the ridiculous amount of drink you got yourself into last night.”

  My mouth falls open with no words and no smart-mouthed retort.

  “How’s your head?” He hands me another tall glass of water and I down it.

  “Horrible. Sangria’s a saucy bitch. Champagne’s an evil temptress. They had me in a three-way and I might be scarred for life.”

  Anthony laughs again—a deep, throaty noise that makes my brain pound in pain. “Then I’m not going to make you feel any worse. It’s just after six and I have to get to work. When do you have to go in?”

  Dan’s not expecting me until nine or ten since I’ll be vising the Steens’ to feed and walk Aleah before I go to the office, but I sense Anthony’s urgency to get the day moving.

  “Hey. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry for being a bad date last night,” I start, and Anthony nods slightly, his concentration on buttoning his jeans and pulling on a safety-orange T-shirt.

  He tosses my dress to me and I continue. “I wish I could give you a better explanation, but I’m so scrambled up in my brain I don’t think I can explain it to myself. I like you. I think you’re sexy and chivalrous and such a good catch.”

  Anthony sits on the bed and pulls on thick socks. “But someone else has already caught you.”

  I nod, standing unsteadily as I zip the final inches on my dress. “He’s caught my heart but I haven’t caught him—not even close. He stood me up last night.”

  “Well, I won’t pretend that doesn’t sting a bit, but I’m glad you told me the truth, Beryl.”

  “Thanks for being a perfect gentleman.”

  “Tell your friends, OK?” Anthony’s smile is warm and sad. I can feel his longing but I know it’s no longer aimed at me.

  “I will. You’re a good one.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Gavin’s still not home when I get back to his place, wishing it were winter so I’d at least have a coat to cover my Walk of Shame outfit. I’m grateful Charles works the swing shift so he doesn’t witness my betrayal.

  I change into dog-walking clothes, pack my camping backpack and That Bitch full of the rest of Lulu’s things and mine, strap a leash on Jasper and let him trail me to the Steens’ apartment. We dump my stuff in their guest room and take Aleah to the park.

  But my heart’s not in it.

  Where is Gavin? Why didn’t he show up last night?

  I want him to show up with the best excuse ever. I want him to charge to the Steens’ hanging out of the moon roof of a white limo, brandishing an umbrella and roses, like the final scene in Pretty Woman.

  But I’ve got nothing. Gavin’s given me nothing. And so I walk Jasper back to his apartment and plan to leave him and my house-sitting duties behind.

  I’ll miss that little freak of a dog.

  I’ll miss that soft blue T-shirt and the late-night chats, “my” side of Gavin’s bed, and the terrace overlooking the park.

  But none of that is mine. It never was. I just got to play house for a while.

  When I key into Gavin’s apartment I feel his energy even before I see or hear him. It’s like my body is tuned to his frequency.

  I find him in the kitchen feeding the juicer a bunch of green vegetables I stocked in his refrigerator. He looks horrible, unshaven and greasy-haired, with a bruise ripening on his cheek.

  I stop and stare, unclipping Jasper’s leash when he prompts me with a baroo. I go to the cupboard and fill Jasper’s food bowl just to have something to do.

  “I owe you an apology.” Gavin’s voice is flat and lifeless.

  “You do.” My head still pounds from the hangover and my stomach is queasy as I watch a thin trickle of juice pour into his cup.

  “I told you I had to take care of some things. It was harder than I thought.”

  “You knew where I was. You could have called my phone or the restaurant.”

  Gavin frowns and keeps smashing vegetables into the chute.

  I try again: “You could have spared me the hour I waited for you. And all of the stupid shit that followed.”

  “Beryl, I’m sorry. I know it sounds lame, but the truth is—”

  “Gavin, I don’t want to hear that. When someone tells me, ‘the tru
th is…’ I’m suspicious. It makes me wonder what part’s not the truth? I mean, are you saying this part will be the truth, but the other part—that’s bullshit?”

  Gavin hangs his head and comes around the kitchen island to face me. But he doesn’t reach for me. My icy expression holds him at arm’s length.

  “You owe me an explanation.” All of my self-loathing about the way I acted last night has me spitting mad at him.

  “Yes. Let’s sit down.” Gavin takes his green goo and walks to the living room couches. I fill a glass of water and follow him, perching on the edge of the opposite couch.

  “What were you doing last night that was so goddamn important that you stood me up?”

  “Beryl. Take a breath.” Gavin’s voice rises to a command. I shrink back in surprise, but take that breath. “I’m going to tell you what happened last night but first I’m going to ask you a very important question.”

  “OK.”

  “Beryl, do you trust me?”

  I hesitate. This is a trick question. It doesn’t feel like a yes or no answer—there are too many shades of gray.

  But my hesitation is wrong—it answers for me before my words do.

  “Oh, Beryl.” Gavin puts his head in his hands. “Is what we have so fragile that you can’t trust this? You were the one who brought me back from the edge. You. I trusted you with my story. I put my heart in your hands.”

  I feel the wall I’d built against Gavin crumbling as I see him open to me. And I realize that as many hateful things as I concocted in my brain last night, as many ways I’d blamed him for leaving me hanging, I never stopped trusting him. I never believed he was betraying me.

  Pissing me off? Definitely.

  Hurting me on purpose? Never.

  “Gavin, I trust you. Without reason, and beyond reason. I’m angry and hurt but I don’t think you meant to hurt me,” I see his expression change and soften. “Please help me understand what happened.”

  Gavin takes a huge breath and I see his shoulders slump. “Beryl, that’s all I need. I need you to trust me because I trust you completely. I just couldn’t tell you about what I had to do last night until it was done.”