Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Gavin begins the song and I check the tally on YouTube: more than three million views. The number makes me sick, worried, angry and afraid—somehow, the private recording Gavin made for me is now public.

  The look on my face as I watch the video isn’t what Dan expects. “I figured you’d be pretty thrilled that he wrote you a song,” he says, his eyebrows knit in a question. “Have you seen this already?”

  I nod miserably but will myself not to cry. I feel like a private moment has been ripped from me. The special message from my boyfriend is now just a publicity stunt.

  “Looks like it’s not sitting well. It’s none of my business, Berry, but if you need to take some time to—”

  “Thank you.” I cut him off and grab my purse, fleeing the office.

  Late morning traffic is light and I jump in a cab heading uptown. I give Raúl a tight nod in the lobby and jam the elevator button for Gavin’s apartment repeatedly.

  But before the elevator reaches the penthouse level and its brass doors slide open, a different kind of distress creeps up my spine.

  I don’t have any claim to that song, even though Gavin said “this is for you” on the video. Maybe I have no ground to stand on. Maybe my righteous indignation over having what I thought was a private video splashed all over the Web is totally unjustified?

  The thought cools my hot head considerably.

  I key in quietly and the apartment is dark, its blackout shades still down. Jasper finds me immediately and nudges at my knees, whining. I cross the living room and open the door to the terrace so he can get relief on the grass.

  Next, I search for Gavin, who isn’t anywhere downstairs, though I find alcoholic evidence of some kind of party last night. I climb the spiral staircase to his master bedroom loft and feel dread sinking into my gut.

  I’m sure I won’t like what I find.

  Gavin is passed out on his bed in nothing but boxers, a half-dozen empty beer bottles strewn around his room. I let out a quick breath, realizing I’m relieved that there’s no one else with him.

  Gavin’s face is peaceful, lines relaxed so he appears almost boyish, and I stand and stare for a moment in the dim funk of his bedroom, my eyes tracing his reckless tattoo.

  I want to touch him. And slap him. I was full of fire when I came over here, ready to kill him for violating our private moment. But now I’m torn, knowing that I never really had claim to that song in the first place.

  It might have been for me, but it wasn’t mine.

  I shrug off my dress and climb onto the bed next to him, my fingers tracing the soft skin of his stomach. I snuggle into the curve of his body, my head tucked under his chin and I feel him stir.

  My hand skates lower and he responds. Gavin’s eyes are still closed, but I feel him pull me closer.

  Gavin groans and stretches as I stroke him. I smell his sweat and sour beer, but I still want him, even hung over and ripe. What is wrong with me?

  I roll and straddle him, moving my hips against his. “Gavin,” I say, ready to tell him I forgive him. I’m going to have to deal with the fact that being with a rock star means having a whole lot of private hung out in public.

  He scrunches his face and pries his bloodshot eyes open. The hands that were cruising up and down my thighs freeze, and his eyes narrow.

  “You can’t be serious,” Gavin says, and rolls out from under me. I land in an awkward heap on the bed as he sits upright and groans again, this time more in pain than pleasure.

  He stands, putting more distance between us. “What the hell are you doing, showing up here after that video?”

  I blanch, feeling overexposed in nothing but panties, but I straighten my spine with a retort. “I’m not the one in the wrong here, Gavin. I thought that was a private moment between us. But I guess you’re happy with three million views.”

  My sarcasm hits him like a slap and his face falls, a mixture of confusion and sadness.

  “Happy? I sent that video to you, Beryl, not YouTube. And then my agent calls me yesterday and I find out it’s gone viral. That was never supposed to happen.”

  Now it’s my turn to look confused. And so I go to him, wrapping my arms around his chest. At first he resists, but then he slumps against me. “Gavin, I swear to you that I never put your video on YouTube. I just found out it was on there this morning. My boss showed it to me. I watched your video on my phone a hundred times, but I’ve never let anybody else—”

  I catch myself. That’s not true, and I feel Gavin’s body stiffen. “Except once,” I clarify. “The first time I ever saw it. I was with my friend Stella and she saw it, too.”

  Gavin’s face is unreadable in the dim light, so I stay quiet, holding Gavin close to me, his chest hot against mine.

  Finally, Gavin breaks the silence. “Stella Ramsey. From The Indie Voice, right?”

  I nod, surprised that he knows details about her I don’t remember telling him.

  “So how’d she get the video?”

  I flash back to that night, scenes from my birthday. Doing shots at the bar, seeing Gavin sing “Wilderness” just for me, the flood of emotion, fleeing to the restroom, and Stella slipping my phone back into my purse.

  She blew off that concert, I remember. She said she was going to write a different story. My gut churns as I realize she must have forwarded Gavin’s video from my phone to her own.

  I ask and Gavin confirms it—Stella’s indie-paper story was picked up across multiple media outlets yesterday. As a result, Tattoo Thief’s record label is threatening breach of contract for releasing a song outside the label, which could cost the band tens of thousands of dollars.

  Gavin’s band members are pissed they’ve been blindsided, and Gavin’s agent is doing damage control by booking him on a talk show.

  “I’m sorry.” I stretch to my toes and bury my face against his neck, lips pressed against his pulse.

  Gavin admits that the ass-chewing from his band and agent last night sent him into a funk fueled by a substantial amount of beer.

  “Well, we’re through with that,” I announce, dropping our embrace and hitting the control panel for the blackout shades. Light floods into the apartment and Gavin’s eyes make a painful adjustment not helped by his hangover. “You’ve had enough pity parties and benders for the rest of your life. You can’t go on a drinking spree every time something doesn’t go your way.”

  I’m chiding him but he follows me as I pull him into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

  Gavin leans on the counter. “You’re right. I was hurt and angry last night. But I just blamed you. I never asked you for the whole story.”

  “You made me promise. If we’re going to run, we run toward each other.” I take a step toward him and his eyes shift from worry to desire, sweeping across my body as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

  I run my fingers across the edges of his tattoo. He straightens and reaches for me, hooking his thumbs in the sides of my panties as he slides them to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin says. He steps out of his own boxers and pulls me under the spray of the shower, one hand pulling my knee to his hip as he hitches me up against him. I feel the pounding heat from the water on my shoulders as I feel him harden against me.

  “Let’s try not to get too mad at each other, OK?”

  “It’s a deal,” he says, and kisses me like it can erase last night’s hurt and confusion.

  It works. I let Gavin tilt my head back under the shower spray and move behind me, working shampoo through my hair.

  “Now, I have to ask you what you’re doing tonight.” Gavin massages my scalp and pleasure radiates to my toes.

  “Not much. Sounds like you have something in mind.” I hope it doesn’t involve wearing clothes.

  “Fallon. I’m going on the show tonight and I want you to come. They just booked me, not the band, and I’m going to have to explain what happened and why ‘Wilderness’ got out.”

  “Do you really want me there?” />
  “Beryl, I want you here, there, and a dozen other ways,” Gavin says, his gaze dropping to my mouth as he turns me toward him, pressing my back against the stone wall of his shower.

  “What am I supposed to do there? Just sit in the audience?”

  “I want you there as my girlfriend. My new inspiration,” his hands are tracing circles on my skin and my head’s getting fuzzy.

  “Your girlfriend?” I struggle to stay focused as Gavin lifts me off the shower floor, wrapping my legs around his waist and turning my back to the shower spray. I feel his hardness next to my softness, the water streaming around where we’re pressed skin to skin.

  But even more than this physical closeness, there’s something I need if I’m really his girlfriend. “I’ll come, on one condition.”

  “Deal.”

  “You haven’t even heard my condition.”

  “Beryl, I trust you. Whatever it is, I’ll make it happen.”

  I’m suddenly timid, bowled over by the sweet openness and generosity that Gavin offers me. “Will you introduce me to your friends?”

  He exhales in a whoosh and he grins. “Of course. Will you introduce me to yours?”

  “You want to meet Stella? After what she did to you?”

  “Beryl, I just spent two months trying to forgive myself for what happened with Lulu, and the part I played in it. Stella’s easy to forgive. And she actually helped my band, even though it wasn’t the way we would have planned it. I’ll get over it. Will you?”

  I nod, but it’s a lie. I’m angry that she ripped a private moment from me, and angry that she used my access to Gavin to get a story.

  But Gavin’s fingers roam my body and bring me back to the man in front of me. I notice my fingers pruning where they circle Gavin’s shoulders. “Hey, Gav? How much hot water do you have? We’ve been in here a long time.”

  Gavin’s teeth graze my neck and he tightens his hold on me. “Not long enough.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  A production assistant takes us to a green room with slouchy couches, snacks, and drinks. Signed framed headshots line the walls—celebrities past and present. I feel out of my league, but Gavin’s hand in mine reassures me. The PA promises to come back before the show starts to get me seated in the audience.

  I wait nervously and watch people come and go. Gavin keeps up an easy banter. A makeup artist covers the bruise on Gavin’s face and powders him. A stylist adds a waxy product to his hair, twisting and kneading it into a rakish mess.

  Gavin sees me eyeing him. “What, Beryl?”

  “You look—”

  “Freshly fucked?” His eyes sparkle with a hint of what we’d been doing in the limo and the stylist, eyes wide, makes a quick exit.

  I blush. God bless Midtown traffic. “I was going to say hot, but that’ll do.”

  “Good thing I have a new girlfriend to work out my naughty side with.” He gives me a smoldering look and I cross my legs quickly, trying not to let his randy comments send me into another hormone-induced meltdown.

  The woman from wardrobe walks in and if she picks up on the sexual tension, she doesn’t comment. She approves Gavin’s choice—distressed jeans that hang deliciously off his hips and a black-on-black screen-printed T-shirt.

  She gives me an up-and-down look and nods her head as if she approves of my choice as well. With Gavin’s blessing, I’m in another Lulu special—a black multi-seamed dress that sucks me in and pushes me up in all the right places.

  It’s just slutty enough to be totally awesome.

  A sound manager comes in and wires Gavin for a lavalier microphone, snaking it under his shirt. Gavin tunes his guitar and I realize that he’s going to play “Wilderness,” not just talk about it.

  Before I can ask, the production assistant escorts me to the studio where I get a front-row view of the stage and the set. Most of the audience is already seated and the musicians in the band are setting up.

  The show starts strong—Fallon’s monologue mocks politicians and self-destructive starlets with ease. If Jimmy knew what Gavin did to himself when Lulu died, I’m afraid Gavin would be part of Jimmy’s punch lines too.

  My protective instinct kicks in and I’m wary.

  Jimmy’s first guest is Kiki Kennedy, a flavor-of-the-month actress with enormous boobs, golden skin, and platinum hair. She’s poured into a tight red dress and clomps across the stage in platform shoes—she’s about as far from classy as Jacqueline Kennedy is from crass.

  Kiki Kennedy titters as Jimmy asks her about steamy scenes in her new movie with a Hollywood hunk. She giggles when Jimmy asks about her party lifestyle that is well documented in the tabloids. We get a serious moment when she describes her film career start in low-budget movies, but we’re back to cotton candy and sunshine as she gushes about her new puppy, a Shar-Poo mix.

  I snort. What a cliché.

  But then I catch myself. I made some big assumptions about rich people when I started house sitting—that they were spoiled, thankless, reckless, and shallow. I cast judgment on a socialite, a troubled teenager, a power couple, and a rock star.

  And not one of them turned out to be what I assumed. They might not want for material things, but they want the same things I want—acceptance, attention, a family, and in Gavin’s case, a second chance.

  The band plays a transition to signal the next segment and I perk up. Gavin’s coming out next. He walks in holding the neck of his guitar, smiling broadly and waving to the audience.

  Kiki Kennedy moves down on the couch to give him some room, but it’s not nearly enough, in my opinion. She leans in and Gavin drops an air-kiss near her cheek. Gavin and Jimmy swap a firm handshake, and then Jimmy dives into the interview.

  “It’s good to have you back, Gavin. What have you been doing with yourself since Tattoo Thief’s tour ended? You look great.”

  “Thanks Jimmy, you’re not too bad yourself,” Gavin grins. “I’ve gotten a lot more sunshine than my usual late-night performance schedule allows.”

  “I heard that you went on a trip?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been finding inspiration for Tattoo Thief’s next album. I started in Europe right after the tour, and spent time in Africa and Indonesia. I ended up in Australia last week.”

  “I understand that’s where you recorded ‘Wilderness.’ Let’s take a look at the clip.”

  Jimmy and Gavin swivel to view a wide screen behind them, where my precious, private birthday video plays. It cuts in at the chorus:

  If you can’t/ I can

  If you won’t/ I will

  If you vow, I might break

  But I’ll try for your sake

  “That’s a pretty emotional sentiment. Tell me where this song came from.” Jimmy’s leaning forward and I see Gavin’s shoulders square.

  “I was lost, Jimmy. When someone close to me died, I was partly to blame. The guilt tore me up and I ran away from everything.”

  Jimmy’s mouth hangs open for a moment but he recovers. “Wait. Are you saying you’re responsible for someone’s death?”

  “It was an overdose. A preventable tragedy. And I’m responsible because I didn’t do more to intervene.” Gavin’s lip trembles and I can feel how much this admission costs him. He bows his head. “I just want to say how sorry I am that I didn’t do more. Last time I was on your show I said music was the most important thing, but I was wrong. Love is the most important thing. And you can’t love someone and use them, even if they let themselves be used.”

  I see the blonde starlet shrink back from Gavin.

  “I used Lulu to inspire my music. She inspired ‘Peace of Madness’ and most of Tattoo Thief’s albums. She was my muse.”

  “This is heavy stuff, Gavin. How did you come back from that? Did you find a new muse?”

  “Not exactly. A new muse just means going from dependency to dependency like an addict. I needed a new way to be inspired. I was lost and torn up, but Beryl helped me find my way out of that wilderness. So I wrote th
is song for her.”

  “Beryl? I thought you didn’t do relationships,” Jimmy teases. I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood, but it’s a real question. “Last time you were here, you told me you were taken by a lot of women but you didn’t want to make anything too official.”

  “I hadn’t found the right girl. I wanted chemistry and physics, remember? My opposite and my equal.”

  “Did you find her? Is she the Beryl from your video?”

  Suddenly I’m blind, skewered by a spotlight. I squint through the beam trained on me and stare at a video camera just a few feet away, a red light above its lens confirming I’m on TV.

  “Are you Beryl?” Jimmy asks me.

  I panic, my jaw snapping shut as I squirm under the harsh light. What should I say? If I say yes, what’s the consequence for Gavin? What’s the consequence for me?

  Before I can speak, I see Gavin crossing the stage in broad strides, coming to my aid. He takes my hand and helps me stand.

  “Jimmy, if I’d known you were going to put my girlfriend on the spot like that, I would have given her fair warning,” Gavin flashes a charming grin but I hear the warning tone beneath it to the host. Don’t cross me.

  Gavin gives me a soft kiss on the cheek and then leads me back to the couch on the stage, his posture aggressive enough to prompt Kiki Kennedy to scoot over. She scowls unprettily and I want to whisper to her to stop it or she’ll get wrinkles.

  Everyone sits and Jimmy refocuses. “So a lot of us have seen your video on YouTube. How did it get there?” He’s looking pointedly at me but Gavin jumps in.

  “I sent Beryl the video privately but a music journalist we know thought it needed to get out, even though it’s not what Tattoo Thief normally does. So she posted it.”

  I’m grateful for Gavin’s careful, factual response that doesn’t accuse Stella of stealing his song on national television. I’m angry with her, but not so mad I want to mess up her life forever.

  “Can we hear it now?” Jimmy prompts, and Gavin picks up the guitar, pulling the strap over his head.