On Tuesday, I’m no closer to a story about Tattoo Thief and I spend the morning at my desk trolling old articles about the band, looking for some nugget that could spark a fresh story without involving Gavin or Beryl again.
I feel like a prisoner waiting for her execution.
Neil’s on the other side of the newsroom telling a loud, animated story about his latest one-star restaurant review, and several reporters gather around him.
I hate this side of the business, being a critic, tearing down what other people create. I write honest reviews, but I always try to find something redeeming about a performance a band’s spent years honing.
When my desk phone rings I want to let it go to voicemail, but considering that I hate being on the other end, a reporter leaving a voicemail for a source, I relent to its beeping and pick it up.
“Indie Voice. This is Stella Ramsey.”
“Stella. You’re Beryl’s … friend?” The voice is a growl, pouring ice in my veins. This is not a friendly chat.
My mouth drops open and I struggle to remember what to do with it: breathe, move my lips, push air through my throat. Now speak.
“Stella? Are you there?” I scramble to place the familiar rasp. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve fielded calls from publications and reporters whose names are every bit as famous as Tattoo Thief’s.
“Urg, sorry. How may I help you?” I pride myself on composure, but now I’m fumbling for easy words.
“You know what this is about. The video. Tell me what happened.” The growl is lower and so commanding that I stutter out the same comments I gave a dozen media outlets.
“Uh, I wrote a story about the video Gavin Slater made. For Beryl. It was such a good song that I thought the world needed to see it. I thought—”
I keep talking, defending the very thing I’ve beaten myself up over ever since I hit SEND. My thoughts snag on a critical fact: no one should know that Beryl is my friend.
When reporters badgered me about getting in touch with Beryl, I told them I didn’t know her last name or contact details. The only reason her first name is mentioned in my story at all is because the video begins with Gavin’s sweet, heartfelt statement: “Hey, Beryl. This is for you.”
Realization hits me. That voice. I feel like I’ve tripped on the bumpy yellow warning strip in the subway and I’m falling toward the tracks.
“Stop it, Stella.” Gavin Slater’s sharp tone cuts off my babble. “You stole it from Beryl. That was a private video between us and I don’t know how you got in the middle of it, but you had no right to take it.”
I hear his barely contained rage and I gasp for air and grasp for words. I stick with the one phrase that’s burned in my brain. “Gavin, I’m sorry. I’m so sor—” My voice breaks as I try to apologize, and I choke back a sob.
“Do you realize how badly you hurt Beryl? I’m used to the press pulling this kind of shit, taking anything they can get from me, breaking any promise of confidentiality. But Beryl trusted you. She said you were her best friend.”
I hear the past tense in his statement and I blubber and shake, holding the phone in a death grip.
“She didn’t even know the video was out there until it went viral. Her boss had to show it to her. You didn’t even give her a heads-up, like, ‘Hey, I fucked you over and stole a private moment, so be prepared.’ She thought I did it. The rest of the band—my best friends—thought she did it. And the first call I got was from Chief, our manager, screaming about our label suing us for breach of contract!”
Gavin’s voice rises with each statement and I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I never considered that Tattoo Thief’s label would be anything less than thrilled by Gavin’s video.
“And the worst part?” Gavin barks out an ironic laugh. “The worst part is I fucking blamed her for it, too. I thought she sold me out. After everything I trusted her with, you undermined that trust. And she knows it.”
That lands the hardest blow and I sniffle and hiccup between sobs, but I’m trying desperately to stay quiet so I don’t attract the attention of my coworkers.
Gavin draws a ragged breath. “You owe Beryl an apology. Are you ready for that?” His voice is hard and I feel panicked. What could I possibly say to her that would be enough?
“Yes. You’re right,” I whisper. I’m not sure he hears me because the line is quiet. Finally, Gavin breaks the silence.
“Good. Then we understand each other. Here’s how you’re going to make it up to her: meet us at Frankies Spuntino in Greenwich Village tonight at nine. She deserves to hear your apology in person.”
“She deserves so much more than that,” I say, and I know it’s true. She deserves better than a frenemy who steals her private moments and makes them public. A fresh wave of self-loathing hits me and I want to drown in a bottle of something strong.
“You’re right, Stella. Beryl is precious to me, but I also know your friendship is precious to her. You’ve got to make it right.”
“I don’t know how.” It comes out like a desperate sigh.
Gavin’s voice softens. “Stella. Listen to me. I’ve spent the last two months beating myself up over something I did that caused irreparable damage. I know how hard it is to ask for forgiveness, and how much harder it is to forgive yourself.”
I nod but can’t manage words.
Gavin goes on. “Let’s start here. I forgive you. What you did isn’t unforgivable. The trust you broke can be mended. You’ve just got to find a way to give it to Beryl and see if she’ll accept it.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask. I can’t promise that Beryl will forgive you right away, or ever. But I want you to try. She deserves it.”
THREE
I’m beyond nervous. I whisper my name to the hostess and follow her to the back of the restaurant. She opens one of the double doors to a private dining room and ushers me inside.
I gape. There are nearly a dozen people here, talking and laughing as they stand around a large table that’s set for dinner. I recognize members of the band Tattoo Thief, and at the far end of the room near the head of the table, Gavin stands with his arm circling Beryl’s waist.
She looks amazing in a tight black dress that shows off her curves. She’s deep in conversation with Gavin and her eyes sparkle as she smiles at him.
She looks like she’s in love.
I stand awkwardly by the door, my feet frozen in place even though I need to go to her and apologize. Beryl turns and her expression shifts from happiness to rage.
I want to run but Gavin catches Beryl’s arm and holds her close to him as he whispers in her ear. Her lips move angrily and her eyes dart back to me.
Gavin shakes his head and guides Beryl to sit in a chair next to him. He says a few more words and lets go of her arm, straightening up at the head of the table. He clears his throat.
Everyone else takes a seat and I follow them, choosing the last seat on the end, on the same side as Beryl. I’m thankful to be just out of her sightline as I listen to Gavin.
“This is a toast to great friends,” Gavin begins, raising his drink. “Without you guys—all of you—I’d probably still be lost. I wanted us to get together tonight to celebrate the beginning of our next album. We’re going to do the best we can do with it, and take it in any direction that feels right, but we’re not going to do it at the expense of each other. You have my word on that.”
I look around the table and see somber expressions of sadness and resolve. I know that a close friend of the band, Lulu Stirling, died from a drug overdose and Gavin blames himself for it.
“It’s also a toast in sincere thanks for friends who forgive. We screw up. We do stupid things. We can be selfish and hurtful and just plain wrong.”
I shrink down in my seat and I want to crawl under the table. He’s talking about me and my face is on fire. Did Gavin bring me here tonight not to apologize to Beryl, but to shame me?
“Speak for yourself!” I hear from across
the table, and a tall, leanly muscled guy draws laughter from the rest of the table.
I know who that is. Tattoo Thief’s bassist, Tyler Walsh, is credited with starting the band. I keep my head down but peek at his goofy grin from the corner of my eye. As bleak as I feel, he radiates joy.
“I’m speaking from experience,” Gavin says. “I was an unbelievable jerk and I am so grateful you stuck by me. You’re the kind of friends worth having, and the kind of friend I want to be.”
Gavin offers a toast and I raise the wineglass in front of me but avoid eye contact. I don’t know if anyone else knows who I am or why I’m here. I’m afraid I’ll be run out of here as soon as they figure it out.
“The good news is, thanks to Stella, we’ve got some major demand for our first single,” Gavin adds and nods in my direction. I freeze as people around me make the connection. “The bad news is we’ve got to quit screwing around and get to work on Monday. Cheers to that!”
More toasts, and this time I can’t avoid curious glances. A woman across the table from me narrows her eyes but says nothing. Others drink and chat and I know I can’t put this off forever. I down the rest of my wine, push back my chair, and on leaden feet I approach Beryl.
“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.
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) Page 2