Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  More photographers and reporters filter in around me. I use my phone to capture a few Instagram photos and a Vine video, sending them to The Indie Voice’s social feeds. Being a reporter is never just about writing for print—there’s also social media, the news blog, the website, and a dozen special advertising sections to fill.

  Even though my full article isn’t due until tomorrow, tonight I still have to feed the beast.

  I stuff my phone back in my purse and jot down impressions in my tall, skinny notebook while Quatrain’s members gyrate on stage.

  They’re selling sex—sweaty, hard-edged and uncensored—and it’s impossible not to connect with their intensity.

  I get bumped from behind by the crowd, which presses harder on the flimsy plastic barrier. The stakes holding it up bow forward, shrinking my safe passage between the crowd and the stage.

  I press my body close to the stage and let the burly security guards push back the crowd, but the guards are like a few dozen sandbags against a tidal wave of people.

  The sunset is deep purple shot with fiery red when members of The Ruins explode onto the stage, and in the crowd it’s pandemonium. A sea of faces illuminated by stage lights are panting, screaming, and practically foaming at the mouth in their enthusiasm.

  I turn from the crowd to observe the five rockers who favor pyrotechnics and staggering stage setups when they play the largest arenas. Their sound is different tonight. It’s richer, and it takes me a moment to figure out why.

  There’s an extra member. My eyes zoom to the tall, lanky bass guitarist who grins widely through a duel of instruments with another guitarist.

  Tyler.

  I stumble back a few steps from the stage, trying to get a better view of him on my tiptoes. Immediately, I regret it as crowd members jostle me, screaming and reaching as far as they can past the barrier toward the band.

  I pull away from them and tap another journalist, a heavy older guy I recognize from a few of the larger gigs I’ve covered.

  “What’s with Tyler?” I yell in his ear to be heard over the crowd and The Ruins. “The bassist from Tattoo Thief?”

  The man turns to the stage to spot Tyler in the back, on the opposite side from where we are. “Guest appearance,” he shouts. “He’s sharp. Really adds to the sound.”

  I’m open-mouthed with surprise as Tyler plays through the first half of the set. I should be reporting on the way The Ruins is playing tonight, with big departures from their recordings that make the songs feel fresh, but all I can do is stare at him.

  The way he swivels his hips when he’s playing a long chord. The way his dark brown hair falls across his forehead when he’s looking down and concentrating. The way he closes his eyes as the lead singer croons a ballad, just feeling the music.

  And, oh God, the way his button-down shirt is wide open, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, giving me a clear view of the tattoos on his forearms and his smooth pecs.

  I want to push his guitar away so my eyes can travel down from his chest, across those abs and into the dangerous zone below his navel. Watching him like this—sweaty, singing, totally immersed in the music—is pressing all kinds of buttons in me, some that have never been pressed before.

  I’m frozen in place while every living being around me moves to the pulse of the music. Maybe that’s what catches Tyler’s eye. As his gaze travels from the back of the crowd to the front of the stage, he sees me.

  And he stares.

  My face heats with the same mixture of want and shame I felt two nights ago when he played me. He played me. That fact reminds me that I’m angry and hurt, but it doesn’t stop the chemical reaction in my body to his presence.

  For long seconds that feel like years, Tyler and I plunge into a staring contest, his expression betraying nothing—not pleasure, not disgust or anger or whatever he feels for me—as his eyes bore into mine. I barely hear the screams as the lead singer, Felix Crow, dives into the audience to crowd-surf, which makes the mosh pit of people at the front even more alive.

  The song changes and Tyler has to look away as The Ruins regroups and Felix crowd-surfs back to the stage. He’s deposited over the fence only a few feet from me, in the gap for media and security. Felix brushes past me to run to stage right, up a set of stairs and rejoins the band onstage.

  It’s after dark and I’m blind from the night if I look anywhere but the stage, although I can see the lighted outline of the Brooklyn Bridge behind it.

  Whatever hope I had of the night cooling down seems foolish now—the lights and the crowd have only made the atmosphere thicker, more heated, and I wipe sweat from my neck.

  A strong, stark guitar solo kicks off the next song and Tyler plays at the front of the stage, walking so close to the edge that the journalists and photographers could reach out and touch his shoes.

  “Let’s give it up for Tyler Walsh from Tattoo Thief, joining us tonight on bass!” Felix whips the crowd into a frenzy as Tyler teases sounds from his instrument that sound like they’ve never been played before.

  Tyler’s a good showman, connecting with the audience at every level from the front row to those in the far back, and he works his way across the stage from left to right.

  I’m mesmerized by his fingers, by the way his whole body engages in this dance with his instrument. His hips buck, his back arches, and his arms flex with effort as he plays.

  It’s one of the most erotic displays I’ve ever seen and my knees nearly buckle when he stops in front of me, still playing, taking the melody to a perfect high.

  I hear a boosh and silver sparks jet from twin canisters on each side of the stage, the first in what I imagine will be a massive display of pyrotechnics. It won’t be long now. When this band is done playing, people will stay in the park and party beneath fireworks lit from the waiting barges in the East River.

  Tyler throws his head back and plays the final notes of his solo and I want to reach out and touch him. No, I need to touch him. My neck hurts from craning to look up at him so long and I’m exhausted from the sweaty night, but I can’t look away.

  When the band transitions to a ballad, Tyler remains where he is, his body looser than when he played the intense solo. His posture shifts and his eyes seek me again as he steps toward a microphone to add his voice to the chorus.

  Felix Crow belts out a line and Tyler and the rest of The Ruins lean into the chorus. Tyler’s eyes never leave me.

  Threads become a rope

  And lies become a story

  Innocence lost

  I came to tell you sorry

  Too late.

  The rope, the knot, the noose, the loss

  Bound up tight, I come undone

  Truth is the cure but a bitter medicine

  What’s broken can mend

  Love that’s lost can be found again.

  I squirm under Tyler’s direct gaze as he sings about second chances. He could be singing to me, or maybe it’s all in my stupidly hopeful brain.

  Emphasis on stupid. I filed a bland little story about Tattoo Thief’s practice space yesterday but Heath hasn’t published it. I didn’t write anything bad about Gavin, Beryl, Tyler or anyone from Tattoo Thief.

  I also didn’t write a story that mattered. And for that, I hate myself a little. I let him get under my skin and he got exactly what he wanted.

  I hate that my body is betraying me, stirring with yearning for a guy I met barely forty-eight hours ago. Tyler’s brown eyes narrow with intensity as he looks at me. My skin blisters with need and I want to believe that I’m not the only one affected by this chemistry.

  I drag my eyes away from him and will myself to look at something else. I’ve never believed in love at first sight, only lust. You can’t possibly take one look at a person and know you love them.

  Can you want to bang the hell out of them? Sure. But fall for them? No way.

  I lock eyes with Tyler again as he performs. Somehow in this chaos we’ve created a quiet little connection held
together only with our eyes.

  The rest of the crowd falls away behind me, the lights blur behind Tyler, and I find myself cataloging the little tiny things about him that I want to believe only I notice.

  He’s missing the third button on his shirt. His fingernails are short and square. His shoes are new and his hair has some kind of product in it but it still flops around. His shirt flaps open to reveal two small, shining silver studs on either side of his nipples.

  My brain spins—he’s pierced. That visual sends a bolt straight to my core. Add that to the tattoos and the rock band and the attitude and put a fork in me. I’m done. If I were here as just a fangirl, I’d be throwing my panties at Tyler right now.

  That’s the last thought in my head when a blinding flash of pain explodes behind my eyes.

  NINE

  I can’t breathe. I can’t see. But I can feel myself falling.

  My chin connects with the ground. A blow to my back knocks the air from my lungs before I understand what’s happening.

  Which way is up?

  My palms and knees are on fire as they’re ground into sharp gravel and asphalt. I crumple beneath an oppressive weight covering my body. I scream but it’s nothing, no more than a toothpick tossed on a bonfire compared to the crowd and a driving rock song.

  Pain sears my back as I’m suffocated by the weight of a scratchy plastic orange fence, crushed by people walking on it with me underneath.

  I struggle to break out of it, to push the fence back up, but the weight of the crowd is heavier, like someone’s standing on me.

  I hunch over to protect myself, pushing back with all my might, hoping desperately someone will see me. It’s dark under the fence and I could be the sad statistic the other journalists write about in tomorrow’s stories.

  The other journalists. The photographers. Where are they? I struggle to remember as another foot is planted on my back and it steals my breath again. I draw a lungful of air and shriek for help, begging someone to notice that I’m stuck here.

  Nature abhors a vacuum.

  That’s what I think as I realize that a half-dozen journalists and security guards spread across the front of the stage are no match for thousands of screaming, shoving fans who want to close the gap between general admission and the stage.

  “Get back!” I hear it shouted, over and over. What a stupid thing to say. Of course I can’t get back, I can’t move because this plastic fucking fence is pinning me down like a lead blanket.

  “Get back now! Get off of the fence! Move!”

  Tyler’s voice sounds odd as it reaches my ears through the screaming crowd. It sounds angry and panicked, with a violent edge. The fence lifts slightly and the pressure on my back lessens.

  I peek up at Tyler’s new shoes in the light spilling over from the stage, his strong hands grasping the edge of the fence above my head.

  “Stella!” he yells, and it’s choked and wrong, nothing like Marlon Brando’s passionate cry in A Streetcar Named Desire. Tyler’s “Stella!” is hoarse and cracking with fear.

  Tyler pulls the fence almost up to forty-five degrees, even though people are still trying to walk or climb across it and I hear him shout at them angrily. He reaches a long arm toward me and grasps my hand, but I think he’s afraid to pull in case I’ve broken something.

  I tug on him for strength, trying to scoot forward enough to get my feet under me and get out from under the oppressive fence. We’re each clasping the other’s forearm and with my head down I can only see where my small pale fingers cover some of his tattoos.

  I push and crawl and find my footing, wrenching myself to standing as Tyler keeps one hand locked tightly on me and the other holding up the fence. It’s bent completely over around us, pushing us flat against the stage and my body directly into Tyler’s.

  I look around and see that only part of the fence has collapsed. The security guards are working at each end to right it while dozens of fans surge over it like a military invasion.

  Noise clangs in my head. The band is still playing. I’m at the center of a microcosm of panic near the stage while thousands of people at the concert are unaffected and unaware.

  I was nearly crushed to death by a crowd and almost nobody noticed. The band didn’t even stop playing. The show must go on.

  I’m freaked out by the fact that what almost happened to me was nothing more than a blip on the radar. Considering I’ve spent my life trying to get noticed, first on stage and now in print, it’s more than a little bit sad.

  But Tyler noticed. His eyes are blazing as he looks for our best exit. The fence is collapsed on both sides of us, blocking our way out. He releases my forearm and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling my small body against his frame. His eyes search my face.

  “Are you OK? Tell me where else you’re hurt.” He touches my chin gently. It’s throbbing and sticky and I smell the dull, rusty stench of blood.

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head, the shock disorienting me. What do I do next? The crowd is still pushing, more people climbing over the fence as the band plays what sounds like a finale. “I’m scared.”

  The fence lies heavy against our lower legs and Tyler sandwiches me between himself and the front of the stage. His body protects me. I hear him shout something at the guards but they’re too far away to help us and they’ve got an obstacle course of fans and fencing to navigate first.

  I hear Tyler curse in frustration and he looks down at me. “Can you walk?”

  I nod.

  “OK, I’m going to give you a boost. Just walk to the back corner.” He points to stage right. Before I’m ready, he reaches under my armpits and hoists me skyward, my butt just clearing the edge of the stage. He pushes my dangling legs to the side so they’re on the stage and I see my knees are deeply scraped and bloody.

  I can tell Tyler sees them too.

  Tyler points me to the back of the stage again and I scramble up on my feet as he boosts himself up on strong arms, kicks up a leg and rolls onto the stage. The band’s last chord plays and I hear the crowd explode in cheering and applause as I clamber offstage.

  More pyrotechnics blind me and sparks shoot from the cannons on the stage perimeter. I blink hard and try to avoid tripping on cords strung across the floor like ropes in an obstacle course.

  Tyler nods briefly at The Ruins, but he doesn’t slow down to take a bow with them. He grabs his guitar by the neck and follows me toward the backstage exit.

  Tyler catches up to me as I navigate black steps that are illuminated only by strips of glow-in-the-dark tape. I’m still blind from the stage lights and thankful for his closeness as I stumble once and then regain my footing at the bottom.

  “Follow me.” Tyler weaves through the backstage labyrinth among hulking sound equipment and black-clad techs. Few people notice us and nobody makes a move to stop us. My press pass bangs against my chest and my reporter’s notebook is lying somewhere under the toppled fence, but at least my purse is still on my hip, secured by its cross-body strap.

  Tyler is in and out of a trailer in seconds, a soft nylon guitar case and a backpack in hand. He zips his guitar into the case and slings the strap over his head, shouldering the backpack after it. He takes my hand and I wince—it hurts, but I need this connection. I follow Tyler as the roar of the crowd and an encore song drown out everything else.

  We’re released from the mess by a security guard at a back exit and Tyler buttons his shirt with one hand while never letting go of mine. He puts his aviator glasses on and guides me toward the bridge, climbing steep stairs that take us to the pedestrian deck elevated above traffic.

  “Are you still OK walking?” Tyler asks and looks at my knees and face. I’m sure I’m a mess and I can smell the metallic tang of blood that’s congealing on my face, but I nod, still clinging to his hand. I just want to get away.

  TEN

  My body chills as it comes down from the adrenaline high. We walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with the city lights blazing
on either side of the East River. Tyler is intense and focused, forcing me to hustle to keep up with his long paces.

  I glance at his face but his expression is closed behind his glasses, his jaw tight. He grips my hand and I try not to wince because I don’t want him to let go.

  I sniffle and wipe desperately at tears that leak down my face as we walk, aware that my face is a disaster. But this is Tyler, the boy who rejected me. He doesn’t care. I’m sure of it.

  It’s also Tyler, the boy who saved me. And that thought cracks my heart open a little to the possibility that he does care.

  I wrap my free arm around my middle and shudder, feeling the breeze off the water as it cools the humid night. We’re halfway across the bridge and my shivering finally alerts Tyler, who stops so abruptly I almost lose my hold on him.

  “You’re shaking. Hang on.” Tyler pulls his backpack to the front of his body and unzips the main compartment, withdrawing a light gray cotton bundle. He holds the zippered hoodie sweatshirt open for me and I stuff my arms inside.

  He turns me to face him and zips the sweatshirt all the way up to my chin. It’s far too large, the hem hanging almost to my knees and the arms at least six inches longer than my fingertips. I look like a child dressed in her daddy’s jacket.

  But that’s what I need to feel right now—protected and safe, cared for and warm, the way I never felt when my life slid sideways under Dixon’s control and then my parents’ smothering.

  Tyler pushes the sleeves up until the cuffs reach my wrists and the extra fabric bunches on my forearms. He pulls the hood up over my hair and tucks stray auburn strands behind my ears.

  It’s such an intimate gesture that I am frozen in place. I can’t read his expression behind those reflective glasses and it’s maddening, so I slowly pull them from his face.

  His dark lashes are wet and his brown eyes are lined with worry. He’s looking at me as if I might fall to pieces at any moment. I want to reassure him. To comfort him, as crazy as that sounds.