Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  At first I think this is all a bit much for an action shot, but Dave slips back into his manager role and positions the band to its best advantage.

  Violet is quiet and thoughtful as she works, taking dozens of pictures as the guys regroup for the rest of the practice session. She never gets too close to them, seeming to hide behind her camera like a shield.

  They run through a dozen songs and I itch to go to my room to change, but I’m afraid it would alert Violet to the fact that I live here. Instead, I sneak over to the kitchen, fish the dwindling bottle of vodka out of the freezer, and down several shots while Violet’s preoccupied with the band.

  Tattoo Thief resumes practice and sometimes Jayce calls a halt mid-song to work through a chord progression, or Gavin stops them to change the lyrics. They play off each other—Dave as the foundation, Tyler building on that with strong chords, Jayce the virtuoso instrumentalist with his guitar, and Gavin as lead vocalist, shaping the song’s melody.

  Sweat trickles down my spine as alcohol swamps my buzzing nerves. I relax toward the end of their practice set, taking pages of notes to create a story about the birth of a song.

  I jump when my phone rings. It’s Beryl, waiting downstairs for me to let her in. I open the warehouse door to find her and two of the busty girls from the concert. They’re even more scantily clad than last night and I doubt it’s because of the heat wave.

  The girls barely acknowledge me and climb the stairs ahead of us, whining about the lack of an elevator or air conditioning. Beryl and I exchange looks—they’re Jayce’s friends and they’re on a mission.

  Violet packs up her cameras as one of the girls settles on Jayce’s lap, winding her arm around his neck. He grins and pinches her ass and she squeals but snuggles closer to him. The other girl frowns and turns her gaze to Tyler, and instantly I feel possessive.

  Not that I have any right to be. We’re not a thing, are we? The girl fawns over him, bending low toward him as he sits on a stool, offering an eyeful of cleavage. His gaze flicks to me and she moves slightly, cutting off our connection.

  I have competition.

  Gavin draws Beryl close for a deep kiss and I love that they’re in love. The chemistry between them is real and fierce and I feel protective of that. I don’t want one of these groupie bimbos messing things up for Beryl.

  Or for me.

  Dave says Kristina will meet us at The Wren, an unpretentious East Village bar. He calls a car and Tyler shakes off the bimbo, coming close to me and planting a soft kiss on the top of my head, maybe to reassure me.

  I look at him with alarm, and then at Violet. She saw it, and now it’s only a matter of time before Neil knows. And then Heath. I push Tyler away even though I want to pull him closer, to mark my territory against the groupies.

  How am I going to explain this? I offer to walk Violet downstairs, and as we descend, I try to concoct a plausible, platonic lie.

  “We’re just friends. If that’s what you’re wondering. I’m friends with Beryl and she’s with Gavin and…” I trail off, not sure how to explain my relationship with Tyler.

  Violet clears her throat and offers me a sad smile. “Stella?” I look at her guiltily. “I won’t tell. Thank you for this chance to cover the band. I don’t need to tell Neil about … anything else.”

  My breath leaves my chest in a whoosh, the vodka and heat making me dizzy. “Oh.” It’s all I can manage.

  “I’m not the reporter. There’s nothing I need to do but turn in my photos, and you’re not in them, don’t worry.” Violet’s voice is quiet. “So Beryl’s with Gavin, and Dave’s with Kristina, and you’re with Tyler?”

  “I think. I hope.” I trade this truth for her silence.

  “And Jayce? Who’s he with?” Violet’s inflection is a little sharper, a little more curious.

  “Flavor of the month.” I shrug. “That’s what Tyler said. I don’t know what either of those girls mean to him. Probably nothing.”

  “Oh.” This time it’s her turn for a short answer.

  “Do you—do you want to go out with us tonight?” Something in her sad, drawn face makes me suspect she’s as lonely as I felt a few days ago.

  She shakes her head, motioning to the camera bag and tripod slung over her shoulder. “I’ve got to take this stuff back to my apartment and upload the pictures. I probably have a long night of editing. Are you going to turn your story in Monday?”

  I nod.

  “Well, maybe I can show you the best stuff this weekend, see if it jives with what you’re writing. And I did find a few of your things in my room. Want to meet for coffee and I’ll give them to you?”

  Am I making a new friend? The thought warms me and we make plans for Sunday. I hear the band and the girls coming down the stairs.

  “It’s funny what a camera sees,” Violet says when I pull open the ground-floor door. “Not the truth, but reality. Sometimes they’re not the same thing. You know?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll show you Sunday. Bye, Stella.” Violet turns to walk up the street as a black stretch limo pulls up to the warehouse. The girls squeal and pile in on either side of Jayce. Tyler takes my hand and squeezes, waiting as everyone else climbs into the car.

  “Everything OK?” His brown eyes crinkle and I bask in the warmth of his smile even though the summer evening is still oppressively humid. “I hope I didn’t blow your cover.”

  “She won’t say anything,” I tell him.

  Tyler runs his thumb along my jawbone and smiles wider.

  “Then let’s go have some fun.”

  NINETEEN

  Kristina’s waiting for us at The Wren at a big table near the front windows and we order a round, laughing and talking like normal people. But when the waitress stares slack-jawed at Gavin, Beryl stiffens. It’s only a matter of minutes before more people start pointing at us.

  The bimbos, Shelly and Teal, take selfies with Jayce until he makes them quit. Kristina and Dave ignore their antics, huddled in a quiet side conversation, and I just take it in, sparring with Jayce about the best bands I’ve seen.

  The bar fills quickly, but it’s not a typical Friday night rush. People who come in immediately look around, spot us and take photos with their phones. Some of the brave ones say hello and ask for autographs.

  “Time for a change-up!” Tyler says. He dons his aviator shades and hoists me out of my chair. He whispers something to Gavin and then we make a break for it, running a couple blocks south on Bowery.

  “What about the others?” I ask, hustling to keep up with Tyler’s long gait.

  “They’ll come. That’s what we do when people find us. Someone tweets about where we are and so we scatter, but we just regroup later.”

  I laugh at the chase and we head to DBGB, a modern restaurant bar with walls covered in culinary quotes. By the time we’ve ordered another drink, Gavin and Beryl appear. Gavin’s wearing a dark, shaggy wig that looks like it belongs on a 1990s grunge band and I burst out laughing.

  “Seriously? That’s the dumbest wig I’ve ever seen.”

  Gavin’s ice-blue eyes wink at me. “Don’t knock it. It’ll buy us another half-hour at least, but damn, it’s scratchy.”

  We order another round and Tyler, Beryl and I play our lyrics game. Tyler gets me with a The Book of Mormon reference and I draw a blank.

  “New location,” Gavin announces, looking at his phone. “The others went to The Bowery Hotel and they found a good hiding spot.”

  I teeter on my heels as I follow them a few blocks, floating on alcohol and laughter. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten such a head start on them with the vodka at Tyler’s place, because they’re just getting warmed up while I’m pretty sauced.

  In the dark haze of The Bowery Hotel’s bar, no one recognizes Tattoo Thief immediately and I’m grateful, but I hate the fact that the last two seats are on opposite couches. Tyler sits next to Teal, who immediately snuggles up to him.

  The couches are slouchy velvet and we
cluster around a table where Shelly and Teal are doing shots of Patrón. Kristina sneers at them but Beryl and I go for it with the rest of the band, the sting of salt and sharp tang of lime following each tequila shot that burns down my throat.

  Tyler starts spinning a laughter-filled anecdote and everyone lightens. His grin is contagious—I swear this man could create his own weather systems.

  Kristina taps my knee and I force myself to stop staring at the rapidly diminishing space between Teal and Tyler. “Tomorrow, can you come over to my place?” Kristina asks Beryl and me. “We can figure out what we’re wearing for the Spider-Man premiere.”

  That thought takes my mood down a notch and I frown. “I don’t have anything to wear,” I confess, hoping I don’t also have to confess that I don’t have the money to buy something new.

  Kristina’s sour expression is broken by a light laugh. “That’s the point, silly. I got Marchesa to dress us all. They’ll come over with a bunch of gowns and we get to pick.”

  Beryl’s eyes widen. “That feels so … Cinderella.”

  Kristina rolls her eyes. “You get used to it. The dresses are a loan. But it wouldn’t look good if Tattoo Thief showed up with arm candy dressed the way we are right now.”

  I stiffen at her comment, but I can’t disagree. I might look fine for a night out at a bar, but I’m nowhere near premiere-ready.

  “What about…?” I incline my head toward Shelly and Teal.

  Kristina shakes her head. “Jayce hasn’t decided who he’s going with yet. Anyway, they’re not part of our group.”

  “Yet?” Beryl asks.

  Kristina’s face darkens. “I’ve seen it too many times to count. The girls who leech on to them because they’re rock stars, not because they’re Jayce or Gavin or Tyler, don’t deserve to be a part of this.”

  “And it’s your prerogative to shut them out?” I challenge Kristina—why does she get to decide who’s in and who’s out? I should be grateful that I’m included, but the alcohol makes me quarrelsome.

  “Hell, yes, it is.” Her face flushes with fury. “After everything I’ve been through with Dave, and everything I’ve seen from the groupies, I have a right to say who gets to be a part of this.”

  “Thanks for including us, then,” Beryl says, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  I raise my brow in challenge and down another shot. Maybe this explains Kristina’s perpetually pissed-off attitude. “Who chose, then?”

  “Gavin only came back from Africa because of Beryl,” Kristina says, turning to her, “and I saw what you did for him. You reached him when we couldn’t, so you’re in. But you—” Kristina fixes suspicious eyes on me. “Tyler said you’re in, but you’ve already screwed us over once.”

  Beryl hisses. “That’s water under the bridge, Kristina. Let it go.”

  Kristina holds up her hands as if to say, It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta do it. “I’m just looking out for him. He trusts too easily. He’s great at connecting with people, but when it comes to women who want him, he has no friggin’ clue.”

  A shriek of laughter draws our attention and I catch Teal whispering something in Tyler’s ear. I can’t tell if his easy smile is encouraging her or just plain friendly. Inwardly, I seethe, but I refuse to make a scene. He’s not my man, and maybe he likes the attention. Jayce certainly does.

  I have another drink and try to follow Beryl and Gavin’s conversation about their trip to Oregon but I feel left out, like I’m listening to someone recount the plot of a movie I haven’t seen. Kristina gravitates to Dave, pulling him into their coupley-coupled universe, while Shelly and Teal press their ample breasts against Jayce and Tyler’s arms.

  I feel like a third wheel. Or rather, a ninth wheel, just an appendage to these four couples. I want Tyler to extract himself from the groupie bimbos but he seems to be having fun, so instead I pound another shot and go to the restroom.

  I weave through the crowded bar, holding the backs of chairs for support because my shoes feel too tall. I nearly trip over an ancient rug where it meets the hardwood floor and I gawk at the weird taxidermy over the bar and along the walls.

  I take my time in the restroom, putting my head in my hands as I sit on the toilet seat and try to get my bearings. First vodka, then cocktails, then tequila shots. My stomach lining hates me for this abuse and I feel bile rise in my throat as I think of the way Teal’s bubblegum-pink lips whispered in Tyler’s ear.

  Oh yes, I am madly jealous.

  And madly in—what? Like? Lust? Love?—with Tyler.

  But I can’t fathom that he feels the same way. Something hanging over his head has ruined every time we’ve connected, every time we’ve gotten close.

  Bad boys aren’t this complicated. Bad boys you just find, fuck and forget. But Tyler is unforgettable. He’s got an electric touch that seems to disconnect the logical parts of my brain that know what I want and how to get it.

  What I want is a connection. Tonight. Right now. I want someone to shove me against a wall, pull my hair, and show me that I’m the only woman in the room that he wants.

  Sweet Tyler isn’t doing any of that.

  Fuck.

  I sway as I exit the restroom and decide to get another drink at the bar instead of going back to the couches and the nightmare groupie twins. My eyes land on a broad-shouldered man with jet-black hair that brushes his shoulders. I crowd him as he orders a beer.

  “Vodka tonic?” I call to the bartender when he glances at me. The man pivots slightly and he’s a good deal older than me, maybe thirty, with a face full of stubble and keen, appreciative eyes that linger on my cleavage.

  He likes what he sees. And I like the fact that he’s looking at me as if I’m the only woman in the bar right now. In my alcoholic haze I answer the few questions he asks and let him pay for my drink.

  When Jet Black puts a hand on my elbow and then my waist, I don’t resist.

  There’s the connection, and my body hums with promise as he edges closer to me. Jet stares at me with hooded lids, asking if I’m here with anyone.

  “Nobody special,” I lie, feeling the sting of being the misfit among Tattoo Thief’s little cadre. I hate that the groupies edged me out.

  Jet takes my arm and leads me to a darker corner of the bar. He leans one arm against a wall, effectively shielding me from the rest of the crowd. I smell the beer on his breath and he tells me he’s in finance.

  He tells me he has a place nearby.

  He tells me I’d like it.

  I’m thankful for the wall behind me that holds me up, but something about the tilt of his head and the angle of his body so close to mine frightens me. It’s powerful, almost predatory, and I imagine that this is the kind of hookup that will leave me raw and whimpering.

  Men like him are rarely gentle.

  He watches me closely, his voice a low murmur as he strokes my upper arm with his thumb. The alcohol running through my system dips my thoughts in mud before I have a chance to think them. When Jet’s hand tightens around my arm, he’s asking me to go with him, and I shuffle forward even before I’m ready with an answer.

  His touch slithers down my arm to grasp my hand and I let him tow me in his wake toward a side door.

  Am I really going to follow him out of the bar? To his place? I’ve done this a dozen times before and yet something in my body resists. I should tell Beryl where I’m going. I should talk to Tyler.

  The thought of Tyler makes me stumble and a strong arm wraps around my waist to right me. But it isn’t Jet who holds me.

  It’s Tyler.

  Jet still holds my hand but Tyler anchors me in place, his eyes burning as he looks at the man’s grip on me.

  “We were just leaving,” Jet says.

  “You were,” Tyler snarls. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”

  The man laughs, a sinister rumble that chills me. My instinct tells me to run rather than be torn apart in this tug-of-war between
two men. Tyler’s body is solid and half a head taller than the man, but Jet is stockier and looks like he’d probably win a street fight.

  And he’d probably fight dirty.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” The man taunts Tyler. “She sounded pretty into the idea of coming to my place and letting me fuck her brains out two minutes ago. Or did you want to come and watch?”

  Tyler stiffens like he’s ready to pounce, but then he takes a step back from the man, pulling me back a bit with him. My arm stretches uncomfortably.

  With his free hand, Tyler pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. “Are you a betting man?” he asks idly, sliding five crisp hundreds from the billfold in the stranger’s view. My head swims with confusion for Tyler’s sudden change of pace. What is he doing?

  “What’s the wager?”

  Tyler eyes me and I cringe, seeing disappointment in his eyes. “I’ll bet that my cousin here isn’t your type.”

  The man frowns, his eyes bouncing from me to the bills in Tyler’s hand. “Then you’d lose. One drink and she was ready to leave with me. Easy is exactly my type.”

  Tyler’s jaw tightens and his body tenses against mine, but he keeps his temper in check. “You see easy? I know better than that. You’re out of your league if you think you can get her to come home with you. And five hundred dollars says you’d rather skip the trouble and go find another girl.”

  The man looks at me, tucked tightly into Tyler’s side, and drops my hand as if I’m contagious. He snatches the bills from Tyler.

  “Better go find a girl you can rent by the hour,” Tyler hisses.

  The man turns and strides out of the bar as I cower against Tyler, shaking. That man almost had me. He thought I was easy.

  And it’s true. I feel disgusting.

  My stomach heaves and I lurch from Tyler’s side, slamming through a dark wood door and into a toilet stall. I empty the contents of my stomach and every last drink into the toilet bowl.

  I cough, choking up thin, pinkish waves. Each retch looks and smells so disgusting that I heave again.