Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (17 page)

I want Gavin.

I give Stella a noncommittal nod and try to banish Gavin from my brain. If I told him any of this, he’d probably shrug me off as a fangirl, and now that I realize how much I care about him, I don’t think I can take it.

Perhaps to snap me out of my introspective funk, Stella offers to take me shopping for slutty shoes after the yoga-in. She says the right pair of shoes might have me changing my mind about Anthony.

I doubt it, so I try to change the subject again. “So why are you so annoyed about covering this? I thought you liked yoga.”

“I like it fine—in a studio. Not on a street with two thousand people. But that’s not the point.” Stella stretches, arcing her shoulders to bend the way I’m sure my body never has. “The point is I’m a
music
journalist. I’m just stuck covering this because the events reporter is on vacation and they know I do yoga.”

“It seems like a pretty big event,” I offer, surveying the street lined with mats in dozens of hues, a patchwork quilt of
om
.

“But it doesn’t
matter
,” she says. “What I want to do is find the next big thing, the next superstar band or singer. Do you know how many crappy shows I go to just to find the few standouts?”

I shake my head, but imagine the number is huge. It’s rare that she isn’t out at a club or a show most nights, and I respect her dedication. Our journalism profs told us that careers would be hard, but they never said how much abject boredom we’d suffer through to get one good nugget, the one golden lead for a story.

“I’ve been to two hundred and eighty-five shows since I moved to New York,” Stella answers her own question. “I’ve kept track. And I’ve saved every ticket stub. But since I’m junior to the regular music writer, I get stuck with the scraps.”

“That sucks,” I offer her moral support as I go through the motions of my first sun salutation beneath stories-high animated billboards. Beyoncé smiles down at me in a ten-dollar H&M bikini.

“Well, I’m playing the odds,” cheerfulness returns to her tone. “Breaking a new band could make my career, but hyping someone horrid would break it. So I’m going to keep writing honest reviews, and keep track of the bands I think are up-and-comers, and someday I want to turn in a ‘making of the band’ piece that actually
makes
a band.”

“I know you will.”

***

After yoga, Jasper and I have an awesome romp on The High Line, a park created on an elevated freight rail track. We go to the West Village where I buy some deliciously stinky truffled goat cheese at Murray’s Cheese Shop.

We check out a gelato shop called Grom, but alas, no passion fruit. I skip gelato and instead try my first tea-pop, a strong-brewed herbal infusion mixed with soda water at David’s Tea.

I love that there are a million new things to try in New York. My “try new things” mantra will never run out of opportunities to explore.

We get back to the apartment and I’m dripping with sweat from the humidity, so I shower while Jasper sprawls his red and white body in a patch of sun on the terrace lawn. When I ordered new houseplants, I also had a patch of grass installed on the terrace so Jasper can do his business in case Gavin’s away longer than expected.

Who am I kidding? That’s practically a guarantee.

Tonight I don’t have Stella to do my hair as I prepare for my night on the town: Dan’s going to a charity gala for children’s literacy and invited me as his plus one.

I throw on a shirt and shorts and head back downstairs, walking a few blocks to a blowout salon I’ve passed a few times. I’m in luck—no wait.

They do things with serums and hot air that leave my hair looking shiny and shampoo-commercial ready. I mentally tick another item off my “try new things” list—I don’t even think there
is
a blowout salon in Eugene.

Dan explained yesterday that the charity ball is really a client-prospecting opportunity.

“Of course, we’d never call it that,” he admitted. “But I need to be where the wealthiest residents are, and with your new role at Keystone, you should be there, too. They need to meet you to feel comfortable with you taking care of their homes.”

I think of Greta Carr and her pink-on-pink apartment, her zebra chaise in the ridiculous walk-in closet, and her instruments of torture in the bathroom. But most of all, I think of her sad stack of magazines. I’m taking care of her home, but I feel like she needs more than that—she needs someone to take care of
her
.

I search my closet for a cocktail dress that won’t mark me as a New York newbie. I feel bad about pillaging Lulu’s wardrobe, but since Gavin told me to throw out everything, I figure I’m just keeping beautiful clothes from going to waste. I choose a purplish-blue intricately beaded dress with an asymmetrical hemline that’s longer in the back. A deep swoop in front shows off my collarbones.

I need a necklace to make it a little more decent, but nothing I own is going to cut it among a bejeweled crowd, so I go bare.

Dan’s at my door right at eight. He looks dashing in a custom tux that makes his silver-white hair look even more dignified.

“You look … foxy,” I say, grinning as I wobble, balancing on one foot while I shove my shoe on the other.

“And you look just like your mother.” He takes my hand and twirls me. “I wish she could see you here in New York. You’re flying.”

“She will soon,” I tell him. “She actually bought a plane ticket. She’s coming out to visit next Saturday.”

The color drains from Dan’s face and I search his expression.

“What?”

“It’s just—” he trails off. “I’d really like to see her. When I came to your apartment that night, well, that’s not how I wanted things to happen. I don’t want her to hate me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” I reassure him. “You just got caught in the line of fire. Your timing couldn’t have been worse.”

“Story of my life,” Dan says and frowns. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try again. Does she need a hotel?”

“No, I figured she could stay here with me. There’s plenty of room and I don’t think Gavin will mind.”

Dan raises his eyebrow at the familiarity in my voice as I speak of Gavin. “You sure?”

“I’ll ask him for permission. OK?”

Dan still looks concerned but he doesn’t comment further. “The town car’s waiting downstairs. Are we ready?”

I pick up my clutch and take his arm, following him to the brass elevator doors. We slide into a black Lincoln and cruise to the venue. I’m feeling very grown up.

“Remember, this is a soft sell,” Dan coaches me as we ride. “They’ll ask you what you do, and you tell them about our business and hand them a card even if they don’t ask for one. But you don’t ask for the business.”

I pat my clutch, which holds dozens of newly printed, engraved business cards in cream with a shot of teal running through the center. They feel expensive.

“When you mingle, ask casually where they live. Tell them you love the neighborhood, and that you’re there on other jobs.”

“But I’ve only been in the city two weeks.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve been to the Upper East Side for a couple of clients. You live on the Upper West. That’s close enough.”

“What if they live somewhere else?”

Dan pats my hand. “Trust me. They probably won’t.”

We pull up to a red carpet that rolls down the venue’s steps and Dan takes my hand to help me gracefully exit the car. I find my footing and follow him, taking in the parade of pretty dresses, natty tuxedos, and gobs and gobs of jewelry.

This charity could probably fund its entire operating budget for
years
with the wealth on display. But I’m not here for social commentary. I’m here to sell and I’m out of my depth.

Dan introduces me to a few people, and they’re much older than me—decades, at least. I listen to his first few pitches and admire the way he works in our business without pushing too hard.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he charms the ladies, asking if they have a special pet and crooning over pictures they show us on their phones.

Finally, I cut the apron strings, pick up a glass of champagne and walk to a group of three people, two men and a woman, in a loose and laughter-filled conversation.

“Hi,” I start. And stop. I’m not sure where to begin.

“Hello, I’m Megan Freeman,” the older woman extends a hand bearing a grape-sized yellow stone. Its sparkle screams
diamond.

“I’m Beryl Sutton,” I stammer, but my shoulders relax as each man introduces himself. I ask about their interest in the charity and they weave an enthusiastic story of who knows whom and how they got involved. Somehow, they miss the point of what the charity actually
does,
but it doesn’t seem to matter.

I’m easily carried through the conversation, answering their questions as Dan directed me. I drop client names—Greta Carr and Gavin Slater both carry weight and raise eyebrows. I learn that Greta is sometimes on the charity ball circuit and I wonder if I’ll ever run into her in person.

Probably not. I’m her errand-girl, not meant to be part of this social strata. From what I can tell, that’s just the way rich people want it.

After a dozen more greetings, I’ve passed out many of my cards and my face hurts from smiling. Some people are kind and act politely interested when they learn what I do, others throw out a quick excuse and hurry away to find other rich people.

I hate being so obviously at the bottom of this pecking order. It hurts a little—in Eugene, few people are wealthy and nobody is filthy rich. Even though some of my friends were at the top of the middle class while my mom and I were at the bottom, we all wore distressed jeans and vintage shirts. It was hard to tell whose duds were really secondhand.

But not in New York. People with money
look
rich, from exquisite fashion to huge bling on top of meticulous manicures. I am thankful for Lulu’s gorgeous beaded dress, which is understated but passable.

I train my face into a neutral smile even when I get a cold shoulder and keep mingling. The thing that keeps me from being intimidated is my growing knowledge of their secrets—with each rich person’s home I visit, I find new chinks in their armor, evidence that proves the rich aren’t better than the rest of us.

Gavin is newly rich and I wonder how he’d act at this ball. I wonder if the old-money elite would accept him, or at least tolerate him because he’s famous. I wonder if Gavin would
act
rich and snub the help. If he’d snub me.

My nose is stuffy from someone’s heavy perfume and I retreat to the ladies’ room. I sit in a stall and relax, listening to catty gossip as women come and go through the restroom.

They’re sizing up everything—someone’s dress, someone’s jewelry, someone’s date and someone else’s brand-new boobs. Just listening to it is exhausting.

Finally, I emerge from the stall, wash my hands and powder my face. I run a comb through my perfectly straight hair and reapply the lipstick that disappeared with each glass of champagne.

I’m stalling.

But I’m here to support Dan, so I go out and we sit for the plated dinner and presentation, Dan at my left and an elderly woman on my right. She clucks over a little Pomeranian that she’s smuggled into the event and I coo with her.

The dog’s wearing a rhinestone-studded collar and a bow just above its eyes. It’s a boy.
Sorry, dude. Sucks to live a life of privilege sometimes, huh?
He looks grouchy and settles for a nap in a leather handbag at our feet.

The band strikes up after dinner and Dan asks me for the first dance, maneuvering us between tables to the parquet floor where he demonstrates a much stronger command of the foxtrot than I learned in my ballroom dancing class at the U of O.

We cruise around the floor and I relax, enjoying his smile and his smooth, elegant movements. He spins me and I feel beautiful, even privileged, dancing among New York’s elite. As the song ends, he pulls me into a slow, rolling dip, then brings me upright, his eyes alight.

“I don’t think I ever get enough of dancing,” Dan says and leads me off the floor. “It’s one of the best parts of these galas. So we’ve networked, we’ve had dinner, and now it’s time for fun.”

He brings me back to my chair and turns to invite the woman on my right to dance next, delighting her. Her Pom is still snoring in her fat handbag.

I sip the last of my wine from dinner, lost in thought. How will my mom react to Dan when she comes to visit me? What’s the story between them? I know they went to high school together—my mom, my dad, and Dan—but I don’t know much more than this. Since Dad died, she hasn’t spoken to him or about him. It was as if my uncle Dan died with my father.

I feel a warm, soft hand on my arm and look up into brilliantly green eyes and red, curling hair. He smiles, revealing dimples in both cheeks, and his eyes are full of mischief.

“May I have this dance?” His question is formal, but his posture is loose and ready, as if I’ve already accepted. So I do.

I take his hand and follow him to the dance floor, where Dan’s twirling the elderly woman. Her face is lit with a hundred-watt smile.

“I’m Peter,” he says, pulling me into a waltz hold. His form isn’t as sharp as Dan’s, but it’s clear this guy has practiced. I smile at him and give my name, guessing he might be thirty or thirty-five.

“What brings you here tonight?”

“Uh, the charity event?” I’m not sure what the right answer is as Peter spins me, his hand anchoring my lower back. His cologne smells fantastic and the material of his tux is so fine and soft that I know he’s rich-rich. I wonder how long it will take him to realize I’m not and move on to wealthier women.

“OK, then,
who
brought you here tonight?” His tone drops and there’s heat in it.

“My boss,” I answer, and nod to Dan’s silver head a few yards away from us. “He’s the co-owner of Keystone Property Management.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Peter says. “But I’ve never seen you before. I would have remembered.”

“I’ll bet that’s what you tell all the girls,” I sass, but with a smile. “I’m new to New York. This is my first time.”