Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (2 page)

“I do have a friend there…” I start, feeling the weight of the gift Dan’s offering.

“Call her. Or him. Or whatever.” Dan pushes his business card across the wobbling table. My lone barista sends murderous looks my way. “Let me know what you decide. I’ll be around for a few days. Or maybe I could stop by and say hello to your mom.”

“I’ll call you,” I promise, and give him an odd side-hug because I’m not sure what else to do. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

I consider ignoring Dan’s offer, sticking with what I know and what’s comfortable. But as each customer enters and orders, I roll the idea over in my head, imagining what life could be like.

New York seems enormous and scary. I think of the cop shows and crazy-confusing public transit. The closest thing we have to a subway in Eugene is a dedicated bus lane with grass down the middle.

I swear I am not making that up.

I pedal home to an empty apartment. I’ve got two hours between the end of my coffee shop shift and the start of my second job, three nights a week at a brewpub. While the coffee shop pays enough for my bills and part of the rent, I’ve been funneling tips from the pub into another account, hoping to move into an apartment with my boyfriend, buy a car, or even travel.

But so far, I haven’t done any of that. I want to blame it on the responsible part of me that does her homework before making a big decision, but maybe I’m just scared.

My mom won’t be home until after I have to leave for my shift, so I call Stella. She’s the one who always makes me feel braver than I am.

We were in J-school together (that’s the journalism program, to insiders) and we were pretty tight. At the college newspaper, I was the news editor and she was the rabble-rousing opinions editor.

“Stella?”

“Beryl! What’s up? How’s the coffee shop?” We haven’t talked on the phone in months but we don’t need much time to catch up since we’re Facebook friends. She’s read my status updates and I’ve read hers, which are mostly insane stories of New York nightlife.

So I cut to the chase. “I’m thinking about moving to New York.”

“Really? That’s brilliant!” she trills, and I can hear her
Squee!
through the phone, which encourages me.

“I got a sort-of job offer from my dad’s best friend, and I think I want to go, if I can find a place to live.”

Stella’s voice catches. “Oh, Beryl, you have no idea what perfect timing this is. You’ve got to come live with me.”

Is it really this easy?

“I was freaking out about rent, and if you move here, all of my problems are solved!”

“I thought you were living with your boyfriend? What’s his name? Knyfe?”

“Blayde. That rat bastard. I’ll spare you the details, but the thing is, we split up and rent’s due in three days and I didn’t even know what I’d do…”

Nobody calls me impulsive. Impetuous. Spur-of-the-moment. Fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants.
Nobody
calls me that, because I’m Not. That. Way.

It’s hard to be a carefree teenager when your mom’s having a meltdown. But now Mom’s fine and my life sucks. So that’s the moment I make up my mind.

Failure isn’t going to rub its stinky butt in my face one more day.

“I haven’t talked to my mom or Jeff yet.”

“But you will? Come on Beryl, they can’t make up your mind for you.”

“It’s complicated. I was planning to move in with Jeff.”

“So? I was planning to be a Broadway star. Plans change. Roll with it.”

“He’s not going to understand.”

“Beryl, listen to me: ‘Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor.’”

“
Into the Woods.
The butcher’s wife.” I smile, remembering our game. I score a point each time I can name a lyric’s source in musical theater. She forced me to listen to soundtracks when we spent late nights working at our college newspaper.

“Score one for you. That’s from ‘First Midnight.’” Stella laughs and I warm inside. I miss her. She’s daring when I’m careful, feisty when I’m the peacemaker, and the troublemaker when I’m the good girl.

But being the good girl is getting me nowhere. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m going to talk to Jeff. And my mom. And if I can get their blessing—”

“Shut up. Even if you can’t.”

“Even if I can’t get their blessing—”

“You’re coming.”

Damn, she’s good. “I’ll send you the rent tomorrow,” I promise. “And I’ll be your new roomie! I’m booking the first flight that doesn’t cost a gazillion bucks.”

“I love you, Beryl!”

“Ditto.” I click off my phone and start to panic.

***

I take a shower, straighten the apartment and put on my brewpub uniform—denim shorts and an embroidered black polo. I give it the sniff test and it passes.

I try to think of what to say as I ride to Jeff’s apartment, hoping to catch him home from work before I have to report in for my next shift. I leave my bike at the bottom of his apartment’s stairs and knock on his door, opening it when there’s no answer.

Jeff is sprawled in his usual butt-shaped dent on his couch, fat black headphones on his head, totally absorbed in a shoot-em-up video game. I hook my rear over the edge of the couch and plant my legs in his lap. He smiles but keeps furiously pressing buttons on the controller.

I pop a few buttons on his shirt beneath his loosened tie, letting my hand wander down below his belt buckle. He tenses and then slumps as he curses, drops the controller and pulls the headphones over his close-cropped dark hair.

“You’d better be offering something more than a tease, considering you just got me killed,” he grumbles good-naturedly, his hands snaking beneath my polo shirt. I can tell he’s equal parts annoyed and horny.

The usual.

“Maybe after my shift,” I say, kissing him lightly. If we take things further, I’ll be late. “I want to talk to you.”

Jeff pulls back, studying me with curious eyes. His olive-skinned face shows a bit of stubble and his eyes are puffy, no doubt from gaming long into last night. I’m glad I didn’t bother to stay over. I wouldn’t have had his attention anyway.

But now I’ve got it. “I’m thinking about moving,” I say, feeling Stella the angel (or devil?) on my shoulder as she smacks my head for that indecisive statement.

“Well, we can move when you’re ready,” Jeff says. “We can go apartment-hunting this weekend, if that’s what you want.” He’s been saving, too, planning to move out of the apartment he’s shared with two frat brothers since our senior year.

I shake my head slightly. “No, I mean, I’m thinking about moving to a new city. For a while, just to get out of Eugene and see somewhere else for a change.”

Jeff’s face scrunches in confusion. “I thought we talked about this. I can’t move while I’m in manager training, but then after that we can bid for a new city. I’ve got another year to go, babe.”

Jeff works for a rental car company, and from what I’ve heard from the girlfriends and wives at company events, the pickings are slim for transfers. I don’t want to move to a town where the cultural hub is a shopping mall.

I twist my hands in my lap and I can hear Stella screaming, “Spit it out!” So I do.

“No, I mean, I’m thinking of going by myself. To New York. I sort of got a job offer there.”

Jeff reels back as if I’ve hit him. “With—without me? Why would you want to go to New York? It’s dirty and crowded and expensive.”

“And different.”

“And unsafe.”

“You don’t know that. Dan says it’s changed a lot.” Jeff has never been to New York, but he’s saying the same things I thought when Dan suggested it. Only now I feel like I’m defending the Big Apple.

“Who’s Dan?”

“My dad’s best friend. He offered me the job.” I watch as Jeff’s expression morphs from hurt to frustration.

“Why do I feel like you’ve already made up your mind? Beryl, this is crazy. You can go visit Stella or something, but you can’t just go
live
there. That’s impossible.”

“The harder to get, the better to have,” I mumble, scoring a point in Stella’s game with another
Into the Woods
lyric. “Jeff, I want to do this. I’m itching to get out of Eugene, and with this job offer, I could actually do it for a while.”

“And what about me? Didn’t you think it would affect us? Didn’t you think at all?”

My easygoing boyfriend is long gone, replaced by a fight-or-flight response at full throttle. But I feel anger burning in my gut, knowing that if I don’t do this, if I stay stuck in my hometown forever, I’m going to hate it—and him.

“I hoped you’d understand,” I say, wrapping my arms around him in some kind of an apology. “I thought you’d want me to go try this, have an adventure, so that when we decide to settle down or even move to a new city together, I’ll be ready.”

“I thought you were ready now.”

I shake my head. Jeff got a job straight out of college that has a clear career path. But I threw my career path away when I left the newspaper. Now, the most exciting thing I write besides my journal is an order ticket for a beer-and-burger special.

And I call bullshit on that.

“Jeff, I’ve got to go. Either I do this, or I’m going to hate myself for missing this chance.” I can’t bring myself to say I’ll hate him for keeping me from it.

He shocks me by making it too easy.

“Then do it. But don’t expect me to wait around for you.” He pushes my arms off his neck and scoots to the other end of the couch, pulling his headphones on his ears and grabbing his videogame controller.

I stand and watch his eyes redden, feeling a sob build in my chest. He won’t look at me, only the TV.

I cry as I ride to the brewpub, wash my face in cold water in the bathroom sink, and do my shift in a daze.

I can’t believe what just happened. Did I really just throw away eighteen months with my boyfriend for a
job
?

I decide not to go to New York a dozen times during the dinner shift. But then a group of college students stiffs me with a buck-fifty tip for a table of four, a woman yells at me for a screwed-up order that was the kitchen’s fault, and a customer pats me on the butt.

I want to take a chunk out of the customer’s arm with my teeth, but I just chew my lip and keep moving. I have to keep moving. If I stand still, I’ll break down again.

The same fear and exhilaration I felt when I quit my reporting job hits me and I can’t bring myself to eat on my break, so I nurse an Arnold Palmer on the curb behind the brewpub and check Facebook on my phone. Jeff has already updated his relationship status to single.

Jackass. But I feel the tears flow again.

I also see a message from Stella. “I saw Jeff’s status. Looks like it didn’t go so well. Chin up, beauty, you’re going to love NYC!” Even through the tears, I smile. Stella always seems to rebound from the bad boys she dates as if they were nothing worse than a hangover.

I drag my feet during my end-of-shift sidework, hoping the business of mating ketchup bottles and refilling salt and pepper shakers will keep me busy until after my mom’s in bed.

I’m in luck. Her bedroom light is off, so I tiptoe to my room, knowing that I’ll be up and out of the house again before she gets up. But that means tomorrow night’s going to be rough.

***

“How could you just
do
this without even discussing it with me?” my mom cries. And she’s just getting started. Years of practiced, impassive expressions in her family counseling practice have made her
more
prone to outbursts, in my opinion.

But what do I know? I’m not the licensed therapist.

“I
am
discussing it with you. Right now.”

I move to drain the pasta before it gets gluey, stepping carefully around her in our small apartment’s galley kitchen.

“But you’ve already made up your mind,” she accuses. “I can’t believe Dan didn’t say something to me first.”

“You mean, ask your permission?”

Mom backpedals. I’ve already played my “I’m twenty-two, not a child” card twice tonight. She knows it trumps her “Because I’m the mother, that’s why” card.

“Beryl, I need you here. You’re all I’ve got. I can’t stand the thought of losing you too. And if you go to New York, you won’t be safe. You won’t have me to take care of you.”

I clench my teeth, biting back a comment that will only hurt her. After Dad died, I took care of her more than she took care of me. I plunk our dinner down on the table harder than I intend and the sound echoes off the walls.

Mom sees I’m not swayed, so she plays the pity card, sad eyes and all. That’s practically an ace. “I’m your mother. Shouldn’t my opinion count for something?”

“You’ve never been to New York,” I remind her. “And neither have I. We’ve never been much of anywhere since—”

I trail off. I don’t want to say, “since Dad died,” or, “since the accident.”

My father was a private pilot—his passion, his hobby and his death sentence. He got caught when the weather came in and the clouds rolled down. With nowhere to land but vast stretches of forest, he tried and failed.

“We don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t need to go anywhere. You can find a new opportunity in Eugene. Or even Portland.” She frowns at the mention of the biggest city near us, a hundred miles north.

But her words ring hollow even as she says them. If I stay in Eugene, I’ll still reek of coffee, failure, and frustration. Or I can spread my wings like Stella and get a bitchin’ job and a punk boyfriend (Blayde? Knyfe? What’s with that name?).

And maybe change my future.

A knock startles me as I’m setting the table and I fly to the door, eager for something to defuse our argument. Dan stands on our doormat, hands tucked behind his back, looking hopeful.

Defuse? This is more like throwing a match in a room full of dynamite.

“Hi Berry, I was wondering if—”

“New York? What were you thinking?!?” My mother is behind me, hands on her hips, staring Dan down. He takes a step back and ducks his head from the daggers in her eyes.

I edge to the side, out of the line of fire, pushing the door open wider. I think my mom would like to slam it in his face, but I’m not going to let her bully us.