Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (26 page)

Satisfied, the stylist takes me back to her chair where she does a treatment that turns my curls into luscious waves. Lea Michele can kiss my ass—now I have show-stopping hair.

I’m a million times more relaxed than when I started, silently thanking Gavin again for the birthday treat. But I’m no closer to figuring out what I need to do
about
Gavin. He could be home anytime, and I need a plan.

I drift out of the spa on a cloud of endorphins, ready to pour myself into bed for a long Sunday nap.

I feel rubber-limbed and squeaky clean after being purified, scrubbed, massaged, plucked, and polished. I also look ridiculous, my face red and blotchy from threading and my yoga clothes sweaty from the walk home.

I check my phone and Mom’s sent me a text to say Dan’s taking her to the airport. I smile. I know she has to get back to Eugene for client appointments tomorrow, but I’d bet a pint of gelato that she’ll be back in New York soon.

When I open the door to Gavin’s apartment, I immediately feel something different.

The terrace doors are open. The living room lights are on. And Jasper doesn’t greet me with his familiar baroo—I don’t see him anywhere.

I kick off my sneakers at the door and pad into the apartment. A ratty-looking backpack is slumped on the couch next to a battered guitar case. A glass of ice water sweats on the kitchen island.

Gavin.

I don’t call out. Instead, I tread silently through the apartment, looking for him in the office, the music room and the downstairs guest rooms.

Nothing.

I take a breath for courage and ascend the spiral staircase, wondering if I should somehow knock.

Dirty jeans and a T-shirt are piled on the floor of Gavin’s bedroom, his bathroom door ajar. Jasper’s snuggled in the center of the new white comforter, curled in his dog-bagel shape.

I hear the shower shut off and I’m caught—should I run back downstairs? Should I have knocked and waited outside? Before I can flee, the bathroom door opens and I see Gavin in a billow of steam with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.

Hot
damn
.

I shrink back toward the stairs but Gavin sees me and his face shifts from surprise to a smile.

“Beryl.” He opens his arms, beckoning me closer. I can’t walk away from this magnetic pull and I come to him, closing my eyes as I bury my face against his neck. Holding him is a thousand times better than I imagined.

I feel his damp skin against my cheek, his hands sifting through my newly straightened hair. I open my eyes and I’m inches from the tattoo that I’ve looked at a million times in pictures—
reckless
inked just below his collarbone.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, wrapping my arms more tightly around his waist. “You’re real.”

“You’re a dream,” he says. “I got home and it was everything you promised. The only way I was sure this was my place was the piano.”

“Do you like it?” I tilt my head up, my hazel eyes meeting his pale blue ones. His full mouth is inches from mine and I flash to the wicked things I’ve imagined it doing to me, over and over.

“Oh, yes.” Gavin steps back, holding me at arm’s length as his eyes sweep my body. “I like.” He’s not talking about the apartment.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Me, too. We have a lot of catching up to do.” He guides me to the foot of his bed and has me sit. I follow his direction, docile and curious, wondering if he’s going to do the things he’s promised in our most intimate conversations
right now
.

I lick my lips in anticipation.

But he goes to a dresser to retrieve new clothes. As if sensing my train of thought, he grins. “After everything we’ve talked about, I’d rather just drop this towel and ravish you, but I have learned a
few
manners on my trip.”

Gavin’s smirk is wicked as he retreats to his bathroom and puts on clothes. The fact that he leaves the bathroom door ajar has my body on high alert even though I can’t see him dress.

“Let’s try this from the beginning,” he says, taking my hand as he leads me down the spiral staircase. “Hi, I’m Gavin, and it’s nice to meet you.”

His grin is boyish and sweet. His blond hair sticks up in every direction after being scrubbed dry with a towel and left uncombed.

“I’m Beryl.” I giggle as we walk toward the kitchen. “And if you play your cards right, I’m willing to share some of the passion fruit gelato a cute guy gave me.”

“Cute guy? Should I be jealous?”

“Depends on if you think you can compete.” I take the gelato from his freezer and grab two spoons from a drawer, feeling weird that I know Gavin’s house better than he knows it, considering I’ve reorganized and redecorated every inch.

Gavin follows me to the squishy leather couches in the living room. “What do I have to do to beat this guy?”

I love that he’s playing along. I sit and tuck my feet under me. Gavin sits close, one bare foot on his knee, and helps me pry the lid off the gelato. “Well, for starters, this guy isn’t just some bad-boy rock star.”

Gavin frowns. “Does that mean I have to be a good boy?”

I grin. “Not
too
good. But reformed a bit. No more self-destructive jags.”

“Agreed. What else?”

“He listens. I mean, really, really listens—he gets me. One time I randomly mentioned I liked gelato and he sent me four pints of this.” I tip the carton for Gavin to take a spoonful and he puts it in his mouth, savoring it.

“This is really good.”

“Duh.”

“The guy who found it for you must be a genius.”

I laugh. “He’d like to think that.”

“So he’s not? Well, then, all I’ve got to do is prove my genius-ness and I win.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Then tell me. What’s the magic recipe?”

“When I met this guy, he was a screwed-up, irresponsible celebrity and I was an ultra-responsible New York newbie.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m try-new-things Beryl. And I want to get to know a guy named Gavin who’s found a new muse, ditched his pity party, and decided he’s ready.”

“For what?”

“This.” I lean forward and press my lips against his, my eyes open and searching his reaction. His hand freezes in midair, still holding an empty spoon, and the other hand plunges into my hair and tightens into a fist.

The spoon falls and Gavin turns me, in one fluid motion pulling me on top of him as he reclines into the couch. His lips are hot and demanding, speaking with a thousand kisses to the dam of passion and need that’s been opened now that we are finally face to face.

I open to him, feel his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my body. I hear his breathing shift and quicken, and I moan as his lips blaze a trail along my jaw, then down toward the hollow at my throat.

I sink my teeth into his shoulder, grasping to bring him closer to me. I move my hips to his. I feel him harden in response, his arms pulling me so tight I’m breathless and alive and soaring.

And then, just as suddenly, he breaks us apart, his breath heavy as he pushes me away. He twists his head and struggles to sit, righting us from the deep dive of passion.

“Gavin? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He scrubs his hands against his face, as if he’s trying to wake up from an intense dream.

“Is it something I—?”

“No. You’re damn near perfect, Beryl. This is just—I have to go. I have to deal with something before we can do this. I promised myself when I was traveling that I would do this.”

“Can I help?”

“No. I have to do this alone.”

His statement stings and I blink hard. “Then when can I see you?” I realize I’m committing a major slide into neediness and I balk, feeling stupid as I ask the question.

Fear and insecurity wash over me but Gavin pulls me close to him, planting a few soft kisses across my cheek, with a final sweet touch to my lips.

“Meet me for dinner. Tonight at eight. We’ll go to Sant Ambroeus and sit outside. You’ll love their sangria.”

“OK.” I hesitate. A question hangs in the air, waiting for me to ask it. “What do you want me to do about accommodations tonight? I didn’t know you were coming home today or else I would have gotten my stuff out to give you space.”

Gavin runs a gentle hand over my jaw and tips up my chin. “Let’s talk about it—and us—tonight.” He offers me one more kiss and then sweeps through the apartment for his shoes, wallet and keys.

“Bye, Beryl.” Gavin waves at me, still shell-shocked on his couch, and is out his front door.

My chest heaves in a shuddering breath.

What. Was. That.

I have three hours until dinner and I don’t know what to do with myself. My hormones are on overdrive, fueled by seeing Gavin so close and so real, from touching him and aching under his touch.

His sudden exit bewilders me. I was so
certain
of him when he was a pen pal, an abstraction I built up in my mind. That abstraction was healing and feeling and finding a way back to reality.

This Gavin, the
real
Gavin, is in the wind.

This Gavin is filling in the gaps that my imagination filled before. I filled the cracks with what I wanted to see and hear from him. Now that he’s real, he’s flawed.

My Gavin is not as simple and perfect as a dream. Not that I should be calling him
mine.

I go through my room—no, Gavin’s guest room—and clean up, packing some of my clothes into my suitcase to be ready to move. I can go anytime; the Steens left for Europe this morning and I made my first visit to walk their chocolate Lab, Aleah, before going to the spa.

I tell myself I haven’t moved over there yet because Jasper needs me, too, and I didn’t know when Gavin would get home. But the truth is, living here—sleeping in Gavin’s bed, feeling his soft T-shirt around my body—makes me feel closer to him.

I take Jasper for a walk. I need to get under the trees and think.

Jasper and I get Aleah from the Steens’ and we wind through The Ramble, following a shady trail where few others are likely to pass. I let the dogs off-leash to sniff around in the brush and I shut my eyes, inhaling the smell of warm earth and early summer, verdant leaves and sweet grass.

This space gives me clarity:
I am being lame.

Try-new-things Beryl gives New-York-newbie Beryl a swift kick in the ass. I can mope or I can seize the moment, get dressed up, go out and have a fantastic date, and stop whining about which way the wind is blowing with Gavin.

He’s real. He’s unpredictable. And just because he’s not following my imagined playbook doesn’t mean things aren’t going to be amazing.

And if they don’t turn out perfectly?

That’s not the point. The point is to
try.

***

I’m reinvigorated by the time I’ve fed Aleah at her apartment and returned with Jasper to Gavin’s. I listen carefully when I enter but he’s not home yet.

I shower and take extra time with my makeup, drawing fine eyeliner at the base of subtle shadow. I stain my lips and apply gloss, then pin up my hair in defense against New York’s sweaty heat.

My bumpkinwear has migrated to the back of my closet, and for a few minutes I debate resurrecting something from Eugene to wear to dinner with Gavin. But he’s a rock star, and I’m—well, nothing but a house sitter.

No contest. I go for Lulu’s clothes and choose a deep burgundy dress that’s ruched at the ribcage, skirt flaring from its high waist. I think I remember a picture of Lulu wearing it at a red carpet event.

The dress screams siren and it feels ridiculously expensive; with my perpetually pale skin and dark, straightened hair I feel vampy, polished and sexy.

I put on my new Stella-approved fuck-me shoes. How appropriate. That’s what I want—ferocious, intense, mind-bendingly hot. I want him to make me forget my name, to take me and claim me and make me his own.

Soft and sweet has its place, but not tonight.

I arrive at Sant Ambroeus a few minutes early and I’m thankful Gavin’s not here yet—I need a few minutes to cool down after the five-block walk from the subway.

I’ve heard the line that guys sweat and girls glisten. That’s crap. I’m trying my best to not soak Lulu’s gorgeous, light-as-air silk dress.

I don’t know if Gavin made us a reservation under his name or a pseudonym, but when I peek at the reservation book I don’t see anything I recognize. I ask for an outdoor table and I’m grateful the hostess doesn’t make me wait.

A server brings me a glass of water and a basket filled with five kinds of bread. I work myself into a carb-frenzy trying each kind. Then I give in to my nerves and order a full carafe of sangria, telling the server Gavin will join me soon.

I fiddle with my phone and people-watch. Two tables away, a couple is deep in conversation and I catch bits of gossip about people I’d never want to meet. Their sweet-faced beagle is having doggy dreams of a magnificent chase while tied to the low, wrought iron fence that separates our tables from the sidewalk.

I pour a second glass of sangria, the same color as my dress, with bits of apple and berries floating in it. It’s smoothing out my rough edges but I’m increasingly worried that Gavin isn’t here.

A man in a pale gray suit and loafers but no socks is seated at the table next to me. With his round, horn-rimmed glasses and coiffed hair I get an artistic vibe.

His guest soon joins him, a fiftyish man with coffee-colored skin and a barrel chest beneath his crisp linen shirt. I eavesdrop with abandon, pretending to be absorbed with an app as the two discuss a famous woman’s influence in fashion and music.

At one point Horn Rims explains that he’s working on a biography, though this piece will probably appear in short form in the
Times
first.

“She’s been at the bleeding edge of New York culture for decades,” the interviewee says, and then details her sexploits through the 1970s and ’80s.

The details make me flush and I’m desperate to hear the subject’s name, but I never catch it. My frustration rises.

Fifty minutes, two more glasses of sangria and three-quarters of the breadbasket later, I’m fuming.