Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (29 page)

“Are they expecting two?”

“I don’t think they’re expecting any. I think they want a child, and they’re driving themselves crazy preparing.”

“I can relate to that,” Dan says, and my jaw drops in surprise. “Look, Beryl, you hit a certain age and it’s fish or cut bait. You either have kids or you let go of that dream. Sounds like they’re not ready to let go. I wasn’t.”

“You wanted to have kids?”

“Yes. I just never found the right person at the right time.” His voice is wistful and I wonder if he means my mom could have been the right person, if they’d been together at the right time. “But at least I have a pretty cool sort-of niece.”

“I’m glad you and my mom are …” I trail off, not sure how to describe their relationship.

“Me, too.”

I squirm, seeing a faraway look in Dan’s eyes. It looks like his vacation to Oregon can’t come soon enough. I change the subject. “I’m going to take in Peter’s donation tonight. To the Safe Haven Network.”

“Tonight?”

“There’s a committee meeting for their charity ball next month. Greta Carr called someone and got us both on the committee.”

“That’s great, Berry! Good networking for you, and a nice way to spend time with a valuable client.”

“I think she might become a friend.” I tell him how we’re planning to help with the event, which has refocused Greta on the Safe Haven Network instead of the party circuit.

Dan’s eyebrows lift in surprise. It’s clear his original impression of Greta is just like the rest of the world’s: skin-deep. “You never stop surprising me. You make a reckless rock star boyfriend material. You turn a shallow socialite into an heiress with a heart of gold.”

“I think you’re wrong, Uncle Dan. They always had it in them. They just needed someone to see it, too.”

***

When I finally get to the Steens’ apartment after the committee meeting, I’m beyond beat.

My strappy heels have grown teeth and gnawed a chunk of skin off my feet. The color-blocked silk dress à la Lulu is a wrinkled mess and my long necklace’s chain tangled in the hair at the back of my neck. I actually have to rip it off me.

I collapse on the Steens’ tufted sofa and wince. It looks like it belongs in a psychiatrist’s office, but the person who bought this horribly uncomfortable piece of furniture needs to get her head checked. My guess is a decorator picked it out solely for looks.

Gavin should be proud of me. I ass-tested every couch in the furniture store before I bought his. If you can’t flop onto a couch after a long day at work, what’s it good for?

The thought of flopping on Gavin’s couch—especially flopping on it naked, beneath Gavin—reminds me yet again that I haven’t talked to him all day. He knew I had the committee meeting, though, so I didn’t expect him to call.

I try his home phone but there’s no answer. I try the new mobile number he texted me this morning. Ditto. I leave a light-hearted voicemail and then decide not to pester him—he could be visiting his band mates or going out with friends after more than two months of self-imposed exile.

I’ve waited this long for him to come home. I can wait a little longer for our first real date. Besides,
my
plans kept us from going out tonight, not his.

Aleah whines to go out and I pry myself off the couch to change into shorts. I cover my blister with antibiotic cream and a bandage, then lace up my running shoes.

It’s just after dark but the park is still full of life—plenty of other twilight dog-walkers had the same idea. I consider getting Jasper but it feels like such a long walk from the Upper East Side to the Upper West, and my blister is bothering me.

If Aleah is annoyed by her short-lived walk, she doesn’t show it. She tries to give me an enthusiastic tongue-kiss when I remove her leash.

I pour food in Aleah’s bowl and pour myself into bed, feeling the tidal wave of emotions I’ve experienced today crash over me and pull me into a dream-laden sleep.

I’ll bet I snore like a jet engine.

Sorry, Aleah.

I’ve seen the video Gavin sent me a hundred times, but this time is different. This time, I’m watching in horror.

“Hey, Beryl. This is for you,” Gavin’s grin fills my computer screen. He moves to the bed and throws the guitar strap over his shoulder. “It’s called ‘Wilderness.’”

Gavin begins the song and I check the tally on YouTube: more than three million views. The number makes me sick, worried, angry and afraid—somehow, the private recording Gavin made for me is now public.

The look on my face as I watch the video isn’t what Dan expects. “I figured you’d be pretty thrilled that he wrote you a song,” he says, his eyebrows knit in a question. “Have you seen this already?”

I nod miserably but will myself not to cry. I feel like a private moment has been ripped from me. The special message from my boyfriend is now just a publicity stunt.

“Looks like it’s not sitting well. It’s none of my business, Berry, but if you need to take some time to—”

“Thank you.” I cut him off and grab my purse, fleeing the office.

Late morning traffic is light and I jump in a cab heading uptown. I give Raúl a tight nod in the lobby and jam the elevator button for Gavin’s apartment repeatedly.

But before the elevator reaches the penthouse level and its brass doors slide open, a different kind of distress creeps up my spine.

I don’t have any claim to that song, even though Gavin said “this is for you” on the video. Maybe I have no ground to stand on. Maybe my righteous indignation over having what I thought was a private video splashed all over the Web is totally unjustified?

The thought cools my hot head considerably.

I key in quietly and the apartment is dark, its blackout shades still down. Jasper finds me immediately and nudges at my knees, whining. I cross the living room and open the door to the terrace so he can get relief on the grass.

Next, I search for Gavin, who isn’t anywhere downstairs, though I find alcoholic evidence of some kind of party last night. I climb the spiral staircase to his master bedroom loft and feel dread sinking into my gut.

I’m sure I won’t like what I find.

Gavin is passed out on his bed in nothing but boxers, a half-dozen empty beer bottles strewn around his room. I let out a quick breath, realizing I’m relieved that there’s no one else with him.

Gavin’s face is peaceful, lines relaxed so he appears almost boyish, and I stand and stare for a moment in the dim funk of his bedroom, my eyes tracing his
reckless
tattoo.

I want to touch him. And slap him. I was full of fire when I came over here, ready to
kill
him for violating our private moment. But now I’m torn, knowing that I never really had claim to that song in the first place.

It might have been
for
me, but it wasn’t
mine
.

I shrug off my dress and climb onto the bed next to him, my fingers tracing the soft skin of his stomach. I snuggle into the curve of his body, my head tucked under his chin and I feel him stir.

My hand skates lower and he responds. Gavin’s eyes are still closed, but I feel him pull me closer.

Gavin groans and stretches as I stroke him. I smell his sweat and sour beer, but I still want him, even hung over and ripe. What is wrong with me?

I roll and straddle him, moving my hips against his. “Gavin,” I say, ready to tell him I forgive him. I’m going to have to deal with the fact that being with a rock star means having a whole lot of private hung out in public.

He scrunches his face and pries his bloodshot eyes open. The hands that were cruising up and down my thighs freeze, and his eyes narrow.

“You can’t be serious,” Gavin says, and rolls out from under me. I land in an awkward heap on the bed as he sits upright and groans again, this time more in pain than pleasure.

He stands, putting more distance between us. “What the hell are you doing, showing up here after that video?”

I blanch, feeling overexposed in nothing but panties, but I straighten my spine with a retort. “
I’m
not the one in the wrong here, Gavin. I thought that was a private moment between us. But I guess
you’re
happy with three million views.”

My sarcasm hits him like a slap and his face falls, a mixture of confusion and sadness.

“Happy? I sent that video to
you
, Beryl, not YouTube. And then my agent calls me yesterday and I find out it’s gone viral. That was never supposed to happen.”

Now it’s my turn to look confused. And so I go to him, wrapping my arms around his chest. At first he resists, but then he slumps against me. “Gavin, I swear to you that I never put your video on YouTube. I just found out it was on there this morning. My boss showed it to me. I watched your video on my phone a hundred times, but I’ve never let anybody else—”

I catch myself. That’s not true, and I feel Gavin’s body stiffen. “Except once,” I clarify. “The first time I ever saw it. I was with my friend Stella and she saw it, too.”

Gavin’s face is unreadable in the dim light, so I stay quiet, holding Gavin close to me, his chest hot against mine.

Finally, Gavin breaks the silence. “Stella Ramsey. From
The Indie Voice
, right?”

I nod, surprised that he knows details about her I don’t remember telling him.

“So how’d she get the video?”

I flash back to that night, scenes from my birthday. Doing shots at the bar, seeing Gavin sing “Wilderness” just for me, the flood of emotion, fleeing to the restroom, and Stella slipping my phone back into my purse.

She blew off that concert, I remember. She said she was going to write a different story. My gut churns as I realize she must have forwarded Gavin’s video from my phone to her own.

I ask and Gavin confirms it—Stella’s indie-paper story was picked up across multiple media outlets yesterday. As a result, Tattoo Thief’s record label is threatening breach of contract for releasing a song outside the label, which could cost the band tens of thousands of dollars.

Gavin’s band members are pissed they’ve been blindsided, and Gavin’s agent is doing damage control by booking him on a talk show.

“I’m sorry.” I stretch to my toes and bury my face against his neck, lips pressed against his pulse.

Gavin admits that the ass-chewing from his band and agent last night sent him into a funk fueled by a substantial amount of beer.

“Well, we’re through with that,” I announce, dropping our embrace and hitting the control panel for the blackout shades. Light floods into the apartment and Gavin’s eyes make a painful adjustment not helped by his hangover. “You’ve had enough pity parties and benders for the rest of your life. You can’t go on a drinking spree every time something doesn’t go your way.”

I’m chiding him but he follows me as I pull him into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

Gavin leans on the counter. “You’re right. I was hurt and angry last night. But I just blamed you. I never asked you for the whole story.”

“You made me promise. If we’re going to run, we run toward each other.” I take a step toward him and his eyes shift from worry to desire, sweeping across my body as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

I run my fingers across the edges of his tattoo. He straightens and reaches for me, hooking his thumbs in the sides of my panties as he slides them to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin says. He steps out of his own boxers and pulls me under the spray of the shower, one hand pulling my knee to his hip as he hitches me up against him. I feel the pounding heat from the water on my shoulders as I feel him harden against me.

“Let’s try not to get too mad at each other, OK?”

“It’s a deal,” he says, and kisses me like it can erase last night’s hurt and confusion.

It works. I let Gavin tilt my head back under the shower spray and move behind me, working shampoo through my hair.

“Now, I have to ask you what you’re doing tonight.” Gavin massages my scalp and pleasure radiates to my toes.

“Not much. Sounds like you have something in mind.” I hope it doesn’t involve wearing clothes.

“Fallon. I’m going on the show tonight and I want you to come. They just booked me, not the band, and I’m going to have to explain what happened and why ‘Wilderness’ got out.”

“Do you really want me there?”

“Beryl, I want you here, there, and a dozen other ways,” Gavin says, his gaze dropping to my mouth as he turns me toward him, pressing my back against the stone wall of his shower.

“What am I supposed to do there? Just sit in the audience?”

“I want you there as my girlfriend. My new inspiration,” his hands are tracing circles on my skin and my head’s getting fuzzy.

“Your girlfriend?” I struggle to stay focused as Gavin lifts me off the shower floor, wrapping my legs around his waist and turning my back to the shower spray. I feel his hardness next to my softness, the water streaming around where we’re pressed skin to skin.

But even more than this physical closeness, there’s something I need if I’m
really
his girlfriend. “I’ll come, on one condition.”

“Deal.”

“You haven’t even heard my condition.”

“Beryl, I trust you. Whatever it is, I’ll make it happen.”

I’m suddenly timid, bowled over by the sweet openness and generosity that Gavin offers me. “Will you introduce me to your friends?”

He exhales in a whoosh and he grins. “Of course. Will you introduce me to yours?”

“You want to meet Stella? After what she did to you?”

“Beryl, I just spent two months trying to forgive myself for what happened with Lulu, and the part I played in it. Stella’s easy to forgive. And she actually helped my band, even though it wasn’t the way we would have planned it. I’ll get over it. Will you?”

I nod, but it’s a lie. I’m angry that she ripped a private moment from me, and angry that she used my access to Gavin to get a story.

But Gavin’s fingers roam my body and bring me back to the man in front of me. I notice my fingers pruning where they circle Gavin’s shoulders. “Hey, Gav? How much hot water do you have? We’ve been in here a long time.”