Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (30 page)

Gavin’s teeth graze my neck and he tightens his hold on me. “Not long enough.”

A production assistant takes us to a green room with slouchy couches, snacks, and drinks. Signed framed headshots line the walls—celebrities past and present. I feel out of my league, but Gavin’s hand in mine reassures me. The PA promises to come back before the show starts to get me seated in the audience.

I wait nervously and watch people come and go. Gavin keeps up an easy banter. A makeup artist covers the bruise on Gavin’s face and powders him. A stylist adds a waxy product to his hair, twisting and kneading it into a rakish mess.

Gavin sees me eyeing him. “What, Beryl?”

“You look—”

“Freshly fucked?” His eyes sparkle with a hint of what we’d been doing in the limo and the stylist, eyes wide, makes a quick exit.

I blush. God bless Midtown traffic. “I was going to say hot, but that’ll do.”

“Good thing I have a new girlfriend to work out my naughty side with.” He gives me a smoldering look and I cross my legs quickly, trying not to let his randy comments send me into another hormone-induced meltdown.

The woman from wardrobe walks in and if she picks up on the sexual tension, she doesn’t comment. She approves Gavin’s choice—distressed jeans that hang deliciously off his hips and a black-on-black screen-printed T-shirt.

She gives me an up-and-down look and nods her head as if she approves of my choice as well. With Gavin’s blessing, I’m in another Lulu special—a black multi-seamed dress that sucks me in and pushes me up in all the right places.

It’s just slutty enough to be totally awesome.

A sound manager comes in and wires Gavin for a lavalier microphone, snaking it under his shirt. Gavin tunes his guitar and I realize that he’s going to
play
“Wilderness,” not just talk about it.

Before I can ask, the production assistant escorts me to the studio where I get a front-row view of the stage and the set. Most of the audience is already seated and the musicians in the band are setting up.

The show starts strong—Fallon’s monologue mocks politicians and self-destructive starlets with ease. If Jimmy knew what Gavin did to himself when Lulu died, I’m afraid Gavin would be part of Jimmy’s punch lines too.

My protective instinct kicks in and I’m wary.

Jimmy’s first guest is Kiki Kennedy, a flavor-of-the-month actress with enormous boobs, golden skin, and platinum hair. She’s poured into a tight red dress and clomps across the stage in platform shoes—she’s about as far from classy as Jacqueline Kennedy is from crass.

Kiki Kennedy titters as Jimmy asks her about steamy scenes in her new movie with a Hollywood hunk. She giggles when Jimmy asks about her party lifestyle that is well documented in the tabloids. We get a serious moment when she describes her film career start in low-budget movies, but we’re back to cotton candy and sunshine as she gushes about her new puppy, a Shar-Poo mix.

I snort. What a cliché.

But then I catch myself. I made some big assumptions about rich people when I started house sitting—that they were spoiled, thankless, reckless, and shallow. I cast judgment on a socialite, a troubled teenager, a power couple, and a rock star.

And not one of them turned out to be what I assumed. They might not want for material things, but they want the same things I want—acceptance, attention, a family, and in Gavin’s case, a second chance.

The band plays a transition to signal the next segment and I perk up. Gavin’s coming out next. He walks in holding the neck of his guitar, smiling broadly and waving to the audience.

Kiki Kennedy moves down on the couch to give him some room, but it’s not nearly enough, in my opinion. She leans in and Gavin drops an air-kiss near her cheek. Gavin and Jimmy swap a firm handshake, and then Jimmy dives into the interview.

“It’s good to have you back, Gavin. What have you been doing with yourself since Tattoo Thief’s tour ended? You look great.”

“Thanks Jimmy, you’re not too bad yourself,” Gavin grins. “I’ve gotten a lot more sunshine than my usual late-night performance schedule allows.”

“I heard that you went on a trip?”

“Yeah. I’ve been finding inspiration for Tattoo Thief’s next album. I started in Europe right after the tour, and spent time in Africa and Indonesia. I ended up in Australia last week.”

“I understand that’s where you recorded ‘Wilderness.’ Let’s take a look at the clip.”

Jimmy and Gavin swivel to view a wide screen behind them, where my precious, private birthday video plays. It cuts in at the chorus:

If you can’t/ I can

If you won’t/ I will

If you vow, I might break

But I’ll try for your sake

“That’s a pretty emotional sentiment. Tell me where this song came from.” Jimmy’s leaning forward and I see Gavin’s shoulders square.

“I was lost, Jimmy. When someone close to me died, I was partly to blame. The guilt tore me up and I ran away from everything.”

Jimmy’s mouth hangs open for a moment but he recovers. “Wait. Are you saying you’re responsible for someone’s death?”

“It was an overdose. A preventable tragedy. And I’m responsible because I didn’t do more to intervene.” Gavin’s lip trembles and I can feel how much this admission costs him. He bows his head. “I just want to say how sorry I am that I didn’t do more. Last time I was on your show I said music was the most important thing, but I was wrong. Love is the most important thing. And you can’t love someone and use them, even if they let themselves be used.”

I see the blonde starlet shrink back from Gavin.

“I used Lulu to inspire my music. She inspired ‘Peace of Madness’ and most of Tattoo Thief’s albums. She was my muse.”

“This is heavy stuff, Gavin. How did you come back from that? Did you find a new muse?”

“Not exactly. A new muse just means going from dependency to dependency like an addict. I needed a new way to be inspired. I was lost and torn up, but Beryl helped me find my way out of that wilderness. So I wrote this song for her.”

“Beryl? I thought you didn’t
do
relationships,” Jimmy teases. I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood, but it’s a real question. “Last time you were here, you told me you were taken by a lot of women but you didn’t want to make anything too official.”

“I hadn’t found the right girl. I wanted chemistry
and
physics, remember? My opposite and my equal.”

“Did you find her? Is she the Beryl from your video?”

Suddenly I’m blind, skewered by a spotlight. I squint through the beam trained on me and stare at a video camera just a few feet away, a red light above its lens confirming I’m on TV.

“Are you Beryl?” Jimmy asks me.

I panic, my jaw snapping shut as I squirm under the harsh light. What should I say? If I say yes, what’s the consequence for Gavin? What’s the consequence for me?

Before I can speak, I see Gavin crossing the stage in broad strides, coming to my aid. He takes my hand and helps me stand.

“Jimmy, if I’d known you were going to put my girlfriend on the spot like that, I would have given her fair warning,” Gavin flashes a charming grin but I hear the warning tone beneath it to the host.
Don’t cross me.

Gavin gives me a soft kiss on the cheek and then leads me back to the couch on the stage, his posture aggressive enough to prompt Kiki Kennedy to scoot over. She scowls unprettily and I want to whisper to her to stop it or she’ll get wrinkles.

Everyone sits and Jimmy refocuses. “So a lot of us have seen your video on YouTube. How did it get there?” He’s looking pointedly at me but Gavin jumps in.

“I sent Beryl the video privately but a music journalist we know thought it needed to get out, even though it’s not what Tattoo Thief normally does. So she posted it.”

I’m grateful for Gavin’s careful, factual response that doesn’t accuse Stella of stealing his song on national television. I’m angry with her, but not so mad I want to mess up her life forever.

“Can we hear it now?” Jimmy prompts, and Gavin picks up the guitar, pulling the strap over his head.

He starts the song and it sounds different. Sweeter, from the guitar’s warm tones that I feel in my chest as he plays it in person. Stronger, with a hand-picked melody that’s more dynamic than the simple strummed version on the video.

The song is growing.

Gavin’s eyes crinkle at me and I smile, forgetting the starlet at my back, Jimmy at the desk behind Gavin, and an audience of several hundred in this studio. The spotlight drowns out the visual noise so I see and hear only him.

The intro crests and Gavin murmurs, “This song is still for you, Beryl.” And then he begins.

Found lights/ found fame

Found her/ and I’m lost again

Wilderness of solitude

Got fire/ got blood

Got a bolt from above

Inspiration unlocked/ the key to what I crave

The muse

So I’m homeward bound/ and broken

And finally open/ and hoping

For you

A new home/ a new start

A new place in my heart

A new way to make my way in this dark world

Found lights/ found fame

Found you/ and I’m home again

Wilderness but not alone

If you can’t/ I can

If you won’t/ I will

If you vow, I might break

But I’ll try for your sake

It takes two

It takes two

To say I do.

Gavin plays the final chords and I’m struggling to hold back the tears that prick my eyes as I watch his face—sweet, sure, confident, and calm.

He grasps my hand and turns to Jimmy for a last banter, telling him that Tattoo Thief is going back into the studio next week, and that fans can expect more raw and unplugged songs on their next album.

I sit there, stunned, holding Gavin’s hand like a life ring. Fallon’s band strikes up and the lights retreat from us. I take a huge breath, not realizing I’d been holding it since the song ended.

“That was amazing,” I say.

Gavin brushes his lips against my knuckles. “Let’s get out of here.”

We follow four men wearing suits and secret service-type earphones as they push through an unmarked industrial door at the back of Rockefeller Center. I’m immediately blind and deaf in the sticky night, overwhelmed by camera flashes and a hundred screaming girls.

Half of them shriek Gavin’s name. The rest just shriek.

The security guards block for us, pushing back the girls as we cross the plaza from 30 Rockefeller Center to a waiting limo. Rafts of phones bob above the crowd as fans try to capture a photo of Gavin.

I keep my head down, holding Gavin’s hand in a death grip as I slink behind him. I nearly run into his back when he stops, straightens, and pulls me close against his hip. I wobble in my heels and I look up at him, wondering why we’ve paused.

Gavin’s cool blue eyes heat as he closes the distance between us, his mouth taking mine in a lusty, intense kiss. Flashes explode beyond my closed eyelids, and I hear screaming and booing.

“Smile,” he commands, and I do. He holds me tight against him, letting the security guys battle the crowd while the paparazzi swarm to get a shot of him. And me. And us.

“What’s your name?” a photographer shouts at me.

“Beryl. B-E-R-Y-L.” I’m not going to like seeing myself in print, but I’d loathe a misprint that calls me Cheryl.

“Last name?” A different photographer shouts.

“What do you do?” asks another. I cringe and quit answering questions. I’m
so
not ready for this.

Gavin waves at the crowd, flashing a rakish grin to go with his spiky blond hair and tight black T-shirt. He has bad boy written all over him.

Only I know better. I see it in the set of his jaw and the angle of his shoulders. He’s being the rock star, but he’s grounded now. After what he’s just admitted to the world, I hope his recklessness will finally be tempered by responsibility.

We reach the limo and Gavin dives at me even before the door is closed, ready to pick up our extracurricular activities where we left off before the show.

I hope he knows what he’s doing. The crazy kiss that claimed me in front of the world is sure to hit tabloids tomorrow. Gavin’s throwing explosive stories at the press like meat to lions. It’s sure to draw a larger pack and I’m afraid I’ll be ripped to shreds.

I clutch his shirt and push him away to get his attention. “Gavin! Hold on. Did you know it was going to be like that?”

“You mean Jimmy calling you out? Honest to God, Beryl, I didn’t. But you did great. And you looked fantastic when we ran to the car.”

“But that kiss?”

“I didn’t feel you complaining. Besides, after Jimmy got the spotlights on you, I just wanted to show off my new girlfriend on my terms.”

“What about mine?”

Gavin pauses, faltering. His face is pinched with worry. “Oh, shit, Beryl. I didn’t ask … I didn’t think …”

Gavin’s head is in his hands and he’s shaking it, a no-no-no that has him pulling away from me. I pull his hands from his face and force him to look at me.

“I know you didn’t, Gav. That’s part of your charm—I love that you’re spur-of-the moment. But I like to think stuff through. Overthink it, even. And I’m a little freaked out that we didn’t talk about it before you just
did it
.”

He still looks stricken so I twist in my seat and straddle him, finding his mouth for a slow, deep kiss to reassure him that I’m not angry, just frightened. I feel his pulse quicken and his hands tighten around me, a signal that we’re OK.

“Beryl, I promise that next time something like this happens, we’ll figure it out together.”

I smile. I appreciate the sentiment, but the logical girl in me snickers. Never in a million years did I imagine I’d be here, riding in a limo with a rock star. So the prospect of a “next time” for anything like this is hilarious.