Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (12 page)

Beryl squeezes my hand and pulls me several yards away, then turns to face me. “You look like you just swallowed a bug or something. Did Tyler say something rude to you?”

I frown. “No. It wasn’t that. He was just, uh, correcting my colorful language.” I force a laugh. “When it rains, it pours. Violet came back from her trip a day early, so Neil packed up my shit and told me I have to get out immediately.”

“So what’s the problem? You can just go to Tyler’s tonight. It’ll be fine. Come on.” Again, Beryl grabs my hand—it still smarts a bit from the fence disaster—and she tows me in her wake to Gavin, where she explains that they’ll be taking me to Neil’s, grabbing my stuff and then moving it to Tyler’s. Immediately.

I haven’t said yes to staying with Tyler. I don’t want to admit how fragile my life is, or how much I need this help.

I’m stunned by Beryl’s efficiency and how much she’s changed since she moved to New York. Gone is the shy, careful girl who overthinks everything. In a heartbeat, she made this decision for me, and tonight I don’t have the spirit to say no.

***

Beryl and Gavin let me stop at a liquor store before we go to Neil’s and I buy a bottle of vodka for Tyler’s freezer and twin bottles of wine for Neil and Violet.

We climb three flights of stairs to the apartment and a tall, gaunt woman about my age answers the door. This must be Violet. Her red hair is greasy and she has dark circles under her eyes.

“Hi! I’m Stella. I brought you this,” I say with forced cheerfulness, pushing a wine bottle at her. I hope it will ease any awkwardness about me not getting out of her room in time. Neil said he asked for her permission before I moved in, but I still feel weird about intruding.

“Thank you?” Her words end on a high note and it feels like a question. She steps back and opens the door wider, our signal to go inside.

My stuff is in a heap in the living room: a suitcase, two duffel bags, two boxes and a trash bag full of laundry. It’s the same way Blayde threw my stuff together and pushed me out, and it kills my mood.

“Is Neil here?”

“He went out for a drink with some friends.” Violet looks at Gavin more closely and knits her eyebrows. “Wait. Are you an actor?”

“Uh, no.” Gavin plays dumb and I suppress a snort.

“I recognize you. Are you one of Neil’s friends?”

“Never met the guy. Sorry.”

“Huh. You just look really familiar.” Violet sways and it looks like she’s drunk or suffering from severe sleep deprivation from her trip.

“Hey, you’re probably tired. We’ll just grab this stuff and get out of your way, OK?” I cross the room and pick up the heaviest suitcase, but Gavin pulls it out of my hands and points to the lighter duffel bags for me and Beryl to lift.

We make a trip downstairs to load my junk in the car and then come back for the rest. Violet hangs back in the corner of the room.

Before I pick up the last box, I pull my phone out of my back pocket. “What’s your number?” I ask.

“For what?”

“For your phone? I’m going to text you my phone number in case you find something in your room that Neil forgot to pack for me. Can you text me and I’ll come get it?” I don’t want to annoy this girl any further by going through
her
room to find the last of my stuff.

“Oh. Sure.” She rattles off a number and I type it into my phone. Her phone pings when I shoot her a quick message.

“Thanks. And welcome back.” I grab my last box and follow Beryl and Gavin down the stairs to the next place I can’t call home.

FOURTEEN

I’m more than a little self-conscious about the fact that one of America’s most popular rock bands is helping me move. Tyler, Jayce and Dave are waiting for us outside when the car pulls up to Tyler’s building.

Jayce must have dismissed his harem for the evening.

Beryl and I don’t get to carry much as the guys grab my bags and boxes and trudge to the freight elevator tucked behind the first-floor stairs.

Tyler slams the metal grate closed and pushes a button with the number five nearly worn off of it. With all six of us and my stuff inside, the elevator groans and creaks and takes five full minutes to reach the top floor.

No wonder Tyler prefers the stairs.

Tyler directs them to set my stuff in the storage area under his bed loft, now empty of the junk I saw there earlier. Instead, an air mattress has a stack of sheets on it and a small shelf stands empty in the corner, presumably for my things.

“See you tomorrow night,” Jayce calls to Tyler. “Welcome home, Stella,” he adds. He comes close to me, so only I can hear his voice, and I catch a strange look of apprehension on his face. “Be good to Tyler, OK? He’s good to everyone else. He’d give you the shirt off his back. He deserves to have more good come back his way.”

I feel like he’s telling me part of a riddle and I need more clues. I open my mouth to ask, but Jayce cuts off my question.

“I can’t say more. Just—look out for him, OK? He loves to protect others, but he needs us to watch out for him.”

***

After Beryl and the rest of the band leave Tyler’s loft, I feel the silence they’ve left behind in the tiny noises remaining.

Tyler’s bare feet padding across the wood floor. The bathroom faucet running. The soft bumps of instruments removed from cases and placed in their stands. The hum of electricity from the refrigerator and the clack of the ice cube maker.

I make my new bed and unpack, spreading my things across the old quilt and sorting clothes onto the shelves. Things could be worse—they could be so much worse—but I’m sad that this is my New York life more than a year into trying to make it here.

A borrowed space, not even a room.

A roommate who doesn’t trust me and might even be repulsed by me.

A life that can be packed into a few bags and boxes.

And a past that still haunts me.

When I was a teenager, I imagined moving to New York to live a glamorous life beneath the lights of Broadway. I’m small, but Kristin Chenoweth is tiny. I knew every show’s music by heart and I was pretty confident I’d be a decent understudy to a Broadway star.

Lie. I was totally fucking full of myself.

It’s that kind of confidence that will make you believe lies. Have you ever seen the talent search agencies that come to the mall? They put up glitzy posters and promise pretty girls they can make it as actresses in Hollywood or models in New York—all it takes is one big break.

And a three-hundred-dollar photo session. And some consulting fees, acting classes, and a percentage to the talent scout. They say they’ll help you make it big, and the pretty girls believe them and plunk down their parents’ money and do the headshots and classes.

But nothing ever happens for them, and the talent scout moves on to the next mall. They’re not scouting for models. They’re scouting for suckers who will pay for their flattery.

I never fell for that bullshit.

I knew being pretty was just the ante to get in the game, which is why I spent hours before and after school at voice and dance lessons. I knew I couldn’t just be the best in my school—that was easy—I had to be the best by far.

It was no surprise that I got into Manser Academy, the Bay Area’s answer to Juilliard. I felt like it was preordained. And fate brought a hot New York theater director to be our artist-in-residence my freshman year.

While the other girls drooled over his rakish good looks and charming affectations, I drove myself to shine so he’d cast me in a lead role and ignore the traditional pecking order that gives preference to upperclassmen.

He chose me. Of course he did. But he was cut from the same cloth as those mall talent scouts, trading flattery for favors.

And I didn’t realize it until it was too late.

Tyler clears his throat behind me and I jerk with surprise, immersed in reflection and the rhythm of folding and stacking clothes.

“Stella? You OK?” He grabs the top edge of the loft platform and hangs forward.

I’m sad.
“I’m fine. It’s just been a long—month.” I drag my eyes away from his arms.

“Can I do anything to help you?”

Yes. You can hold me again.
I shake my head. This answer is impossible. His shifting moods unnerve me, swinging from aroused Tyler to repelled Tyler, from concerned Tyler to indifferent Tyler.

Right now he’s in helpful mode, but how long that will last? And which mood will replace it?

“You’ve done enough already,” I say, then backtrack when it’s clear he misunderstands me. “I mean, I’m grateful for you giving me a place to stay for a little while. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can. I just don’t want it to be—awkward.”

I use that word to sum up the turbulent chemistry between us. I’ve fantasized about him every night since we met, even though our connection always ends with him pushing me away.

I’m a sucker for punishment.

“It’s no rush, you don’t have to go right away,” Tyler says. “I like having company. It makes this place feel less empty. I know there’s not much privacy,” he gestures to the fact that my bed can be seen from the rest of the warehouse, “but you’re welcome to stay until you find somewhere that works better.”

His expression is sweet and sad and I wonder if sometimes he feels as lonely as I do. Without thinking, I stand and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest the way I did on the bridge when I called him my hero.

I feel him tense with resistance, then relax into me.

“You keep rescuing me, you know that? First from the fence, and now from sudden homelessness.” I squeeze his middle in gratitude. Even though he doesn’t want me, he’s been damned nice to me.

“Don’t forget about rescuing you from those killer shoes the night we met.” I hear the smile in Tyler’s voice as he rests his chin on top of my head.

“And from my killer editor’s demand that I write a follow-up story on Tattoo Thief.
That
saved my job.” God, I sound pathetic. “I feel like a walking disaster when I’m around you, Tyler. I wish I could tell you I actually have my shit together, but circumstances would suggest otherwise.”

Tyler pulls back from me slightly and tips up my chin with a crooked finger, forcing my brown eyes to meet his. “You’re no disaster, Stella. You’re special. You’ve got moxie.”

I snort a laugh. “Moxie? That’s a weird old word.”

“Are you telling me you’re a shrinking violet posing as a kickass girl?”

“Kickass girl. I like that. But how would you know? As far as you’ve seen, I’m a second-string music reporter who got lucky with the fact that her best friend is dating a rock star. And then proceeded to throw that friend under the bus.” The last admission brings a fresh wave of self-loathing and I hide my face back against Tyler’s firm chest.

Which smells fantastic. But I digress.

Tyler’s quiet for a few minutes and I imagine he agrees with my self-assessment. But then he pushes me away from him and his look is serious.

“Stop it, Stella. This ends now. You apologized. It’s over.” I sniffle and an enormous rumble rips through my belly.

Tyler frowns, then bends down and hoists me from the waist, my head and upper body bent over his shoulder and hanging down his back.

“Tyler! Put me down!” I laugh and kick and pound on his back but he keeps walking, ignoring my pleas.

He dumps me on a kitchen barstool and I land with an
oof
. “What are you doing?”

“Feeding you.”

“It’s after midnight.”

“I heard your stomach. When was the last time you ate?”

I can’t answer immediately, and Tyler shoots me a told-you-so look.

“I need to eat pretty often. And I told you, I like the company. So what are we going to have?”

“Cereal?”

“Simple carbs. Not good enough. We need some protein.” Tyler opens the fridge and pulls out several wrapped packages and fruit. In minutes, he assembles a little picnic spread of cheese, salami, apples, grapes, crackers and nuts, and some weird jelly I’ve never seen before.

“It’s quince paste. Try it.” He spreads some on a cracker, topping it with a bit of sharp cheddar. The salty crystals in the cheese, buttery crisp cracker and tangy sweetness of the thick jelly melt together in one fantastic bite. “You see?”

“Mmff.” I chew and nod, trying to communicate just how much I appreciate this offering. No man has ever fed me before. When I lived with Blayde, he was a fend-for-yourself guy, content to live on Frosted Flakes and the pizza place around the corner.

Tyler and I eat in silence. I sit on a stool opposite him, while he bends his long torso over the kitchen counter. It becomes a game, like a stare-down, to see who will talk first. We communicate with little signs that say,
You have the last piece of apple,
and
Here, I’ll break the last piece of cheese to share with you.

These tiny gestures affect me more than words and suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the kindness of it all. Tyler’s been nothing but kind to me—hot and cold, yes, but always kind—and it rocks me to my core.

I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t hold back the tears, so I drop my head and just let them go, hoping he will be too busy putting the plate and knife and cutting board in the dishwasher to notice.

But of course he notices.

“Stella.” He comes around the kitchen island fast, his arms open, but before he reaches me, he hesitates as if I might burn him.

Once bitten, twice shy,
I think bitterly.

“Are you OK?”

I shake my head but I can’t speak; my voice would break the dam and I’d dissolve into sobs. I feel stupid, crying so much in front of him.

And he’s been far too human in front of me. I wanted him to be an untouchable rock star. I wanted Tyler Walsh to be a hard-edged, devil-may-care bad boy, so that I could keep him at arm’s length and focus on what I needed—another story.

I refuse to look at his face, afraid his eyes will show me too much care. It’s like a drug, becoming accustomed to people caring about me, and when it vanishes I’ll be sucked into the withdrawal of despair.