Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (13 page)

I push myself off the barstool to avoid his touch and run to my space under his loft. Other than the bathroom, there’s not a shred of privacy in this warehouse, so I can’t even cry in peace. I sense Tyler observing me from the kitchen as I sit on the air mattress, pawing through clothes I don’t see, hoping desperately he won’t try to talk to me again.

I need space. I need room to think but I feel like I’m in prison under a guard’s surveillance. I try to rein in my feelings and suppress the sobs in my chest.

I’m sad and I’m lonely and I feel so fucking vulnerable that one gentle word will break me. How is it possible I can handle every other form of rejection from a bad boy—every fake
see you around
or even,
Can I call you?
—but when Tyler rejects me, it stings like salt ground deep in my wounds?

My blood boils with passion from wanting him and anger from wanting him to want me back. It’s a lost cause. He has his pick of thousands of fans who throw themselves at Tattoo Thief, so it’s no surprise he doesn’t want me.

“Stella, do you want—?”

Tyler’s voice startles me and I whirl around, my last angry thought exploding from my mouth.

“I just want some fucking privacy!” I storm past him to the bathroom, where I slam the door like a petulant child.

I turn the sink tap to freezing cold and plunge my head under it. The cold makes my scalp tingle and throb. Brain freeze.

I count to fifty, and then to a hundred. Stop. I have to stop but it’s some sick game to get me past the horror of what I’ve just done. I have no right to treat him like this, yet each drop of Tyler’s kindness is like water torture.

One more drop and I break.

One more drop and he breaks me.

I shut off the water and pull my head out from under the tap, rubbing my hair fiercely with a towel. My eyeliner swerves drunkenly down my face in wide tracks and I look like a zombie as I emerge from the bathroom.

Tyler’s absent and the lights are off. There’s a small lamp on the shelf by my bed that wasn’t there before. Its off-white shade casts enough light to guide me back to my bed. I listen but I don’t hear Tyler.

Did he go out? Or just go to bed? I can’t see up into his bedroom loft. I need to apologize but I’m too chickenshit to do it tonight.

Instead, I gulp three shots of vodka to silence the ugly voices in my head. I slip out of my clothes and into an old T-shirt, climb on the air mattress and feel it shift beneath my body.

Shame and sadness flood me, but sleep wins.

FIFTEEN

I try to be quiet as I let myself back into Tyler’s loft, but there’s a rhythmic
thunk-chink, thunk-chink
sound and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.

Morning sunshine illuminates long swaths of orange fabric hanging from the edges of the wooden loft platform. There’s movement behind the fabric and another
thunk-chink.

“What are you doing?” I stand by the front door stupidly, holding a bag of pastries. I can’t see Tyler, but I hear his voice from the other side of the rippling orange fabric.

“What does it look like?” His voice is neutral and I can’t tell if he’s still mad at me.

“It looks like a lot of orange.”

Tyler’s head pops from between two sheets of fabric and his brow furrows. “I thought orange was your favorite color?”

I shake my head. “It is. But what are you doing to the loft? I mean, why?”

Tyler steps between the fabric pieces and gestures grandly to them. “I made you curtains.”

I nearly drop my peace offering, I’m so gutted by this gesture. Tyler has every right to kick me out for being an ungrateful bitch. At what point did I get so bitter that I’d lash out at a guy who’s been nothing but good to me?

No wonder he’s not that into me.

I’m not that into me, either.

“Seriously? When did you, I mean, how did you even
think
to make this happen? I wasn’t even gone an hour.”

Tyler grins. “I told you I have neighbors who are fashion designers. Maren downstairs is a total cloth-hoarder, so I went down after you left and bribed her for a bolt of fabric and the use of her staple gun. She even helped me cut it.”

I’m stunned but I can’t fall apart again. Can’t. Won’t. I feel small for my petty outburst last night, and even smaller that he turned my tantrum into
yet another
chance to be nice to me.

I am officially crossing Tyler off my bad-boys list and adding him to a very dangerous list of good guys.

A list of one. One perfect guy who I could never deserve in a million years. Fuck.

I hold up a brown bag with a weak smile. “I tried to come up with a good apology, but there aren’t enough bakeries in Manhattan to top what you’ve done. Thank you,” I add in a small voice. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Shut it, Stella.” Tyler takes the bag dotted with tempting, buttery splotches and makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Don’t talk to me about what you
deserve
. We never get what we deserve. Only what we earn. And some grace, and some luck.”

We spread the pastries on the kitchen bar and Tyler sits next to me on a bar stool, leaving plenty of room between us. In silent agreement, we adopt the try-everything strategy for this breakfast and I make a little piggy of myself after Tyler rips each pastry in half.

They taste fantastic, especially with Tyler’s smooth, strong coffee. When Tyler leans back from the bar, I peek up at him from behind a curtain of hair that helped me avoid his gaze as we sat side by side.

“Can you forgive me, Tyler? I’m so sorry for the way I treated you last night. I—I felt so awful and I took it out on you.”

“I forgive you.” Tyler nods but looks worried. “Stella, what happened last night? Is living here so bad? You don’t have to stay.”

“Oh, no, Tyler. It was my own stupid little pity party, nothing you did. This place is great. Really. I don’t deserve—” He gives me a sharp look and I stop. “I mean, I really, really appreciate you. This. And I wish there was some way to repay you.”

Tyler’s mood shifts and his familiar playful smile returns. He taps his temple. “Hmm, I’m thinking.”

Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.

“You did say you’d give
anything
to get a story on the band. And I never held you to it.” His sly look tells me I’m not off the hook.

“More chocolate croissants?” I pretend to make a move off the barstool to fetch them but he reaches a tattooed arm out to still me. The simple touch electrifies me, shooting goosebumps from my bare wrist to my shoulder.

“No. I OD’ed on carbs already,” Tyler frowns and reaches over the bar for a small, black pouch that’s lying on the kitchen counter. “I was thinking of a tougher assignment.”

My eyes widen with alarm.

“The band’s got an event next Tuesday. Will you come with me? Usually, we just go alone, but now Gavin’s with Beryl, and Dave will take Kristina and Jayce always has a flavor of the month. It would be weird if I went solo.”

“You don’t want to go with one of Jayce’s—?” I don’t think the busty girls qualify as friends.

“No.” Tyler unzips the pouch, pops the top off a small canister, and pulls out a thin strip of plastic. I study his movements and forget he’s focused on me. His fingers still, waiting for my answer.

“Oh. I guess I can go with you. I don’t think I have to cover a gig that night.”

“Good. I need a buddy.”

That last word levels me. Buddy. I smash down my disappointment and plaster on a smile. Tyler pulls a fat blue pen from the pouch.

“What’s the event?”

“Movie premiere. It’s the next
Spider-Man
and they used one of our songs from
Beast
on the soundtrack, so they invited us.”

My eyes get huge. “Like a red-carpet thing?” I shake my head fervently. I can handle sitting through a movie, but I don’t want to be in the middle of a bunch of photographers. I thought he was inviting me to a show like the last one, something that doesn’t demand more than clean jeans.

Tyler laughs. “There’s a bit of that. Nothing too horrible. All I want you to do is sit by me and watch the movie.”

That doesn’t sound too bad. And besides, I owe him for so many things. I’m just about to accept when he adds, “I’ll buy you popcorn.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll totally go.” I laugh, letting him think I’m persuaded with food. Even eight-dollar movie popcorn feels like a luxury to me. “But I’m worried about what I should wear. I don’t have … much.”

I don’t want to admit to Tyler the true extent of what I don’t have—money, a wardrobe, or room on my credit card. I don’t have a job that pays well, a boss who treats me decently, a family that talks to me, or a boyfriend. Or even a pet fish.

I regret taking so much for granted when I lived with my parents and could afford pretty much anything I wanted.

“Don’t worry about what to wear. Kristina will call you and Beryl. She’ll work something out.” Tyler’s eyes smile at me and I feel a warm rush of pleasure. I could live in that smile.

He turns back to the bar and presses the pad of his middle finger against the blunt end of the blue pen. He touches a button—
snap
—and his eyes squint for a split-second.

He squeezes his fingertip, revealing a bright red bead of blood, and touches the bead to the plastic strip from the canister.

Tyler’s eyes lift from beneath his dark lashes and he catches me staring. He says nothing, just lets me watch.

Tyler plugs the strip into a machine that looks like a stopwatch. Numbers on its screen make him grimace. He pulls a thin green syringe and a clear bottle of liquid from the pouch.

“I didn’t want you to know, but since you’re living here, I don’t want you to find out the wrong way,” Tyler says, and it confuses me even more. “You have to know in case I’m ever acting weird. Like really weird, like drunk or something.”

“What if you
are
drunk?”

“Not likely,” Tyler shakes his head. “I don’t really do that. Besides, beer has a ton of carbs.”

“That’s why you have light beer? Why are you worried about carbs so much?”

“I’m diabetic. I have to regulate my blood sugar. And you, sweet Stella, just totally screwed it up with the pastry bribe.” Tyler smiles; he isn’t mad. He draws a long pull of liquid from the bottle into his syringe, pulls up his shirt, pinches the flesh at the side of his waist and plunges the needle in.

I gasp but Tyler shakes his head.

“Don’t freak out. It’s a really thin needle. Doesn’t hurt nearly as much as this prick.” He taps the blue pen-like lancet. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t write anything about it.”

I promise. “How—how often do you have to do that?”

“Maybe six times a day. Always before I eat, but I slacked off and didn’t do it this time.” Tyler frowns. “Not smart. It makes me feel sluggish or worse if I slack. Jayce gets on my case about it.”

I remember what Jayce told me about taking care of Tyler last night. I’ll bet this is what he meant.

Tyler zips the black pouch closed. “So, anyway, if I start acting weird, I might have low blood sugar. I just need a Sprite or something.” He grins and holds up his hands, as if to say,
No big deal.
“You can take a turn rescuing me.”

SIXTEEN

As soon as I leave the cool, air-conditioned bubble of Tyler’s warehouse loft, the sticky heat assaults me, proof that the heat wave predicted to hit New York is well on its way.

Sweat trickles down my spine by the time I reach the subway. The rest of the commuters look and smell equally ripe. Yuck.

I plop down in my cubicle and I’ve only just logged into my computer when Neil accosts me at my desk.

“You owe me lunch. Seriously. How come I couldn’t reach you last night?” His arms are crossed and he looks annoyed.

“I was at a show and had my phone off. I’m sorry you had to pack up my stuff. Did you see the bottle of wine I left you?”

“Oh. Yeah.” His snippy tone makes me a little passive-aggressive and I decide not to tell him about the poppy seed stuck in his teeth.

“Well, I’d better get to work, but I owe you for letting me stay in Violet’s room. Want to go to lunch at one?” I smile brightly.

Neil huffs “fine” and walks away. Drama queen.

I’ve barely caught up on e-mail and scheduling out shows for the coming week when Heath pops his head out of his office.

“Stella? A word?”

Why does he always say that? It sounds ridiculous.

In his office, he gestures for me to sit, yet he remains standing. I’m wearing a short-sleeved, V-neck blouse and I suspect Heath’s trying to get a better angle on my cleavage.

“I’m not going to publish the article you filed on Tattoo Thief.”

“What? Why?” Instantly I feel defensive. That was good writing. I was totally sober when I edited it.

“Too soft. I asked for a story about playboy Gavin settling down, and you gave me a puff piece about a loft practice space. This isn’t
Better Homes and Gardens
, honey. At a minimum, I need you to punch this up, add some more grit, especially after all that stuff about Gavin’s muse overdosing. What else can you get on the band? What kind of access do you have?”

I squirm in my chair, terrified of answering that question. If Heath knew I was
living
with a member of Tattoo Thief, he’d shit and fall back in it. He’d sign me up for an exposé and demand I go through Tyler’s underwear drawer.

And he’d rationalize it because Tyler
knew
I was a journalist when he took me in.

“I barely know the band. But if I ask, I might be able to see them practice.” I’m walking a fine line here. What I’ve said to Heath is technically true, but it conceals my real access.

If he found out I was holding out on him, he’d find a hundred reasons to fire me. And then I’d really be screwed.

“You’d see Tattoo Thief live?” Heath rolls this idea around in his head. “They’ve been impossible to reach for the last couple of months. Until Gavin went on
Late Night
and dropped the bomb on Jimmy Fallon. That could have been
your
story, Stella.”

I shake my head. Heath would sell a sex tape of his little sister to the media if he thought it would help him get ahead. I have to keep his expectations as low as possible so he doesn’t demand something equally awful of me.