Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (2 page)

Win-win-lose.

God. What have I done?

TWO

My story is published online Sunday evening and by Monday morning, dozens of media outlets are picking it up, from
BuzzFeed
to
E!
to
Entertainment Weekly
.

This should be the best day of my career.

Variety
is doing a piece on the video and left three messages on my office voicemail asking for more details. They’re fifth on my list to call back, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone.

Each time a television presenter says, “In an exclusive video released by
The Indie Voice,
Gavin Slater sings…” I’m crying inside, terrified of the fact that this story is going viral.

It’s a boulder rolling downhill, picking up momentum and threatening to crush whatever’s in its path.

Friendship.

A thousand times today, I wish I’d waited. I wish I’d thought it through and realized how utterly stupid it was to steal the video and write about it.

But I
did
think it through. I rationalized the fuck out of it.

I hate myself for what I’ve done to sweet, gentle Beryl and I sink lower in my chair as colleagues stop by my cubicle with congratulations. This is the biggest story
The Indie Voice
has released in ages, especially because we have the exclusive.

When my boss, Heath Rhodes, stops by my cubicle, he doesn’t offer congrats. “Stella? A word?” He jerks his head toward his office and I follow him, taking a seat opposite his broad, messy desk.

“Well, that was some story,” Heath says, resting his chin on steepled fingers as his eyes linger on my cleavage. “It’s been lighting up our phones all morning. You wanna tell me where you got that video?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

“Just between us, sweetheart.” His tone softens but I can still hear the edge in it. “The lawyers will be asking me some tough questions. I want to have good answers for them.”

“I didn’t steal it.” The words spill out of my mouth in a rush.

“I never said you did.” Heath narrows his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s—it’s personal. I mean, the video was made for personal reasons, not for fans. Gavin sent it to his, uh, girlfriend?” I don’t know how to describe Beryl and Gavin’s relationship.

“Gavin Slater’s having a romantic relationship with someone, and you know her?”

I nod.

Heath’s lip curls in a ruthless smile. “You can
use
this access. Readers will want to know if the playboy is finally settling down. Because if he is, that’s your next story. Now, what’s your connection?”

I buy time before I answer by pushing one angled edge of my cherry-brown bob behind my ear. “I don’t know for sure if she’s his girlfriend, but she showed me the video. He sent it to her.”

Heath nods, his dead eyes cold, like a shark’s. “You know her well?”

“Yeah.” Heath scowls at my minimum-information answer and I’m forced to elaborate. “We were in college together. In the journalism program at the University of Oregon.”

“And how does a girl from Oregon catch the eye of a rock star? Does this have something to do with the fact that he fell off the map a couple of months ago?”

Heath’s getting far too much out of me and I balk. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “I guess I’ll have to see what else I can find out.”

“Wednesday. I want a follow-up story by Wednesday with more on the band. More behind-the-scenes crap, whatever you can get. More real-life stuff, because that’s what fans are eating up right now. Tattoo Thief’s a trending topic on Twitter today.”

I suppress a groan. This story has taken on a life of its own. “I’ll try.”

“No. You’ll do it, sweetheart. This story is flipping our advertisers’ buttons and that makes our publisher happy. And when our publisher’s happy…”

I finish Heath’s sentence:
“Everyone’s
happy. I get it. I’ll do my best.”

“Bullshit. Don’t do your best. Just do it.”

I twist my hands in my lap, waiting to be dismissed, but Heath pulls a laminated pass on a lanyard out of his desk drawer and flips it over to me.

“Don’t look so grim. I’ve also got a reward for you—you’re covering the Indie Day concert.” Heath’s tobacco-stained grin says he’s proud of giving me this.

“Thanks,” I choke out, accepting the pass to one of the biggest outdoor indie rock concerts of the summer. It’s on Independence Day, of course, so I mentally scratch my Fourth of July plans.

“Get me a story on that by noon Friday,” Heath says. “And close the door behind you.”

I’m dismissed.

***

I know I should call Beryl but I can’t bring myself to dial all ten numbers. The weight of my betrayal threatens to crush me and I leave work early on the pretense of digging up more information on Tattoo Thief.

Instead, I walk aimlessly on the High Line, an elevated park on an old rail track.

On Tuesday, I’m no closer to a story about Tattoo Thief and I spend the morning at my desk trolling old articles about the band, looking for some nugget that could spark a fresh story without involving Gavin or Beryl again.

I feel like a prisoner waiting for her execution.

Neil’s on the other side of the newsroom telling a loud, animated story about his latest one-star restaurant review, and several reporters gather around him.

I hate this side of the business, being a critic, tearing down what other people create. I write honest reviews, but I always try to find something redeeming about a performance a band’s spent years honing.

When my desk phone rings I want to let it go to voicemail, but considering that I hate being on the other end, a reporter leaving a voicemail for a source, I relent to its beeping and pick it up.

“Indie Voice
. This is Stella Ramsey.”

“Stella. You’re Beryl’s … friend?” The voice is a growl, pouring ice in my veins. This is
not
a friendly chat.

My mouth drops open and I struggle to remember what to do with it: breathe, move my lips, push air through my throat. Now speak.

“Stella? Are you there?” I scramble to place the familiar rasp. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve fielded calls from publications and reporters whose names are every bit as famous as Tattoo Thief’s.

“Urg, sorry. How may I help you?” I pride myself on composure, but now I’m fumbling for easy words.

“You know what this is about. The video. Tell me what happened.” The growl is lower and so commanding that I stutter out the same comments I gave a dozen media outlets.

“Uh, I wrote a story about the video Gavin Slater made. For Beryl. It was such a good song that I thought the world needed to see it. I thought—”

I keep talking, defending the very thing I’ve beaten myself up over ever since I hit
SEND
. My thoughts snag on a critical fact:
no one
should know that Beryl is my friend.

When reporters badgered me about getting in touch with Beryl, I told them I didn’t know her last name or contact details. The only reason her first name is mentioned in my story at all is because the video begins with Gavin’s sweet, heartfelt statement: “Hey, Beryl. This is for you.”

Realization hits me.
That voice.
I feel like I’ve tripped on the bumpy yellow warning strip in the subway and I’m falling toward the tracks.

“Stop it, Stella.” Gavin Slater’s sharp tone cuts off my babble. “You
stole
it from Beryl. That was a private video between us and I don’t know how you got in the middle of it, but you had no right to take it.”

I hear his barely contained rage and I gasp for air and grasp for words. I stick with the one phrase that’s burned in my brain. “Gavin, I’m sorry. I’m so sor—” My voice breaks as I try to apologize, and I choke back a sob.

“Do you realize how badly you hurt Beryl? I’m used to the press pulling this kind of shit, taking anything they can get from me, breaking any promise of confidentiality. But Beryl
trusted
you. She said you were her best friend.”

I hear the past tense in his statement and I blubber and shake, holding the phone in a death grip.

“She didn’t even know the video was out there until it went viral. Her
boss
had to show it to her. You didn’t even give her a heads-up, like, ‘Hey, I fucked you over and stole a private moment, so be prepared.’ She thought
I
did it. The rest of the band—my best friends—thought
she
did it. And the first call I got was from Chief, our manager, screaming about our label suing us for breach of contract!”

Gavin’s voice rises with each statement and I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I never considered that Tattoo Thief’s label would be anything less than thrilled by Gavin’s video.

“And the worst part?” Gavin barks out an ironic laugh. “The worst part is I fucking blamed
her
for it, too. I thought
she
sold me out. After everything I trusted her with,
you
undermined that trust. And she knows it.”

That lands the hardest blow and I sniffle and hiccup between sobs, but I’m trying desperately to stay quiet so I don’t attract the attention of my coworkers.

Gavin draws a ragged breath. “You owe Beryl an apology. Are you ready for that?” His voice is hard and I feel panicked. What could I possibly say to her that would be enough?

“Yes. You’re right,” I whisper. I’m not sure he hears me because the line is quiet. Finally, Gavin breaks the silence.

“Good. Then we understand each other. Here’s how you’re going to make it up to her: meet us at Frankies Spuntino in Greenwich Village tonight at nine. She deserves to hear your apology in person.”

“She deserves so much more than that,” I say, and I know it’s true. She deserves better than a frenemy who steals her private moments and makes them public. A fresh wave of self-loathing hits me and I want to drown in a bottle of something strong.

“You’re right, Stella. Beryl is precious to me, but I also know your friendship is precious to her. You’ve got to make it right.”

“I don’t know how.” It comes out like a desperate sigh.

Gavin’s voice softens. “Stella. Listen to me. I’ve spent the last two months beating myself up over something I did that caused irreparable damage. I know how hard it is to ask for forgiveness, and how much harder it is to forgive yourself.”

I nod but can’t manage words.

Gavin goes on. “Let’s start here.
I
forgive you. What you did isn’t unforgivable. The trust you broke can be mended. You’ve just got to find a way to give it to Beryl and see if she’ll accept it.”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. I can’t promise that Beryl will forgive you right away, or ever. But I want you to try. She deserves it.”

THREE

I’m beyond nervous. I whisper my name to the hostess and follow her to the back of the restaurant. She opens one of the double doors to a private dining room and ushers me inside.

I gape. There are nearly a dozen people here, talking and laughing as they stand around a large table that’s set for dinner. I recognize members of the band Tattoo Thief, and at the far end of the room near the head of the table, Gavin stands with his arm circling Beryl’s waist.

She looks amazing in a tight black dress that shows off her curves. She’s deep in conversation with Gavin and her eyes sparkle as she smiles at him.

She looks like she’s in love.

I stand awkwardly by the door, my feet frozen in place even though I need to go to her and apologize. Beryl turns and her expression shifts from happiness to rage.

I want to run but Gavin catches Beryl’s arm and holds her close to him as he whispers in her ear. Her lips move angrily and her eyes dart back to me.

Gavin shakes his head and guides Beryl to sit in a chair next to him. He says a few more words and lets go of her arm, straightening up at the head of the table. He clears his throat.

Everyone else takes a seat and I follow them, choosing the last seat on the end, on the same side as Beryl. I’m thankful to be just out of her sightline as I listen to Gavin.

“This is a toast to great friends,” Gavin begins, raising his drink. “Without you guys—all of you—I’d probably still be lost. I wanted us to get together tonight to celebrate the beginning of our next album. We’re going to do the best we can do with it, and take it in any direction that feels right, but we’re
not
going to do it at the expense of each other. You have my word on that.”

I look around the table and see somber expressions of sadness and resolve. I know that a close friend of the band, Lulu Stirling, died from a drug overdose and Gavin blames himself for it.

“It’s also a toast in sincere thanks for friends who forgive. We screw up. We do stupid things. We can be selfish and hurtful and just plain wrong.”

I shrink down in my seat and I want to crawl under the table. He’s talking about me and my face is on fire. Did Gavin bring me here tonight not to apologize to Beryl, but to shame me?

“Speak for yourself!” I hear from across the table, and a tall, leanly muscled guy draws laughter from the rest of the table.

I know who that is. Tattoo Thief’s bassist, Tyler Walsh, is credited with starting the band. I keep my head down but peek at his goofy grin from the corner of my eye. As bleak as I feel, he radiates joy.

“I’m speaking from experience,” Gavin says. “I was an unbelievable jerk and I am so grateful you stuck by me. You’re the kind of friends worth having, and the kind of friend I want to be.”

Gavin offers a toast and I raise the wineglass in front of me but avoid eye contact. I don’t know if anyone else knows who I am or why I’m here. I’m afraid I’ll be run out of here as soon as they figure it out.

“The good news is, thanks to Stella, we’ve got some major demand for our first single,” Gavin adds and nods in my direction. I freeze as people around me make the connection. “The bad news is we’ve got to quit screwing around and get to work on Monday. Cheers to that!”

More toasts, and this time I can’t avoid curious glances. A woman across the table from me narrows her eyes but says nothing. Others drink and chat and I know I can’t put this off forever. I down the rest of my wine, push back my chair, and on leaden feet I approach Beryl.