Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (4 page)

I think it’s hilarious that I’m quoting show tunes with a guy known for his hard-rocking edge, but up close Tyler seems more like a normal guy than a rock god.

Until he touches my hand. The nearness of him raises every hair on my arm, alerts every nerve ending, and fries my brain. He nearly stumps me with the line, “What do you do with a B.A. in English?” but then I remember it’s from
Avenue Q
.

Is he
trying
to distract me? The gleam in his eye tells me he is, so I fight dirty, drawing from a musical that’s rarely performed in the United States.

“Tell me it’s not true. Say it’s just a story, something on the news.” I speak the line with the syncopation of the song.

Tyler’s face is blank. He knows I’ve caught him and it’s just a matter of time before he admits it.

“Um, it was that one show, you know which one I mean. The one with the guy and the girl and the dancing and the music?” He cracks a hopeful smile and runs his hands through dark hair that’s long on top, pushing it out of his face.

“You’re wrong. There were two guys. Brothers.”

“Right!” Tyler exclaims, as if he’s picked up on my broad hint. “And one guy had a nose, right in the middle his face?”

I laugh. “You give up?”

Tyler hangs is head. “Under duress.”

“Blood Brothers,
” I say. “Willy Russell.” I stab my fork into the point of a thin slice of chocolate ganache cake and chuckle. I love to win.

Tyler’s hand darts across the table, scoops up a gob of whipped cream from the side of my plate and dots it on my nose. “Clever girl. I should have known better than to underestimate you. I hereby declare you the winner.”

I grab my napkin and wipe my face while Tyler licks his finger. The move brings another flush to my face and I gulp more water to stay cool.

Stay cool, my ass. He’s promised me a story and I’m playing a stupid lyrics game with him rather than reporting my next story.

But maybe this incongruity could be the hook?

I know this about writing about stars: readers want to see the most fantastic, otherworldly elements of stars’ lives, but they also want the nitty-gritty details to be reassured that stars are just like us.

This thought sobers me for my mission and I have to ask. “When do I collect my prize?”

FIVE

I stay quiet as desserts are finished, trying to blend into the background as I overhear bits and pieces of conversation. The sharpest and most quarrelsome come from Dave, and I finally learn why Tattoo Thief’s own record label threatened to sue the band for breach of contract.

The band can’t release songs without the label’s approval. Worse, Gavin’s song was nothing like their usual material, contradicting the brand the label is working to build. Music press speculation about a solo album for Gavin is making everyone tense, especially after his two-month hiatus.

Tyler leans close to my ear. “Do you really want to come see where we practice?” His brown eyes crinkle at the corners. He stands and I’m even more aware of how he towers over me.

“What—now?” I balk. It’s after eleven, not exactly an hour most stars give interviews. Is this a booty call?

Tyler shrugs. “Why not? Life’s short. If you don’t seize the moment, you could miss it entirely.” He plunges his long arms in the sleeves of a slim leather jacket and pushes his chair under the table. With or without me, he’s going.

“I’m in.” I can’t afford to miss this opportunity for another story about Tattoo Thief and I’m thankful I have a notebook in my purse. “Let me go say goodbye to Beryl.”

I tell Beryl I’m leaving and we make plans to meet up for lunch tomorrow to talk it out. It’s hard to look at her, quiet and kind, and to feel the depth of my betrayal reflected in her eyes. I can tell she’s still wary of me.

Gavin stands behind her with his arms wrapped protectively around her waist and I meet his ice-blue eyes. I mouth the words “thank you” and he nods slightly.

Tyler waits for me by the door. “Time to talk to the press!” he calls to his other band mates with a laugh. “I’m going to tell her all your dirty secrets, Jayce.”

Jayce scowls. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Then quit hassling me about the gig on Thursday.”

Dave’s head snaps up. “What gig?” I know he was their business manager for years and I imagine he’s still protective of their time.

“Just a guest spot.” Tyler shakes it off as if it’s nothing. “Felix asked me to play before Gavin got back.”

“Fine,” Dave mutters. “But don’t do anything that gets us blowback like ‘Wilderness’.”

I wince and feel even smaller.

“Scout’s honor,” Tyler promises. He holds up a snappy three-fingered Boy Scout salute. I mentally add it to the list of things I’ve observed tonight that are so out of character compared to what most people think of Tattoo Thief.

They’re bad boys. Rough, hard-partying, tattooed, and smoking hot. That’s the persona I’ve always seen, which is why the sensitive good-boy vibe of “Wilderness” made such waves.

Tyler pops a pair of aviator shades over his eyes and pulls me out of the restaurant to the curb, looking quickly in both directions. Is he checking for fans? For paparazzi?

He jumps into the street, raises one arm and forces a shrill whistle from his mouth. Huh. He’s hailing a cab. How—ordinary. I assumed he’d have a limo outside, but Tyler lacks the affectation of some stars who’ve made it.

Not that I get to talk to those folks much. As the second-string music reporter for
The Indie Voice
, I’m stuck with the un-famous scraps.

What’s the opposite of a rock star? A black hole? A pebble? Whatever it is, most musicians I interview haven’t made it, and many are so shamelessly self-promotional it makes me ill. They suck up to me hoping I’ll write the world’s most flattering piece about them.

I won’t. I’ve been at this for a year and I want to write an article that actually
makes
a band, but I’ll lose my credibility if I write puff pieces instead of real reviews.

A taxi screeches to a halt by Tyler and he pulls open the door, looking back at me frozen on the sidewalk. I give myself a mental prod and trip forward in my super-tall shoes, ducking into the cab and wondering if Tyler’s eyes are on my ass.

I slide over and Tyler jumps in behind me. “Tenth and West Twenty-Ninth Street,” Tyler tells the driver. I’m shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling his lean, muscled thigh against mine and smelling his leather jacket and a woodsy, spicy scent.

It makes me lightheaded.

I turn to look at him, brushing my hair out of my eyes. His aviator shades are still on and his expression gives nothing away.

“Ty—”

“Shh.” Tyler presses his index finger on my lips. “Wait ’til we get home.”

Holy smokes. His light touch shoots a current deep inside me. I’m not used to this. Bad boys, in my experience, don’t show this kind of restraint.

If this trip to the band’s practice space
is
a booty call, why isn’t he groping me? Why isn’t he shoving his tongue down my throat?

These questions swirl in my brain and mix with the kind of questions I’m
supposed
to ask for an interview, such as, “How is your sound evolving?” and “Which album do you consider your best work?” and “Tell me about your creative process.”

Tyler flips a twenty through the little window behind the cab driver and we exit on a quiet industrial street a few blocks removed from the main street bustle.

We walk west beneath yellowish streetlights. My heels are killing me and I try not to limp as I keep pace with his long-legged strides.

“Why not have the cab drop us off closer to your place?” I ask after a block.

“Because I don’t have a doorman.”

I quirk my eyebrows at Tyler and he explains: “I don’t want to take the chance that the driver recognizes me and tells someone—it would be pretty hard to keep fans away from my building. When they found Gavin’s place they were all over it and it drove him crazy. It almost got him kicked out of his co-op. That’s why I didn’t want you to say my name in the cab.”

“Oh.” I stumble and then right myself, keeping my head down, concentrating on not tripping over the uneven sidewalk in the dim light.

“Hold on,” Tyler says and extends his right elbow. I wrap my left hand around his leather-clad forearm gratefully. He rests his hand lightly on mine as we walk in silence for a few hundred feet.

“I need you to promise me you won’t say where this is in your article, Stella. Not even the neighborhood.”

Behind the aviator glasses, Tyler’s face is pinched with worry. Even though I need to keep this story real, I can give him this much.

“I’ll carry the secret to my grave.” I put my right hand over my heart.

Tyler hesitates and then nods. “I believe you will.”

At the next corner, Tyler turns down a side street but stops abruptly, fishing for keys in his pocket. We face a dingy metal door with a peeling sign that says
DO NOT BLOCK
. A few yards away, a Dumpster is shoved against the squat, square building’s brick walls. Beyond that, cars are parked along the building.

I don’t feel unsafe since I’m standing next to Tyler, but I’m disappointed that we’re not going to the über-hip practice studio I imagined.

Tyler twists keys in a series of three locks to open the industrial door, then follows me inside a stairwell with worn timbers for stairs. The walls are covered with vibrant layers of paint, some of it graffiti, and round white globe lights the size of soccer balls hang at various levels.

Tyler secures each lock behind us and the space smells of old wood, paint and newspapers. I’m afraid I already know what’s coming next.

“It’s on the top floor.”

Damn. I debate taking off my shoes but I’m sure I’d skewer a foot on a splinter or stray nail.

Tyler must have seen my face fall. He pulls off his aviator glasses and tucks them inside his jacket’s chest pocket. “Hey, don’t look so worried. I won’t make you walk all the way up. We have a freight elevator, but it’s so old that it takes forever.” He turns his back to me. “Hop on,” he says over his shoulder.

Is he for real? I’m small, but do I really want him carrying me up five flights of stairs? My face heats.

“Come on,” he coaxes. I push my purse behind me with its strap across my body, hike up my stretchy black jersey dress and put my hands on his broad shoulders.

Tyler squats and bounces me up against his back so effortlessly that I squeak with surprise.

“Hold on.” He climbs the steps fast, his broad hands wrapped under my bare legs just behind my knees. I can’t help but feel how my legs are spread, my panties pressed against the small of his back and his leather jacket.

Each bounce against his back makes my nerves more raw, my body more traitorous with desire. Did I come here for a booty call, or to write a story? Gah, I don’t know. I want them both. But I can only choose one.

I need to keep him at arm’s length. He’s a story. A subject. And as a journalist, I can’t get involved.

But as I’m riding him, I know I’m already involved. His touch to my lips in the cab. His hand pulling me through the restaurant. Tyler’s got bad boy inked all over him in each tattoo and he’s got the attention of every cell in my body.

Bad boys are just my style.

My face is flushed by the time we reach the top stair landing and Tyler’s not even breathing hard. He lets me slide off his back and I pull my dress back into place and gather my wits.

Tyler unlocks two more deadbolts in another wide metal door and ushers me inside, hitting an industrial light switch panel to illuminate the old warehouse.

I gasp as I hear the locks click behind me. This was
not
what I expected at all. The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high, crisscrossed by massive timbers. The floor is wood, worn smooth and shiny in some places. Multi-paned warehouse windows run from waist high to the ceiling and bare Edison bulbs hang down on long cords.

I follow Tyler from the front door to the kitchen in the opposite corner of the wide-open warehouse, trying to look everywhere at once. Along the only wall without windows, an open set of stairs leads up to a loft. I can’t see what’s up there, but a storage area underneath holds a couple of old bikes, random sound equipment, and a speaker missing its cover.

“Want a drink?” he asks. He gestures for me to sit on a stool behind the kitchen island’s tall bar.

“Sure. Vodka, if you have it.”

Tyler opens and closes cupboards and I glimpse a few liquor bottles. They’re not what I want, though they’ll do in a pinch. He looks in the freezer. “Lucky you. Someone left this behind.” He puts a glass on the concrete counter and pours a stingy shot.

I shoot the ice-cold vodka and put my glass back in the same spot, gesturing to him to fill it up again. The first drink warms me and the second shot revives the buzz I’d been working on at the restaurant.

If I’m not getting laid tonight, at least I can get tipsy.

“Aren’t you going to join me?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I’ll stick to beer.” He pulls a low-carb light beer out of his refrigerator and I can’t help snickering.

“Seriously? You drink that? Or is that all that’s left after your last party?” I slip my notebook out of my purse and open it on the bar. These details are what fans crave and I scribble a few notes about what I’ve seen so far.

“On the record or off, Stella?” The way he says my name snaps my head up and his eyes blaze with intensity.

“On the record. I mean, you said you’d show me your practice space for the story. Right?” I’m uncertain what he wants off the record, other than the location of this warehouse.

“Yes. I promised you that. And I’ll tell you the truth when you ask me a question. But maybe not the whole truth, not if it’s for a story.”

I frown. “Fans want to know the little things. They want to know what kind of beer you drink and what your practice space looks like. That’s what makes the story real.”

Tyler walks around the counter and eyes my scribbled notes. I fight my instinct to cover them up, letting him look so he’ll trust that I’m not going to hurt him with another story.