Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (6 page)

I can’t tell whether we’re in the Friend Zone or if it’s something else. He keeps touching me, but it isn’t the lusty grope I’m expecting. He’s just … touching, and with each touch I find myself more and more attuned to his frequency.

I want him. I want to feel his hands on me beyond my knees and my feet—oh, God, does he have a foot fetish? But then, would that mean he’s into me?

My resolve to keep this journalist-to-musician interview platonic has drowned in vodka and I’m sure I have enough notes to form a cohesive story tomorrow. I pull my feet from Tyler’s hands and scoot on my knees over to where Tyler sits on the couch.

“That felt fantastic,” I purr, and I throw one knee across his lap to straddle him. My dress stretches higher on my thighs and I plant my hands on his shoulders. Tyler stills and I try to read his expression. “I don’t want you to stop.”

I don’t just mean the foot rub. I stretch my neck forward to bring my face close to his and I hear his breathing shallow. I know I have an effect on him and I move even more slowly, savoring it.

But why isn’t he responding? Instead of running his hands up the back of my thighs or grabbing my ass, his hands are still on the couch, motionless on either side of my legs.

I ignore Tyler’s hesitation and bring my lips closer to his, smelling a little beer and maybe basil from our dinner. The tip of my nose touches his cheek and I pivot my mouth, reaching for his lips.

They’re soft and yielding. I press deeper into him, my tongue teasing the corners of his mouth, my breasts pressed to his chest. I hear a noise from his throat, maybe a groan, but he hesitates.

I buck my hips and that’s the last straw—his hands are suddenly on me, sliding across my back and around my waist as he pulls me into a breathless kiss. His lips are hot and hard on mine and I want to drink him in, devour him. But in the next moment, his hands have changed course and he’s pulling me away from his mouth.

Wait—what?

“Stella. Hang on here.” I can see Tyler fighting for control and I’m struggling to breathe normally too. I’m in his lap, his arms
were
around me and I can feel his erection pressing against my very damp panties.

He shouldn’t be pushing pause right now when every sign points to play. Or fast forward! Even slow-mo, if that’s his style. But pause?

“Stop,” he commands. My hips are still moving against him of their own free will. Oh, God. Stop. That’s the kiss of death.

“Seriously? Stop?” My face is flaming with humiliation and I climb off Tyler’s lap and grab my shoes, trying to shove them on my feet as fast as possible. “Whatever you say, Tyler. At least you made up your mind. You’ve been sending mixed signals all night.”

My voice says I’m angry with him, but I’m really just mad at myself. First I decided to keep it professional, just do the story after he’d offered me access. Then his touch—it was the kneecap that did it—lights me on fire and I throw that
very sane
plan out the window.

Then I have two or three more shots to further fuck with my resolve. And then, the foot rub. Tyler has a secret weapon.

So I’m angry because Tyler pushed me past my limits, even though I was the one who climbed into his lap. I started that kiss and he ended it. That should tell you everything you need to know, and it should tell
me
to leave him the hell alone.

Tyler’s face darkens and he’s mad that I’m mad.

“Mixed signals? I was giving you what you wanted, your story, so that you wouldn’t try to dig into Beryl and Gavin’s life and get something else on them. Something ugly.”

Tyler’s statement hits me like a slap in the face. “Is that what you think I’m about?” I hear my voice rise. “That I’m going to throw my best friend under the bus again?”

Tyler’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You said it yourself:
again
. I did what I thought I should do to protect Gavin.”

My jaw goes slack, realizing Tyler was playing me to give me the story
he
wanted me to write, rather than the truth. His stupid little comments about facts being
real
and stories being
true
actually revealed his motives.

I stalk to the kitchen to grab my purse as my heels echo loudly on the wood floor. Angry tears slide down my face and I shove aside the bar stool I sat on when Tyler touched my knee with one finger. That asshole really had me going.

I stuff my notebook in my purse and turn to look at Tyler, who’s still seated on the couch, his hands buried in his hair.

“Have a nice life, Tyler,” I say, and I wish I could say something more cutting to make up for how embarrassed I feel. “I’d say it’s been fun, but I’d be lying.”

I stalk to the heavy industrial front door, twist the deadbolts and pull the wide handle. I can’t turn around and look back at Tyler, afraid of what I’ll see.

My trip down five flights of stairs is slow and painful as I limp in my stupid shoes and cling to the handrail to keep from falling. I snort up the snot in my nose from crying—I’m looking
super
attractive right now with a night’s worth of black mascara sliding down my cheeks.

Damn him. I’ve been in plenty of compromising situations after getting frisky with a bad boy, but I can’t remember one quite so humiliating. I can’t remember a time when a bad boy turned me down.

He played me.
That’s the thought that sticks in my brain. I always say, “a bad boy can’t break your heart,” because with them, you’ve got no expectations. You don’t expect roses. You don’t expect to be wooed or complimented or spooned. You don’t expect to be called the next day or taken home to mother.

And that’s what kills me about Tyler. I assumed he was a bad boy, with his tattoos and devil-may-care rocker attitude. But then, somewhere along the line, I started to think he was
good.

And it bit me in the ass.

I’m shaking by the time I reach the bottom landing, and I struggle to turn the locks on the ground-floor door. The top lock is stuck and I curse, breaking a fingernail on the stubborn metal.

More curses as I pant and push. I hear pounding behind me and Tyler descends the stairs two at a time. His eyes are red and tight and he has his phone in his hand.

“Stella. I’m sorry.” He turns his palms up and I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for. Pushing me away? If he regrets it, he makes no move to show me he wants me physically. I feel trapped but there’s nowhere to run from him.

He reaches over me and presses one hand hard against the slightly warped metal door, releasing the highest deadbolt. I want to escape into the humid night that feels heavy on my skin, but Tyler grabs my arm before I can flee.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Everything about his body electrifies mine and yet I’m fighting to get out of his grasp. My brain is still soaked in vodka and I can’t make sense of this night.

“I called you a cab.” Tyler points to the yellow cab idling at the corner. “I wanted to make sure you get home safely.”

I know I should thank him but I shake out of his grasp instead, clutching my purse as I hobble to the cab. I can handle bad boys. I can handle liars and users and cheats. But Tyler’s small, gentle gesture wrecks me. All I want to do is get away, get back to the home that is not my home, burrow under my pillow and cry.

I slam the cab door shut and give the driver my temporary address. My tears are done but the damage they wrought is still smeared across my face, so I can’t hit a bar for a nightcap to smooth the jagged feelings that threaten to strangle me.

Instead, I rummage around in my purse for tissues—none, not even a fast-food napkin—and then paw for loose change to top off the fourteen dollars I have in cash for cab fare. I’m teetering on the edge of my credit limit and I’m afraid my card might be declined.

When the cab pulls up to Neil’s apartment I tap on the glass. The meter wasn’t running and I’m nervous the cabbie’s going to try to overcharge me.

“How much?” I ask as I glance at his taxi license and try to memorize the numbers.

“It’s paid,” the driver says. “It was paid when they ordered the cab.”

Shit. Tyler’s just rubbing it in now, or trying to make it up to me so I won’t write something horrible about Tattoo Thief. I feel like such an idiot. He played me and I fell for it.

SEVEN

“So. The elephant in the room. You haven’t told me why you gave me those papers last night.” Across the table, Beryl nibbles on a thin, crispy breadstick at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that can’t decide if it’s Greek or Italian.

Oh, good. Let’s explore
another
item on my list of colossal failings. Last night with Tyler left me wrung out and sleepless until I finally drowned my nattering doubts in alcohol.

But today’s lunch is about fixing what’s broken. The two pages I gave Beryl show I trust her with my biggest and most painful secret.

One page was a court document my parents filed against the first man I ever loved. The other was a picture of an ultrasound.

“You know I transferred to the University of Oregon as a sophomore,” I start. “I spent my first year at Manser Academy, the performing arts school in San Francisco.”

“Performing arts? What was your major?” Beryl’s only known me as an aspiring journalist, but being a Broadway star was my first ambition.

“We had a visiting artist-in-residence, a hot musical director who filled in while the regular prof was on sabbatical. And when I say he was hot, I don’t just mean popular. I mean panty-incinerating, turns-every-head, Gavin- or Tyler-hot.”

Beryl raises her eyebrows when I mention the guys in Tattoo Thief, but she lets me continue.

“Dixon Ross was thirty-five and I was a freshman, but he cast me as Cinderella in
Into the Woods
and we spent a lot of time together. A lot.”

We order plates of pasta from the lone waiter, though right now I just want a shot of Ouzo. The story creeps from my mouth in rancid breaths, hidden too long inside me.

“I fell for him in every way. His looks, his intelligence, his talent. And he wanted me. I thought I was so grown up. I thought I could handle it.”

“He was your first?”

I nod miserably. “I’d always been a good girl. My parents gave me anything I wanted and I lived to be onstage, in front of the lights, to sing my heart out and bring the house down. I never needed a reason to rebel. But when I met Dixon, I was out of the house and could do anything I wanted.”

“And you wanted him.”

“Yes. I think I really fell in love with the power he gave me, the ability to perform. But he was a director to his core. It got to the point where I’d do anything he asked.”

“He took advantage of you.” It’s not a question. Beryl knows where this is going.

Like a puppeteer, Dixon used my thirst for affection to manipulate my obedience. He’d beckon me to his office with a text and take me on his desk between appointments. We even had sex on the stage one night, with the spotlights trained on us. It was exhilarating.

Our pastas arrive and I chase my ravioli around on my plate before I continue.

“It was stupid,” I conclude. “I let him do what he wanted with me and he used me. I knew we should use protection, but he told me he didn’t like the way condoms felt. And I was afraid to ask my family doctor for birth control for fear he’d tell my parents.”

“That’s why one of those pages was an ultrasound.”

“Yeah. When I went home for Christmas break, my period was way too late. I peed on a stick and it was positive. The housekeeper found the test in the bathroom trash and told my mom.”

“How did your parents react?” Beryl’s tone is calm and without judgment.

“My father had the college ship my stuff back from the dorm. My mom kept saying I’d let ‘the world’ influence my morals. When they found out who the father was, they really lost it, but I think they just wanted someone to blame.”

“I don’t understand why they sued him,” Beryl says. “The court paper looked like some kind of civil settlement. Were they trying to pay him to stay out of your life?”

“No. You know how my birthday is in November? I started college when I was seventeen. In California, that makes my affair with Dixon statutory rape. My parents threatened to press charges and ruin his reputation.”

Beryl shakes her head sadly. “Oh, Stella, I had no idea. What a mess.”

I blink back tears and tell her the rest—Dixon settled with my parents for a large chunk of money that I can’t touch until I’m twenty-five, and any hope I had of working on Broadway vanished because he’d probably blacklist me. My parents cut off tuition for Manser Academy, blaming the arts for corrupting their little girl.

“So what happened to the baby?” Beryl orders us coffees to linger a little longer. I feel guilty that I never told my best friend this. I’ve never told anyone.

“My parents put me under house arrest so I couldn’t get an abortion.”

“Did you want to keep the baby?”

“I don’t know. But not having an option was like a noose around my neck. I felt like a prisoner in my own body.”

Beryl’s eyes widen. “They forced you to have it?”

“They would have. When I complained about stomach pain, my mom didn’t even want to take me to the doctor at first, she was so afraid I would try to get an abortion. But then I started bleeding. I passed out on the bathroom floor and our housekeeper found me.”

Beryl gasps and squeezes my hand and I’m transported to that long, dark month, confined in my house and the hospital. I didn’t listen to music the entire time.

“I had an ectopic pregnancy, so they had to do emergency surgery. I think of the baby as Blue, because he was the size of a blueberry when I lost him.”

Beryl and I sip our coffees in silence, letting old secrets sink into fresh wounds. I tell her that after I healed, I got into yoga and applied to new schools. My parents didn’t want me to go far from our southern Oregon home, but when I got into the University of Oregon, I decided to get away, take out loans for the in-state tuition and work-study my way through college.

“At least I was able to make my own decisions and my own mistakes.”

“Do you regret it?” Beryl asks. “Do you think of your choices as mistakes?”