I can see it now. The tattoo says reckless.
Of course. How very Gavin Slater.
I imagine Gavin got this tattoo for himself, because the only person who can read it is the guy staring at him in his bathroom mirror each morning. I feel parts of me stir with this intimate discovery.
Shit, who am I kidding? It’s all over the interwebs.
I also see several photos of Gavin with various women, and I feel a surge of jealousy that shocks me. One woman appears most often, and she’s striking—violet eyes, jet-black hair and a heart-shaped face. In some pictures she has glorious curves; a pinup bombshell. In others, she’s a waif, her eyes even larger in her face and her cheekbones almost painfully pronounced.
I inspect my skirt that’s creased from sitting, bulging over my tummy and riding up past my pasty, stubbly knees.
Next to that siren, I feel like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
So now I know the guy is hot. I also know he’s a slob and a rock star. But most importantly, I know it’s going to take a lot of work to get his place fixed up, starting with the bags of random bills I have to make sense of.
I find a letter opener and start ripping and filing, creating tidy folders for each utility, service, and charge. Most of it is unremarkable and I pay it out of the client account—past-due dry-cleaning bills, utilities, and periodicals.
I spend most of the afternoon building files and navigating “press five to pay your bill”-type phone menus. It’s a real treat when a live person picks up, but inevitably I have to repeat a multi-digit number when the operator answers.
I book the housekeeping service for tomorrow and suspend the newspapers and magazines Gavin Slater’s not home to read.
Dan’s explained that the key to our service is going the extra mile, so I add him to a direct mail exclusion list to cut down on his junk mail. Later, I’ll go through his fridge and cupboards, toss expired food and go shopping to restock everything before he gets home.
By the time I reach the bottom of the bill pile and rip open the last envelope, I’m feeling pretty good. Even if my life is in chaos, I’ve got this guy sorted out. Not that he’ll appreciate it.
The bill I open astounds me: more than $3,500 for dog boarding. There was no dog at the apartment, but now that I think about it, I saw a stainless steel food dish near the kitchen. It just didn’t process at the time.
Did this guy just leave his dog the way he left his apartment?
I’m furious. I actually want to kill sexy-hot Gavin Slater with my bare hands. Twice.
Asshole, I mutter as I listen to a ring tone.
“Barks in the Park,” a chipper voice answers with a chorus of “woofs” and “arfs” in the background. “Can you hold?”
“Yes,” I grumble. I know I should just pay this bill and move on, but I’m secretly plotting my revenge against Gavin. Nair in his shampoo bottle? Itching powder on his sheets? On behalf of a poor little—or big—dog, I want revenge.
“Sorry about that. We’re always slammed at rush hour. What can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to pay a bill for Gavin Slater,” I start. “I realize it’s past due, but he—”
“Thank God you called,” the woman interrupts. “We’ve left messages for weeks! You’ve got to come get Jasper.”
“Jasper?”
“Your dog,” she snaps. “We were about to turn him over to animal services as abandoned. You can’t just leave a dog here forever! Our maximum boarding period is three weeks.”
Her voice sounds strangled and angry. “You didn’t even leave a number where we could reach you. What if Jasper had a medical problem? We wouldn’t have been able to authorize treatment. And leaving him here is interfering with other reservations. You are totally irresponsible.”
I snort, both indignant that she’s accusing me of torturing Jasper, and sort of entertained by the idea of being irresponsible. That is one thing I’m not. I’ve never been reckless.
If I had a tattoo like Gavin Slater’s, it would say responsible.
The woman on the other end of the phone is not placated and I doubt my snort helped.
“Let me put it this way: are you in the city?”
“In Midtown.”
“You’ve got one hour to get here or I am going to call animal services.” The line clicks. She’s hung up on me.
I move from my cubicle to Dan’s office, hanging in the doorframe while he wraps up his own call.
“How’d you do?” he asks, smiling. “Not too hard, is it?”
I shake my head. “Not too hard, though I’m going to need hardship pay for having to listen to all that hold music.” I hastily show him the files and talk him through a spreadsheet of expenses. Aware of the minutes ticking down, I get to the last line item.
“Dog boarding,” I say. “You know what that means?”
“Ten percent,” Dan quips. That’s our standard up-charge for handling people’s lives. “But you look worried. And I didn’t know he had a dog.”
“I think he left his dog the same way he left his apartment.” I say. “And now the boarding place is kicking the dog out and I have to go get him,” I glance at the clock in Dan’s office, “in fifty-two minutes.”
“And do what with him?”
“That’s what I want to ask you. I could take him to another boarding place.”
“Good luck with that.” Dan frowns. “In Manhattan, kennels have long waiting lists. Most of our clients use house sitters, who take care of the pets and plants and deliveries while the residents are out of town.”
“So what do I do with the dog? Hire a house sitter?”
Dan raises his eyebrows. “Now, there’s an idea.”
“I don’t see how we can get one in an hour.”
“I do.” He looks at me. “We already have one. You. You’re bonded through our company and doing the rest of his property management. We’ll send Gavin a message about the dog and the new arrangement, and if he doesn’t like it, we’ll switch things up. Remember, Beryl, extra mile.”
The ease with which Dan makes this decision alarms me. He’s so fluid in the way he handles problems, I admire it.
I can’t do that. I fret.
Dan pulls out the keys to Gavin Slater’s apartment and drops them in my palm. “I think we’ve killed two birds with one stone. Now you’ve got a safe place to stay—at least for a while—and Gavin’s got a house sitter. I’ve been meaning to expand Keystone’s business to include specialty services like this.”
I still look skeptical, worry wrinkling my face.
“Beryl. It’ll be fine. Lighten up.” Dan grins again and his optimism is contagious. I grab my messenger bag and head out to the street, bound for Barks in the Park.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Huge glass windows showcase what feels like hundreds of dogs, bouncing, sniffing, barking and playing. Barks in the Park has an indoor-outdoor setup, with mutts roaming freely from a fenced outdoor play space to an indoor area behind a high counter. I open the door and a bell rings, setting off waves of excited barking.
A woman in a denim shirt with rolled sleeves and hipster glasses approaches the counter. “I’m here to pick up a dog,” I say, and she doesn’t blink.
I struggle to remember the dog’s name. “Jasper?”
“You made it.” Her eyes narrow and she stares at me as if I spent my morning tormenting puppies.
I give her a company check for the jaw-dropping boarding fee. She scowls and gets a form from her file for me to sign.
“Jasper!” she calls, and a half-dozen dogs come. I wonder who it will be—the black standard poodle? The glossy golden retriever? I pray it won’t be the tiny toy Chihuahua—it would be too embarrassing walking that dog and picking up its crap with a tissue.
Angry Dog Lady reaches into the pack and retrieves an auburn-and-white dog with triangular ears that stick straight up. He has white socks, a white stomach and very short hair. His coiled tail sits like a donut right on his butt.
> “He’s all yours,” she says and drops a leash in my hand. I’m grateful that Jasper isn’t too big to handle; he has a slim body like a deer but his head barely reaches my knees.
I stumble out to the street as Jasper tows me eagerly toward new smells beyond the confines of the kennel.
I feel the way I imagine a new mom feels when her brand-new baby is thrust into her arms for the first time. Only, I didn’t ask for this. I haven’t been planning it for nine months.
And I don’t even know where to start—my mom’s apartment didn’t take dogs and she’s allergic to cats. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a pet was a rabbit in my third-grade classroom.
Jasper tugs me up the street despite the fact that I probably outweigh his scant twenty pounds seven to one. I’m tired, my laptop weighs heavily in my messenger bag and my feet ache from this new walkathon that is New York City. I thought Oregonians were so darned healthy, but New Yorkers walk everywhere.
Jasper and I cut through Central Park on our way to The Gavin Slater’s apartment. Now that I know who he is, I can only think of him as The Gavin Slater. He’s an abstraction, an image, more of a product than a person. He’s the bad-boy rocker whose flame burned bright, but he disappeared off the map with equal abruptness.
Jasper and I walk deeper into the park. Something about the trees and the verdant stillness of The Pond calms me. It’s like I’m back in Eugene, walking along a path that edges the Willamette River. It gives me breathing room and I can finally think.
Stella’s apartment is a no-go. She kept up the text campaign this morning until I finally replied with “I’ll call you after work,” to make her stop, but I still don’t know what I’m going to say to her.
I wonder if I’ll even get my rent money back? After my run-in with Blayde, I doubt it.
At least housesitting for The Gavin Slater buys me time to find somewhere else. I’ve got his keys, I’ve got his dog—moving in is practically a requirement to take care of his screwed-up life. Once again, I find myself astounded by his utter lack of responsibility.
Who raised this caveman?
I steer Jasper to the crappy hotel and skip past the front desk clerk so she doesn’t see me with a dog. I pack quickly and glare at Jasper as he hops up on the bed and curls into a perfectly round dog-bagel. He covers his nose with his paw.
No respect.
Like owner, like dog.
I buckle on my camping backpack and bump my fifty-pound suitcase (which I am coming to think of as That Bitch) over the doorsill and out through the lobby, dropping my cardkey on the front desk.
“You can’t bring your dog in here!” the clerk is indignant, as if I’ve just trespassed on her grave.
“Not my dog,” I sass back. “He’s just along for the ride.”
I leave the clerk open-mouthed and push through the double doors to the street, where That Bitch swerves wildly as I navigate uneven sidewalks, curbs, brick-covered tree planters, and bags of garbage. To his credit, Jasper doesn’t yank on his leash much.
Good boy. Maybe there’s hope for Jasper, even if not for his owner.
I can’t get a taxi because I’ve got Jasper. I can’t take the subway, and anyway I don’t relish hauling That Bitch down subway stairs. So I walk every last block to Gavin’s apartment on the Upper West Side. By the time the immaculate doorman sees me huffing and puffing, I’m not sure if the squishy liquid in my shoes is sweat or blood.
“Well, hello Jasper, we’ve missed you!” the man’s rich baritone is strong and warm, maybe a distant cousin of James Earl Jones. “And who is your beautiful lady-friend?”
Smiling broadly with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, the doorman takes That Bitch and I see his nametag: Charles.
“You must be a friend of Mr. Slater’s. Can I help you up to his apartment?”
He reaches for my camping backpack and I nearly cry with happiness.
“I was actually here earlier, sorting out some of his things. With Keystone Property Management,” I wheeze.
“Of course,” he says as he walks me across the marble-tiled lobby. “I saw it in the log.” He leans across the reception desk to sign me in again and hands me a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge tucked behind the desk.
“Not to be forward, Charles, but I think I love you.” I guzzle half the bottle in the few seconds it takes for the elevator to arrive.
“And I love you, too, Ms. Sutton,” he says. “For breaking Jasper out of jail, and for taking care of Mr. Slater. We’re pals.”
I don’t ask, but I think he means the dog, not the rock star.
I unlock Gavin’s apartment and again I’m hit with that smell—mildew, old garbage, rancid food, leftover beer, and ashtrays. Charles seems not to notice, unhitching Jasper from his leash and filling one of the two stainless bowls on the kitchen floor with water. Jasper laps it up like a cat.
“Where would you like the suitcase?” he asks.
I shrug—I have no idea yet where I’m sleeping, or even if I can find clean sheets in this nasty mess. But there are a bunch of rooms I still haven’t explored, so I tell him to just leave That Bitch in the foyer for now.
“Do you—” he starts, and fidgets. “Do you have any news on when Mr. Slater might be back from his trip?”
“I don’t even know where he is,” I admit. “But I’m taking care of this …” Hellhole? Dump? Glorious untouchable penthouse that some ridiculously irresponsible rock star takes for granted? “… place, and Jasper, until he gets home.”
“Well, you let me know what I can do to make you feel welcome.” Charles’ eyes smile kindly. “I’ll help you any way I can.”
And just like that, I’ve made my first new friend in New York.
CHAPTER NINE
The only things I did on my first trip to Gavin’s apartment were empty the trash and pile up some laundry. It’s still a pigsty, and for a moment I wonder if the Bedbug Motel is cleaner.
The good news is that a housekeeping team is due tomorrow morning. The bad news is that I have to sleep here tonight.
The kitchen can wait—it’s filthy, but I don’t plan to cook. I decide to explore and push open doors to the terrace as Jasper follows me. I trip over a couple of empty beer bottles that mercifully don’t break, and then pick my way to the edge, where I look down on the city.
In this moment, I don’t think about the fact that I’m technically homeless. I don’t think about this nasty trashed apartment, last night’s horrible hotel, or why Stella colossally flaked out on me.
Instead, the city lights feed me energy and optimism. I can do this. I can work this out, figure this out, find a way. I’ve always been self-reliant; this will test those skills. And I have a new friend. And a new dog. And a new address.
“Baroo!”
I turn from the hum of traffic and city noises, startled by the funny little sound from Jasper. It’s more yodel than bark.
“You’re hilarious,” I tell him, and scratch the big white saddle mark on his neck that continues down his stomach. Other than that, he’s a rust-brown red, with a white-tipped donut tail and white paws.
At the thought of donuts, I’m suddenly starving. It’s well past dinnertime, so I consider my options. I could try to find something in this apartment, but it might be gross, or at the very least, suspicious. Do I want to eat Gavin Slater’s food, considering what a dump the rest of his apartment is?
“Baroo!”
Jasper’s yodel alerts me to the fact that he’s probably hungry, too. We scour the kitchen pantry and cupboards and deduce that Gavin is out of dog food.
Typical.
My opinion of him has gone from “irresponsible hottie” to “over-privileged ass.” He doesn’t know how good he has it, or else he’s bent on destroying what should be a really good life.
I tow That Bitch into the living room and open it, swapping my rumpled, sweaty linen skirt and blouse for shorts and a T-shirt. I bandage a quarter-sized blister courtesy of my long hike in flats and
put on cotton socks and running shoes. Finally, I hitch Jasper back up to his leash and hit the elevator button, wishing I had Dan’s company credit card with me. Gavin is so going to pay for this dog food.
Jasper and I take the scenic route to the grocery store, two extra-long blocks to find Jasper relief in a pocket-sized park. When we get to the store, I’m overwhelmed—even though it’s half the size of stores back home, it’s packed to the gills with stuff, every square inch covered in products.
I realize that moving to a new place doesn’t just mean learning a new grid of streets, like the fact that Fifth Avenue is sometimes Museum Mile and Sixth Avenue is sometimes Avenue of the Americas.
Moving means learning a new way for everything—from a grocery store’s layout to the subway system to how to walk on streets without being a major pain in the ass (hint: if you want to slow down while walking, pull over and let other people pass).
I buy a bottle of wine and the most expensive bag of designer dog food I can find to make up for poor Jasper’s incarceration. I know I should get myself some real food, but I can’t stomach the thought of cooking until Gavin’s place is sparkling clean.
It’s a good excuse to spend a little more of my dwindling savings on my ultimate comfort food: dumplings. We pick up a container of piping hot Chinese pork and shrimp dumplings at a take-out place and head back to the apartment.
Jasper and I dine al fresco on the terrace. He dives into a monster bowl of dog food—I have no idea how much to feed him—and I pig out on wine and dumplings. I give him a few bites of my dumplings because it feels wrong not to share.
“So what’s your story, Jasper?” I say out loud, even though I know this takes me one step closer to being a crazy cat lady who talks to her pets. All I know is he’s a boy. Not how old he is, how long Gavin Slater’s had him, or if he can do any tricks.
Jasper whines and cocks his head at me.
Something’s wrong.
Jasper’s nose is getting puffy and his cheeks are swollen. I get down on my knees and stroke his neck. He gurgles. His eyes are wide and fearful—is he struggling to breathe?
Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) Page 4
