Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1)

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  I head upstairs and revel in the strong, fresh smell of cleaning products. The entire apartment shines, rugs vacuumed in a perfect fern pattern, and not a single dust mote on any surface. Gavin’s white leather-and-chrome furniture looks stark and pure now that layers of grime, trash, and cigarette butts are gone.

  But his couch sits at a funny angle. It’s damaged, and I make a mental note to fix it. I also see the cleaning team has removed the dead houseplants. Another mental note: buy replacements.

  I switch to a lower-cut top, bigger earrings, brighter lipstick and my highest heels. This is New York, baby! I want to fit in with the glamorous women who seem to be everywhere, looking like polished gems next to cheap plastic tourists.

  But who am I kidding? I’m still a Girl Scout, so I stick a pair of foldable flats in my purse for when the heels get to be too much.

  I give Jasper his dinner and go meet Stella.

  The bar is half-full but the music full-blast when I enter. It’s called Perdition, maybe a take on hell for Hell’s Kitchen. I see Stella at the bar flanked by men, neither of them Blayde.

  Like I said, that girl shrugs off bad boys faster than I can change my nail polish.

  She hugs me and her perfume makes my eyes water, but I’m genuinely happy to see her. Her hair is darker, more deep red than medium brown, and it’s cut in an angular bob that looks ultra chic with her black minidress and silver-studded ankle boots.

  Stella motions for a drink for me and we push through the clog of people in the middle of the bar to back benches with overstuffed cushions. The music isn’t as loud back here so we can catch up without shouting.

  “First things first,” she says, and hands me a check—it’s all my rent money plus a hundred bucks. “I feel terrible that I forgot about your flight and that Blayde was so rude. I can’t believe you were stuck in a gross hotel.” She shudders.

  “I’ve handled worse,” I say, thinking of the decrepit apartment my mom and I shared the first few years after my dad’s death. Life insurance companies aren’t wild about private pilots and my dad put off finding a policy until it was too late. “What was so important that you forgot about me?”

  Stella’s eyes shift to the ceiling and I’m afraid she’s going to lie to me. But her face tells me she’s working up the courage to tell the truth.

  “I was kind of … wasted.”

  “All day?” I choke back my shock, trying not to channel my mother.

  Stella winces. “Well, Blayde and I got back together last Friday, and then he moved back in, and I was going to call you but I wanted to find you a new place to live first, so I called a bunch of people. But then we had a fight…”

  She trails off and knocks back her drink, then stands and signals a server for more. For a tiny person, she holds her liquor better than anybody I know, so wasted in Stella’s world means something a whole lot different than wasted in mine.

  I once saw her drink two of Jeff’s frat brothers under the table—one after another.

  “Anyway, I went out without him after our fight Saturday, and I was meaning to call you, but I had to blow off steam, you know? So I had some drinks at a club and hooked up with this guy who took me to an after-party. It was pretty wild, and sometime around dawn I just kind of passed out.”

  Stella’s words come tumbling out and she looks embarrassed. She takes the new cocktail the waitress hands her and drains half of it before turning to me.

  “I didn’t mean to. I’d planned to be home before you even got to my place, so I could work it out with Blayde and you could crash on our couch for a few days.”

  I shake my head, my anger cooling as a streak of worry creeps into my brain. This is pretty extreme, even compared to Stella’s antics in college.

  Stella’s head sinks even lower as she finishes her confession. “When I woke up, my phone was dead. And when I got home, Blayde told me I had to move out. Like, right that minute. He already had most of my stuff packed.”

  I frown at the memory of the boxes in Blayde’s living room. That was Stella’s stuff. I lean back against the padded bench and search for the right words. All I can offer is: “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry. I said you could live with me and now we’re both homeless. Will you forgive me?” Stella reaches her arm around me and we hug it out. I have to forgive her. She’s one of my only friends in New York.

  Stella tells me she’s crashing with one of the reporters at her paper while his roommate is on vacation. She takes another swig of her cocktail and then pauses. “Wait. Where are you living?”

  I explain my house-sitting gig but tiptoe carefully around the name of the client. I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone.

  “Come on, Beryl! I’m your best friend in New York. You’ve got to spill. I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

  I hesitate, then make her pinky-swear it. “You know the song, ‘Peace of Madness?’”

  “Oh my God! Of course! I have both of Tattoo Thief’s albums.” She opens iTunes on her phone and shows me the album covers. They’re striking. The first album, Feast, features a naked woman whose torso is covered strategically by sushi.

  The second album, Beast, shows the same woman’s face in profile, her naked back turned to the camera. Three parallel gashes cross her back, as if a lion took a swipe at her, and the makeup or computer graphics are chillingly realistic.

  Stella cues “Peace of Madness” and I hear the chorus from her phone’s speaker over the din of the bar.

  I’ll give you peace

  But it’s not enough

  It never was

  You want your next fix

  A peace of madness

  “So are you telling me you’re housesitting for Tattoo Thief?” Stella’s wide-eyed enthusiasm is contagious and I can’t resist spilling a few details—I’m watching a dog, cleaning up the place, and not sure when he’ll be back.

  “Which one is it?” She demands the name.

  “Gavin Slater,” I whisper, and she shrieks.

  “Gavin Slater?!?! As in, fuck me, Gavin Slater? I want to be your sex slave and I want to have your gorgeous blond babies, Gavin Slater?”

  Stella’s really lost it. “That’s the guy. I’ll admit, he is pretty hot.”

  “You’ve met him?” More shrieking, and she gulps her drink to settle down. “Hot doesn’t even cover it. He’s totally lickable. So spill. On a scale of zero to sixty-nine, how hot is he?” She wiggles her eyebrows and I laugh.

  “Seventy.” I lick my lips, but then I think Stella’s going to melt down with excitement, so I quickly assure her that no, I haven’t met him, haven’t even spoken to him on the phone, and “for all he knows, I’m a dude. Named Barry.”

  “So let me get this straight: You’re sleeping in the bed of The Gavin Slater, and letting him think you’re a guy? Honey, you’re doing it wrong. You’ve got to drop hints. Get to know him better. Let him get to know you.”

  “And then what? Let him get into my panties?”

  “Why not? When’s the next time you’re going to have a chance with a rock star?”

  Stella doesn’t say it to be mean, and I’m not offended (much). Honestly, the mention of panties has me squirming a bit, thinking about Gavin, getting hot in places that should be on ice after my split with Jeff.

  I mumble “I’ll try” to placate Stella, but on the cab ride home I have my doubts.

  Where would getting to know Gavin get me? Nowhere, other than to satisfy my morbid curiosity. And he might be so far gone and screwed up that I wouldn’t even know what to do with him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I’m getting a little obsessed with Gavin Slater because I’m living his life by proxy: his home, his dog, his stuff. I search YouTube and find a video of his interview on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon.

  “So what inspires you? What drives your music?” Jimmy asks.

  Gavin looks down at his shoes for a beat, and I can see his bi
ceps and maybe even his nipples under a thin, tight T-shirt.

  “What doesn’t inspire me?” Gavin grins, and runs a hand through his hair, spiking it even higher. “Life is music, and music is life. Music is the most important thing. And I can find inspiration in the smallest little things, like the way she sighs when she’s sleeping.”

  “She? So is there a woman driving this inspiration?” Fallon sits forward, eager for the answer, and I find myself leaning forward too.

  “It’s hardly a secret,” Gavin reaches across the host’s desk and taps a CD case with the picture of a woman, lion-scratched and bloody. I recognize the cover art for Beast.

  “So you’re taken? That’s what the ladies here want to know.” The camera cuts to a shot of the audience and I hear shrieks from Gavin’s ardent fans.

  “I’m taken by her. And I’m taken with a lot of women. Let’s not make anything too official.” Gavin smirks and I sour. Players—they’re not for me.

  One of the things I liked about Jeff was that even though his frat brothers had plenty of women, he never made me wonder if he was being faithful. Gavin’s insinuation leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  “So what’ll it take to settle you down?” Fallon nails it, the question I’m sure a million girls are asking. Including me. But a cloud passes over Gavin’s face and for a fraction of a second he looks lost.

  “Chemistry,” Gavin says, and plays another bad-boy card with the sex-charged innuendo. “And physics.”

  Fallon stutters; not much surprises him. “Physics?”

  “Yeah,” Gavin hunches forward, his elbows on his knees. It’s confession time, and I really listen. “Physics. Newton’s third law says, ‘for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.’ And that’s what I’m looking for. My opposite, and my equal.”

  I watch as Gavin’s band plays “Peace of Madness” on Fallon and scan the crowd shots for the woman on the CD cover. I don’t see her, but I do see Gavin working the mic, the cords on his neck straining, his jeans hanging dangerously low off chiseled hips. A close-up shot of his pale blue eyes arrests me.

  Finally, I close my laptop and breathe deeply, calming my racing heartbeat. Now that I’ve seen Gavin Slater in action—albeit on my laptop screen—I’m even more charged by him than before.

  But something runs deeper than sheer lust, though that’s certainly what’s got my chest heaving right now. What is it? Intrigue? Fascination?

  I can’t tell if crushing on Gavin Slater is fangirl crazy-talk or some kind of stalkerish need to know. Either way, it’s bad. I can’t understand why he’s gone from a confident player to a freak show, with a trashed apartment, abandoned dog, and scant communication with the real world.

  Where the hell is he? It makes no sense.

  I resolve to push my fixation to the furthest corners of my mind and focus on my new clients and my growing business.

  Not on fixing Gavin Slater. He’s broken.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Hey, hey, hey, let’s get this going!” A heavily tattooed, shirtless black man pushes to the middle of my subway car as the train takes off. One of his friends presses play on a boom box.

  Music thumps and a third man starts jumping—a one handed-handstand, a back flip, a front flip, all executed with unbelievable precision as the subway car rattles and shakes.

  It’s my first-ever ride on the subway and I’ve built this up in my mind as a terrifying and confusing experience. The guys jumping around freak me out a little, but mostly I’m elated. They’re spinning around a pole, bodies perpendicular to it, all muscle and grace. I’m enthralled and grinning like an idiot and scrambling to get them a dollar.

  This is a New York show.

  And I almost missed it. If I’d been Eugene-Beryl, I would have taken the time to read the subway map, study the routes, and decide precisely how I should get to work.

  But now I’m New York-Beryl. A little less ready, aim and a lot more fire. I decide “try new things” will be my motto.

  I arrive at the office before Dan and work on copy for a flier we’ll send to residents we already work with and to people who have access to those we don’t.

  I make up services we could offer if someone asked for them, such as organizing closets and pantries, dry cleaning drop-offs and pick-ups, fully stocking fridges for the residents’ return, supervising plumbers and building professionals who make repairs in their absence, and a slew of other personal-assistant type tasks.

  I imagine that these people have more money than time, so they’ll be willing to pay me to take care of details. And I realize that I’m going to need references, so I decide Gavin’s apartment makes a good proving ground. I compose a letter based on his last request.

  Mr. Slater,

  I can assure you we’ve been discreet about the state of your apartment and it has now been professionally cleaned. Additionally, we are pleased to provide our extended services in addition to your house sitting and property management package.

  This will include removal of the clothing and personal items you mentioned from the gray guest room. We are also able to organize your kitchen, pantry, and closets. We will proceed unless otherwise instructed.

  Sincerely,

  B. Sutton

  Keystone Property Management

  I hit send and head to Dan’s office to pick up new files. He tells me my second house sitting gig starts tomorrow. It’s for one of his regular clients, a woman on the Upper East Side who’s headed to Los Angeles for a few weeks.

  When do these people work?

  When I get back to my desk, I see a message from Gavin.

  I don’t care. You figure it out.

  Rude! Gavin’s abrupt reply pushes my simmering resentment to a full boil. Before my brain can reign in my fingers, I click on his email address in the right-hand side of my screen and attempt to Google Chat with him.

  Me: Mr. Slater? Are you there?

  Gavin: Who’s this?

  Me: Beryl Sutton. From Keystone Property Management.

  Gavin: I thought it was Barry.

  Me: Never mind. I want to talk to you about your place. I have some questions.

  Gavin: What kind of a name is Beryl? Are you a guy or a girl?

  Me: It’s a good name. I was named after a famous pilot who crossed the Atlantic in her airplane, solo.

  Gavin: A woman? I thought that was Amelia Earhart.

  Me: There’s more than one woman pilot in history, asshole.

  My fingers freeze over the keyboard and adrenaline shoots through me. What the hell did I just do? After all the horrible things I’ve been thinking about Gavin, that word just flew from my fingers.

  I want to bang my head on my desk. I am so screwed.

  Me: Oh my God, Mr. Slater, I am SO sorry. I did not mean to type that. I meant there are more women pilots than *Amelia.* Please forgive me!!

  Gavin: Liar.

  Me: Excuse me, sir? I am truly sorry. That was totally unprofessional. It must have been autocorrect?

  Gavin: You’re a rotten liar. You meant to call me an asshole. Admit it.

  Me: No. I meant … it’s been a rough morning. PLEASE forgive me. I don’t want Keystone to lose your business because of my mistake.

  Gavin: Look, Beryl, it’s not like I haven’t heard it before. And if you lie about it, I’m not sure I can trust you with the rest of my business.

  Me: Mr. Slater, I am very, very, very sorry I called you an asshole. I totally did not mean to offend you. (Are you very mad?)

  Gavin: No. It actually made me LOL, and I don’t remember the last time that happened.

  Me: I’m sorry. My brain is always two steps behind my mouth. Fingers. Whatever.

  Gavin: Stop apologizing. And stop calling me Mr. Slater. I’m twenty-five. Mister makes me sound like a geezer.

  Me: Yes, sir.

  Gavin: Sir sounds like I’m a drill sergeant. Just Gavin, OK?

  Me: OK. May I ask you about handling your apartment? Do I have your approval
to proceed?

  Gavin: Yes. Now you sound like a drill sergeant. How old are you?

  Me: I don’t think that’s relevant.

  Gavin: Do I need to play my asshole card?

  Me: Twenty-three. Almost. My birthday’s in a few weeks.

  Gavin: See? That wasn’t so hard. I’m pretty good at interrogation. Do you think I could make it as a spy?

  Me: You’d probably need to live a little more … subtly. Ugly yourself up. Put on a shirt.

  Gavin: ROFL. How would you know?

  Me: A mysterious invention called the Internet.

  Gavin: You’re feisty. I like that. Don’t worry, Beryl, I won’t tell on you about the asshole thing. And for the record, I’m not an asshole all the time.

  Me: I guess I don’t have much to go on. You *were* kind of an asshole to leave your apartment such a dump.

  Gavin: I have my reasons.

  Me: Name one good one.

  Gavin: No.

  Me: OK. When are you coming back?

  Gavin: Wondering when I’ll kick you out?

  Me: There is some planning needed, yes.

  Gavin: Not anytime soon. I’m in Kenya now. It’s hot as hell, and I’m drinking coffee at an Internet café in Nairobi. Hot coffee. I must be crazy.

  Me: That thought has crossed my mind. What are you doing in Kenya?

  Gavin: Looking for something. I’m not sure.

  Me: Well, look for Beryl Markham. She died a long time ago, but she grew up in Njoro in the Rift Valley and she’s who I’m named after. She trained racehorses and flew elephant-scouting missions and all sorts of amazing stuff.

  Gavin: Why’d you get named after her? Family connection?

  Me: My dad was a pilot.

  Gavin: You fly with him a lot?

  Me: No. He died in a plane crash.

  I blink hard to push back tears. I’ve been “handling” my dad’s death fine for nearly a decade, but every once in a while something unexpected shocks a round of fresh tears out of me.