I can’t believe this is happening.
But I’m a big girl. I want this. It’s a rite of passage into my new life in this new city.
I take a shuddering breath, hearing familiar chords from the radio below. Anthony reaches his hand to my breast but the voice I hear is Gavin’s.
Crashing, clawing world
Breakneck broken girl
I find you undone…
I flinch. Anthony feels it, and I see it in his face. His hand recoils from my breast as if he’s been bitten.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
He searches my face for the meaning in my lie as I try to rock my hips against him to make him forget. His hands grab my hips to still me.
Tonight
Can I give you peace?
Not a chemical release
It’s madness, sadness, spinning out with you
“Beryl, I’m a smart guy. That ‘nothing’ was something. What happened?” he asks, oblivious to the rock ballad on the radio.
“This is moving pretty fast,” I say, my eyes downcast. I’m unsettled, my chest constricting, my body too cold. “I like you—a lot—I just need to go slower. I need to go.”
I can’t keep you
Can’t tame you
Can’t fix you
Can’t blame you
Anthony is a perfect gentleman, handing me my dress and throwing on sweats as I descend the ladder. He crouches next to me on the couch, tapping the screen on his phone as I tie on my sandals and tuck my bra in my purse.
“I called a cab for you,” he says. “I hope it wasn’t something I said or did.”
“No, I promise,” my eyes stray to the radio that I desperately want to shut off or turn up to drown out the noise in my head. “You were perfect. Tonight was perfect. I’m just a little shell-shocked with everything that’s changing so fast in my life.”
Can’t rescue
Can’t bring you
Back to me
“I can understand that,” Anthony smiles and his eyes are kind. “You’re an incredibly beautiful woman, and I am more than happy to take it slow. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you.” I force a smile, wrap him in a hug that’s more friendly than lusty and give him one sweet kiss on the lips.
Reality
It hits me so hard, so come down
I’ll catch you, wherever you’re falling from
He sees me out, watches as I climb into the cab, watches it drive me away. I drag my face away from that scene, his gorgeous shirtless body in silhouette against the doorway to his apartment building.
A sob bubbles up in my chest and I let the tears flow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’m still dragging from a night of fitful sleep after leaving Anthony’s when I hear a chime that disorients me. It’s not my phone. It’s not the radio playing low in the kitchen where I’m making my breakfast and giving Jasper his.
Is it Gavin’s doorbell? I’ve never heard it before. Normally the doorman just alerts me through the intercom when Gavin has a delivery.
I take stock of my pitted-out gray T-shirt and running shorts, my messy morning hair in a hasty ponytail. It would be just my luck for the delivery guy to be cute.
I open the door and a cloud of fragrance and swirling blond hair swoops in before I have a chance to say hello.
“Where’s Gavin?” The woman’s stilettos clack on the marble tile in the entry as she advances into the apartment like she owns the place. “And who are you?”
My mouth hangs open and I’m struggling to form a complete sentence. How did she get in? The only people who can come directly to Gavin’s door are on a list. Is she on the list?
She towers over me, wearing an emerald green halter dress cut so low that it shows sideboob from every angle.
Yikes.
“Gavin’s not here at the moment, Miss—?” I wait for her to introduce herself and she purses her lips impatiently.
“You don’t know who I am?”
I shake my head, but she does look familiar. Too familiar. I realize where I’ve seen her before: in pictures with Gavin. I think she’s the model Spin noted was one of his regular dates. “S-s-sorry,” I stutter. “We haven’t been introduced yet. I’m Beryl. Gavin’s house sitter.”
Her brow arches as she inspects me like gum she’s just discovered on the bottom of her shoe. “Maya Shaw.” She says this like I should know it already and she doesn’t extend a hand to shake, as if I have a disease: ordinariness. “So where’s Gavin? Did Tattoo Thief go to Europe or something?”
“No, ah, Gavin’s taking a break for a while.” I follow Maya toward the living room and she paces like a detective at a crime scene. “He’s in Africa.”
Maya hoots, an unsophisticated sound from such a polished creature. “Africa. That’s rich. What’s he doing, feeding starving children?” I can tell from her sneer that humanitarian aid is beneath her.
I shake my head and don’t want to admit more. Even though Gavin’s gone dark, even though he probably doesn’t want to talk to me again after our last chat, I feel a deep allegiance to protect him. He needs me. “Were you expecting to see him?”
“Just dropping by for a little fun.” She winks at me and I realize she means sex. “I’ve been shooting in Fiji and Thailand and just got back.”
Jasper trots into the room to give Maya a sniff. She shoves him away with her pointy shoe so hard that he squeaks in pain or surprise. “What the fuck is Lulu’s dog still doing here? I thought that trash moved in with her dealer. Gavin’s not seeing her again, is he?”
I gather poor Jasper in my arms to pet him. My expression is cold—I so want to grab this bitch by her hair and throw her out of the apartment. But it’s clear she and Gavin have history, so I bite my tongue and stand as tall as my five-foot-six inch frame reaches.
“Lulu died. I’m taking care of Jasper until Gavin gets back. And I think you’d better go now. He wouldn’t want you here.”
Maya scowls, narrowing her eyes. “What the fuck do you know about what Gavin wants? If he were here, he’d want me. He always has.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” I hiss. Am I really going to get into it with this girl? Sure, I outweigh her bony frame, but she’s got plenty of height on me. Jasper squirms and I put him down. I wish he’d act like a mighty lion hunter or at least bark at Maya instead of his goofy yodels, but he runs from the room.
Scaredy-dog.
I decide to call for backup. I sidestep Maya and march to the door, jabbing my thumb on the intercom button.
“Yes, Miss Sutton?” I hear Raúl’s voice crackle through the speaker.
“Raúl, could you please escort Gavin’s visitor out of the building? She shouldn’t be on his approved list any longer.”
“On my way, Miss Sutton.”
Maya gapes, her green eyes on fire. “You can’t do that to me.”
“I can and I have. Get over it. Pull out your black book and dial up another booty call. I’m sure there are loads of guys who’d be happy to screw a skeleton.”
“Bitch.”
“Slut.” I smile cheerfully as she retreats to the door.
“I’ll tell Gavin about this.”
“Go for it, sister. And don’t forget to mention how you kicked his dog and insulted Lulu’s memory.”
Maya scowls and slams out of the apartment just as I hear the elevator ding to signal Raúl’s arrival. I close Gavin’s front door and lock it, heaving a sigh.
And then I smile. I’m growing a backbone. I can handle this—rich bitches, gorgeous models, whatever comes my way. I might be a New York newbie, but I’m learning fast.
If only Gavin were here to see it.
I have to go to my next house-sitting gig, but before I take a shower and leave, I sit down and compose an email to Gavin. I don’t bother to mention Maya’s visit, but it gives me sense of who he was before Lulu died.
And I think I know now who he needs me to be.
> Dear Gavin,
I want to tell you how sorry I am for the way our last chat ended. I’m sorry it ended, but I’m not sorry for what I said.
You said you want me to tell you the truth, then you get angry when I tell you the truth as I see it. Gavin, you can’t have it both ways. I want to be your friend and I want to help bring you back. But I’m not going to lie to you to do it.
Coming home won’t do you any good if you’re not ready to face the truth—even the hard parts. You can’t keep running every time things get difficult.
I want you to come back. I miss you and I miss our chats. I care about you, Gav, and I know you have the strength to find a way home.
Truly.
I’ll be here when you’re ready.
B.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I know something’s wrong even before I open the door.
I’m at a new house-sitting gig only ten blocks north of Gavin’s place, in a building that’s roughly the same age but less glitzy. The mess outside the door is my first clue—a T-shirt, several empty pizza boxes and a few beer bottles are shoved in a corner.
This wouldn’t surprise me in an apartment building like the one Stella lived in with Blayde, but I don’t expect to see it in an Upper West Side hallway. On a Wednesday morning.
I key in and the destruction inside tells me this was some party—not an epic mess of Gavin Slater proportions, but also not typical of a couple that’s away on their twentieth anniversary cruise.
I’m pretty sure the Ellisons didn’t trash their own place before leaving.
I pick my way across an Oriental rug strewn with Cheetos. A water bong sits in the center of the coffee table, and a china bowl has become a makeshift ashtray. A crystal vase is shattered in the corner of the living room, knocked from its pedestal.
I don’t even want to think about how much that cost.
I know I didn’t make this mess, but the Ellisons aren’t going to feel very good about Keystone Property Management keeping watch over their apartment if they come back to this.
I’m only supposed to visit a few times while they’re gone for three weeks—pick up the mail, water the houseplants, straighten things up, restock the fridge. So sometime between when they left on Saturday and my first visit four days later, someone got in.
Who?
From what little I know about this couple, no one else lives here.
I consider calling the police or the doorman, but I want to look around more first. Like Dan did at Gavin’s place, I take a bunch of pictures with my phone to document the damage.
Mental note to hire housekeepers.
The kitchen is a wreck of more food and booze. In one corner, there’s a makeshift bar where virtually every vomit-inducing liquor bottle is lined up. Most of them are empty. I guess I’ll be restocking their top-shelf liquor cabinet as well.
Dried-out lime wedges and the sticky remains of spilled margarita mixer signal some effort at making cocktails.
I pop my head into the office, which is mercifully untouched, and in a guest bedroom where the covers on the bed are a disheveled mess. I open French doors to the master bedroom and see a bulky lump under the red comforter. A foot protrudes from one corner.
Oh, shit.
I inhale sharply and the foot moves. A shock of wild black hair nudges its way from beneath the covers and I’m on edge, wondering if I should run. But my curiosity gets the better of me and I see a thin face covered in freckles, the young man’s eyes bleary and bloodshot.
With my phone in my hand raised as my only weapon, I muster my most authoritative voice. “Stay right where you are! I’ve called the police and they’re on their way.”
I hope and pray he won’t call my bluff. Even though I’m not sure where I stand with him anymore, I wish I had Anthony’s wall of muscle backing me up.
“How did you get in here?” the teenager’s muddy voice asks. I can tell he’s still waking up from a drink-induced coma and I catch a waft of alcohol and powerful B.O.
“No. How did you get in here?”
“I live here.”
“No, you don’t.”
He pushes himself up on his hands and I shrink back, wondering if I can take his scrawny ass if it comes to that.
Who am I kidding? No way.
I should have called the police.
“Don’t move another muscle or else I’ll spray you with pepper spray.” I back up my threat by putting my hand in my pocket as if I’m reaching for the canister, wishing desperately that I actually had one.
The teen’s eyes focus and then squint with worry. “Don’t shoot. Or spray. And don’t tell my parents.”
Ah-ha. The Ellisons have a kid. “You’re nuts. Of course I’m telling your parents. What are you doing here? Other than throwing a party and trashing the place?”
“It’s not my fault. I barely know the guys who came over.”
“But you let them in.” I feel anger building for all the parties I never threw, and all the trouble I never got into as a teenager because, between my mom and me, I had to be the responsible one.
I hear my pitch climb as I lecture him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to cop out with that lame excuse. Like it or not, you’re still responsible, buddy.”
The boy moves to sit and then puts his head in his hands, moaning. “Can you just not talk so loud?”
I lower my voice but try to keep a dangerous edge in it, the way a bad cop does in a crime show interrogation. “I won’t shout at you if you start explaining. How did you get in here?”
“I have a key.”
“But you don’t live here.”
“I live at the dorms at NYU. But it’s way nicer here.”
“Well, duh. But your parents obviously didn’t say you could stay here while they were gone.”
“I don’t exactly have a great track record.”
“Color me shocked.”
“Spare me the lecture, Miss Priss.” He gives me a cranky look and his voice rises. “I’ll bet you never pulled anything like this in your perfect little life.”
It’s clear that this outburst caused him another round of pain courtesy of his pounding, hung-over head, but my head’s buzzing with anger from his remark. “Don’t you dare make assumptions about my life. You’ve got a fancy home and rich parents and this is the way you repay them for putting you through college? I’d say you’ve got no room to talk.”
“At least your parents paid attention to you,” he mumbles.
“No. They didn’t. Because my dad died and my mom was so devastated that she curled up in a shell for, like, years. But I didn’t act like a complete jerk and trash her apartment.”
“I didn’t trash it.”
“You want me to give you the grand tour?” I stride to the bed and grab the neck of his T-shirt, feeling his skinny shoulders flinch.
Maybe I could take him. I definitely outweigh him.
He flops back on the bed in protest and throws an arm over his eyes. “God, no.” He’s silent for a minute and I wait. Finally, he peeks his eye from behind his arm. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty freaking bad. Like, spend-all-day-cleaning-it-up bad. And spend-all-of-your-allowance-to-fix-it bad. And kiss-your-next-ten-birthday-and-Christmas-presents-goodbye bad when your folks see that vase.”
“Shit. I thought I heard something break.” He groans and rolls on his side. “And we’re Jewish.”
“Whatever. Your next ten Hanukahs, then. I don’t think that vase came from Macy’s.”
“Nope.”
“Well, then. Are you just gonna be a limp-dick and lie here, or are you going to clean up your mess? Because I can tell you this kind of cleanup is not in my job description.”
Well, maybe it is for Gavin’s place, but this kid doesn’t need to know that.
The teen gives me an appraising look. “Wait a second. Who are you? You never told me why you’re in here.”
“I’m the house sitter. I’m here to water the plants—a
fter you pick out the nasty cigarette butts your friends stuffed in them.”
“A house sitter? My parents could have just had me come over to do that stuff.”
I burst out laughing. “Seriously?” I give him a look of utter disbelief and he has the decency to look a little bit embarrassed.
“They didn’t even tell me they were going out of town. I came over to do my laundry and no one was here. When I saw the cruise on my mom’s calendar, I figured—well, it’s not like they’re using the place.”
“Sounds like they don’t trust you,” I roll my eyes. “Big surprise. What’s your name?”
“Joel.”
“I’m Beryl. And it looks like we’ve got two choices here, my friend. Either you snap to it, make friends with the vacuum and get to work making your parents’ place even better than you found it, or I’m going to have to interrupt their anniversary cruise with a report.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” I raise my brow and leave the bedroom, going back to inspect the damage. It will definitely take at least a day for one person to clean up in here, and I’m awfully glad that person is not going to be me.
Unless Joel bails. But I have no intention of letting that little shit get away with this.
I hear him shuffling around behind me, heading toward the kitchen. Beneath his shaggy black hair, Joel’s dingy T-shirt and jeans hang loose on his bony frame.
Clearly, he never got around to doing laundry.
He opens the refrigerator door and chugs orange juice directly from the carton. Gross.
Joel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Beryl? Did you really call the cops?”
“No, but that’s my one and only bluff. Because if this place isn’t freaking pristine by the end of today, I will throw you under the bus so fast your head will spin.”
“But if I do what you say, you won’t tell them?”
“I can’t see any way not to. How else are we going to explain the vase?”
Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) Page 12
