Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Jayce & Violet
TATTOO THIEF: BOOK TWO
TYLER & STELLA
HEIDI JOY TRETHEWAY
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Text copyright © Heidi Joy Tretheway
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
For the life I saved one day.
Alis volat propriis: She flies with her own wings.
(Oregon state motto)
ONE
I’ve never hated myself as much as I do right now.
My best friend Beryl just ran to the bathroom in tears and I’m left holding her phone as a video plays. It’s just a guy in a hotel room, playing his guitar and singing.
If you can’t/ I can
If you won’t/ I will
If you vow, I might break
But I’ll try for your sake
It takes two
It takes two
To say I do.
God, it’s stunning. Gavin Slater’s sandy hair flops forward on his face as he concentrates on a chord progression and a pang of envy churns in my gut.
Not that Beryl shouldn’t have this. She should. I want her to have a sweet, beautiful, impossibly famous rocker writing her love songs and remembering her birthday.
But I also want that for me.
Even just the remembering my birthday part. Even if he isn’t famous or beautiful.
And while I’m making a birthday wish (even though it isn’t my birthday), forget the boys. I’d be happy with a decent place to live and a boss who doesn’t send me to shitty gigs like this one, to write stories about bands that aren’t famous and don’t deserve to be.
I try to tune out the band on stage now. Playing louder doesn’t help their cause and the lead singer’s screeching makes me more uncomfortable than watching Miley Cyrus twerk.
I tune out everything except this one perfect video on Beryl’s phone that would rock the world of rock. It’s an entirely different side of Tattoo Thief’s lead singer that fans have never seen, and it’s heart-stoppingly perfect.
It isn’t fair. I’m the music journalist and somehow Beryl gained access to a band that’s been at the top of the charts for more than a year. I’ve been to two hundred and ninety-two shows since I moved to New York a year ago, and I’ve never gotten a true insider’s look at a band even half as famous as Tattoo Thief.
I glance around and Beryl’s still in the bathroom. I tap her phone’s screen a couple of times and see my last text, telling her the address of this club and to “wear something saucy.”
Before I can overthink it, I e-mail the video to myself. I need a closer look.
The journalist in me rationalizes this. I’m not stealing the video. Beryl showed it to me. And this could be a great story—the best of my career (what little there is of it).
I need another drink.
A bartender with fuchsia hair breezes by and I avoid her gaze. I wait a few minutes, then straighten to my full five-foot-not-quite-two when Grady walks by.
He’s the other bartender. And unlike Miss Fuchsia, he’ll slip me free drinks all night long. I’m still in his little black book, I think, unless he’s got a regular girlfriend now.
I clasp my arms in front of me to display maximum cleavage (not much I can make of a B-cup, unfortunately) and wink at Grady. He nods, accepting my telepathic order of a couple more shots.
It’s Beryl’s birthday and we’re doing tequila. I knocked back a few before Beryl showed up and we’ve done two together, but I barely feel buzzed. She weaves unsteadily between the tables on her way back from the bathroom.
Is alcohol or emotion getting the better of her? Her face is blotchy and tendrils of damp, curly hair hang around her face.
I motion to the shots. “Drink up, girlfriend. Looks like you got a pretty killer birthday present.”
I slip the phone back in her purse and do my shot quick, then press the other shot glass into her hand, trying to tease real joy from her weak smile.
Beryl follows my lead—lick, shoot, bite. “That was a shock.”
“No kidding. A rock star writes you a song? I’d be a basket case.” Lie. I’d be on cloud nine.
“I am.”
“So let’s go. I’m going to blow off this show for a different story. And you’ve got to be home when loverboy calls.”
***
It’s nearly midnight when I exit the subway on the Lower East Side near Neil’s apartment. I walk the last couple of blocks at a fast clip while trying not to look over my shoulder.
It’s not the greatest neighborhood and I’m small, my skirt is short, and I don’t need any extra attention.
Not to mention I feel like a thief. Which I am.
“Pretty lady, you got some change?”
I yelp when a panhandler steps out of a doorway into my path. I thought I’d lived in New York long enough to become inured to them, but this one scares me.
I shake my head, avoid eye contact, and give the shaggy-faced man in a drab olive jacket a wide berth. I listen for a sound besides my heels tapping on the sidewalk to make sure he isn’t following me.
Another half-block and I’m home. Well, the only home I’ve had for a month. When my ex-boyfriend Blayde and I split up in early June, he took off. That’s when I invited Beryl to live with me when she moved to New York, figuring we could share the rent.
Then Blayde came back and kicked me out because his name was on the sublease. Beryl got a house-sitting gig through her uncle’s company, and I convinced one of the other writers for The Indie Voice to let me stay with him while his roommate is traveling.
I should be more grateful to Neil for this temporary room, but he is by far the grossest gay boy I’ve ever met. His entire apartment is one sloppy pile after another and I’m sure he’s never cleaned a bathroom in his life.
I walk up three flights, knock, and unlock the apartment when I get no answer. That’s one of Neil’s rules, even though I live here, too. I have to knock.
I turn on the light before I step into the apartment. Once, I failed to do this and tripped over two ripe takeout boxes in the front hallway.
The living room isn’t too bad and I’m relieved. My internal debate over whether to write first or clean first is solved—definitely the cleaning—and I do the dishes, Swiffer the wood floor, wipe down the bathroom and straighten a bunch of Neil’s piles.
I’m paying
my dues for the free room this month, and I suspect Neil is being even grosser than usual.
I flop on my borrowed bed in my borrowed room. Neil’s roommate, Violet, covered her walls with black-and-white photographs, many of them nudes. They’re good—some are even great—but together they seem kind of menacing.
I pull out my laptop and my phone, concentrating on my next task—writing the best freaking story of my career. The kind of story with memorable lines that other music critics will quote. The kind of story that doesn’t just describe a superstar like Gavin Slater, it defines him.
I sift through my memory for the few details Beryl learned about Gavin while house-sitting for him. I wish I’d asked her more questions, but she struggled for answers herself. She let me see inside his penthouse, which was amazing, but she was always guarded about the guy.
I rearrange the pillows behind me, pick at a hangnail and again survey the rows of nude portraits. I’m stuck. How do I write about the real Gavin?
I replay Beryl’s video, the one Gavin made for her birthday. This is the real Gavin, I’m sure. He’s vulnerable, exposed, and screams sex appeal. I close my eyes and listen to the rasp in his voice, hear the way his mouth forms the words, feel the music as his voice rises to carry a note before he lets it fall.
I play the video twice more until I know what to write. I start by describing how Tattoo Thief’s music has a driving, predatory nature to it, especially on their last album, Beast.
But this song is a retreat, a recovery from loss, and a promise of renewal. It’s the most honest thing I’ve heard from Tattoo Thief since their tracks became over-engineered. On Beast, you don’t even hear a unified performance, just stitched-together vocals based on the producer’s taste.
Did you know Adele sings off-key? It’s a musical embellishment called appoggiatura, an Italian term that means to lean. What Adele did with “Someone Like You” is what Gavin is doing with “Wilderness,” hitting a note on-beat but slightly off-key at first, then leaning into the melody to resolve the dissonance and reach the harmonious note.
If producers Auto-Tuned Adele, she wouldn’t sound like herself. Her song would be flat. The discord is what makes her music feel more alive. That’s how I feel when I listen to Gavin Slater perform “Wilderness.”
I read over my story, tweaking a few typos here and there, and rewriting some awkward sentences. I make the lead sentence snappier and more provocative. I wrap up the story with a song-lyric kicker.
Seven hundred and twenty-four words. That’s sharp work in a little over two hours and I’m ready to file my story.
I drop the text and video files in my email and put my bastard editor’s name in the SEND-TO field, with the subject line: Tattoo Thief’s next hit single? Exclusive video, just to be sure he opens it tomorrow.
I mean today. It’s three a.m. on Sunday and I’m unfortunately sober, but I’m high from the rush of writing. This story could go big if it’s picked up on the wire by other publishers. It could go national in a matter of hours.
My mouse hovers over the SEND key and I stop. I should close my laptop and walk away to give myself breathing room. Can I do this do to Beryl? To Gavin?
I scuttle to Neil’s kitchen and hear a snorty snore filter through his open bedroom door. I yank open the freezer and pour myself two fingers of vodka, knock it back, and then another couple fingers for good measure.
Sober feels like shit. I need to smooth down my rough edges. I take the glass and vodka bottle back to my room.
Beryl doesn’t know I forwarded that video to myself. It’s possible she’ll never even realize. And I could stop now, delete my story, and no one would be the wiser. My editor isn’t even expecting this piece.
I pour another generous shot—fuck it, two—and let vodka burn a happy trail down my throat.
The problem is that my editor is expecting something, and I don’t have an alternate story. I didn’t write about the crappy band I heard wailing in the bar because it wasn’t worth writing about.
But this is. Gavin’s video is authentic, a true musician showing raw emotion. It’s stunning, and I believe it’s something the world needs to see.
Fans will love it. I’m a fan of Tattoo Thief and seeing this video made me love Gavin that much more. It gives me hope that the band’s next album won’t be the over-processed noise that haunted some tracks on Beast.
I try to reread my story to see if it’s on the mark, but the vodka makes the letters soft and melty, as if their ink is bleeding on my laptop’s screen.
I’m convinced that if I make this video public, people will appreciate Tattoo Thief more, not less. They’ll clamber for the real stuff. It will propel the band into their next album release.
And it will help me, too. It will finally put me on the map as a serious music journalist.
Win-win. I down another shot.
I click SEND and there’s no turning back. My heart races, alive with fear. I’m afraid of what Beryl will say to me when she finds out. If she ever talks to me again.
Win-win-lose.
God. What have I done?
TWO
My story is published online Sunday evening and by Monday morning, dozens of media outlets are picking it up, from BuzzFeed to E! to Entertainment Weekly.
This should be the best day of my career.
Variety is doing a piece on the video and left three messages on my office voicemail asking for more details. They’re fifth on my list to call back, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone.
Each time a television presenter says, “In an exclusive video released by The Indie Voice, Gavin Slater sings…” I’m crying inside, terrified of the fact that this story is going viral.
It’s a boulder rolling downhill, picking up momentum and threatening to crush whatever’s in its path.
Friendship.
A thousand times today, I wish I’d waited. I wish I’d thought it through and realized how utterly stupid it was to steal the video and write about it.
But I did think it through. I rationalized the fuck out of it.
I hate myself for what I’ve done to sweet, gentle Beryl and I sink lower in my chair as colleagues stop by my cubicle with congratulations. This is the biggest story The Indie Voice has released in ages, especially because we have the exclusive.
When my boss, Heath Rhodes, stops by my cubicle, he doesn’t offer congrats. “Stella? A word?” He jerks his head toward his office and I follow him, taking a seat opposite his broad, messy desk.
“Well, that was some story,” Heath says, resting his chin on steepled fingers as his eyes linger on my cleavage. “It’s been lighting up our phones all morning. You wanna tell me where you got that video?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“Just between us, sweetheart.” His tone softens but I can still hear the edge in it. “The lawyers will be asking me some tough questions. I want to have good answers for them.”
“I didn’t steal it.” The words spill out of my mouth in a rush.
“I never said you did.” Heath narrows his eyes. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s—it’s personal. I mean, the video was made for personal reasons, not for fans. Gavin sent it to his, uh, girlfriend?” I don’t know how to describe Beryl and Gavin’s relationship.
“Gavin Slater’s having a romantic relationship with someone, and you know her?”
I nod.
Heath’s lip curls in a ruthless smile. “You can use this access. Readers will want to know if the playboy is finally settling down. Because if he is, that’s your next story. Now, what’s your connection?”
I buy time before I answer by pushing one angled edge of my cherry-brown bob behind my ear. “I don’t know for sure if she’s his girlfriend, but she showed me the video. He sent it to her.”
Heath nods, his dead eyes cold, like a shark’s. “You know her well?”
“Yeah.” Heath scowls at my minimum-information answer and I’m forced to
elaborate. “We were in college together. In the journalism program at the University of Oregon.”
“And how does a girl from Oregon catch the eye of a rock star? Does this have something to do with the fact that he fell off the map a couple of months ago?”
Heath’s getting far too much out of me and I balk. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “I guess I’ll have to see what else I can find out.”
“Wednesday. I want a follow-up story by Wednesday with more on the band. More behind-the-scenes crap, whatever you can get. More real-life stuff, because that’s what fans are eating up right now. Tattoo Thief’s a trending topic on Twitter today.”
I suppress a groan. This story has taken on a life of its own. “I’ll try.”
“No. You’ll do it, sweetheart. This story is flipping our advertisers’ buttons and that makes our publisher happy. And when our publisher’s happy…”
I finish Heath’s sentence: “Everyone’s happy. I get it. I’ll do my best.”
“Bullshit. Don’t do your best. Just do it.”
I twist my hands in my lap, waiting to be dismissed, but Heath pulls a laminated pass on a lanyard out of his desk drawer and flips it over to me.
“Don’t look so grim. I’ve also got a reward for you—you’re covering the Indie Day concert.” Heath’s tobacco-stained grin says he’s proud of giving me this.
“Thanks,” I choke out, accepting the pass to one of the biggest outdoor indie rock concerts of the summer. It’s on Independence Day, of course, so I mentally scratch my Fourth of July plans.
“Get me a story on that by noon Friday,” Heath says. “And close the door behind you.”
I’m dismissed.
***
I know I should call Beryl but I can’t bring myself to dial all ten numbers. The weight of my betrayal threatens to crush me and I leave work early on the pretense of digging up more information on Tattoo Thief.
Instead, I walk aimlessly on the High Line, an elevated park on an old rail track.
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) Page 1
