Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  “Dave, chill. You’re not the manager anymore. And if Chief is mad about it, it’s on me, OK?” Tyler’s not backing down and I’m grateful, considering that something has to be on my editor’s desk by the end of the day tomorrow.

  “Be careful, Tyler,” Dave warns.

  “Screw careful. Life’s about being brave,” Tyler shoots back. His optimism rocks me and I want to feel that too. Badly.

  Tyler hoists my chair from the end of the table and brings it around to settle next to his place just in time for the entrées. We’re served family-style, with heaping bowls of fettuccine Alfredo, mushroom ravioli, braised beef, and lemon chicken piccata.

  Tyler insists on serving me heaping portions and I devour them, slipping into a conversation that doesn’t feel like an interview.

  He tells me about growing up in Pittsburgh, starting the band in his mom’s garage and struggling to make it when Tattoo Thief first moved to New York four years ago.

  But he gets far more from me, teasing out my college major, how I got my job, how I met Beryl, and even my unfortunate housing situation at Neil’s place. With each question and each bite of food—rich and flavorful food like I haven’t had in weeks—I feel my walls crumbling a little.

  I don’t know why Tyler is being so nice to me, but his cheerful presence exudes peace. The pressure on my chest that threatened to choke me when I arrived at the restaurant is lifted. I feel lighter, more whole, as if I’ve been dying of a disease and he’s found the cure.

  This is a very dangerous place to be.

  “How did you get into music?” Tyler asks, his warm brown eyes focused on mine.

  “I’ve loved it since I was a kid. I spent every cent of my allowance on music and I still remember when I got my first iPod. I stayed up all night making playlists.”

  Tyler’s slightly crooked grin appears. “Do you play anything?”

  I flush and look down at my plate. “Yeah. I took some lessons. Piano and …” I don’t really want to have this conversation.

  “And what?”

  “And voice, and violin, and tap, ballet, and jazz.” I tick off my overscheduled adolescence on my fingers. “Even some ballroom and gymnastics.”

  “Whoa. Sounds like you were insanely busy.”

  “Yeah. I did my homework in the car when my mom drove me to lessons. Sometimes I had two a night.”

  “So what happened? Do you still play or sing?”

  I shake my head quickly and the wine sloshes in my brain. I should probably slow down on it, but it’s loosened my tongue.

  “I quit. Decided to do journalism instead.”

  “Bullshit. When you were talking about your iPod, you looked like you need music to breathe. What happened really?”

  The waitress clears our plates and I’m grateful for the interruption. I sip my water and turn to Tyler. “Sounds like you’re trying to do a story on me. Which would be totally boring. What about you? Did you always plan to be a rock star?”

  He laughs, a big goofy boom that makes some of the others look up at us. “No, I started out as a drama geek. I did musicals and just picked up the bass when I was waiting around during rehearsals.”

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. This isn’t something I’ve ever read about Tyler. “Musical theater? What shows did you do?”

  “All the high school standards. Hello, Dolly, and Oliver and West Side Story. My favorite was The Music Man.”

  “Meredith Willson. I know every word,” I confess, and then shut my trap when Tyler looks at me keenly.

  “Really?”

  I nod and whisper my admission. “I did shows, too. That’s what I wanted to be. That’s why all those lessons.”

  Tyler pushes his chair back and his baritone carries over the crowd in a dramatic barbershop quartet-style warble, a familiar tune that asks how there can be any sin in sincere, or good in goodbye.

  I can’t help but grin ear-to-ear.

  Tyler trails off and he mock-bows to our audience. Jayce hoots with laughter and a few others clap.

  “You’d better watch out, Tyler,” Beryl pipes up from across the table. “Stella’s good at that game. Knows every song. Don’t bet her or she’ll beat your ass.”

  Tyler chuckles and leans closer to me. “I just heard a challenge, didn’t you, Miss Stella? You ready to go head-to-head with me?”

  My eyes widen but I know I can take him. “What are we playing for?”

  Tyler thinks for a moment and then settles on the prize. “If you win, I’ll take you to see our practice space. For your story.”

  Oh, hell yes. If I make this my next story, I won’t have to drag Beryl and Gavin into it. I feel my shoulders relax for the first time since arriving at the restaurant. “Done.”

  Tyler laughs. “That confident, are we? What will you give me if I win?”

  I’m stumped for a moment. There’s nothing I can give a ridiculously famous rock star who probably has more cash in his wallet right now than I have in my whole bank account. “If you win, I’ll take you to my favorite place in New York.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I guess you’ll just have to win to find out, won’t you?” I sass.

  The game is on and we take turns quoting lyrics in an attempt to stump each other. We go six rounds and I see his Andrew Lloyd Webber and raise him a Stephen Sondheim. He squeezes me with a Rodgers and Hammerstein but easily guesses my Jonathan Larson.

  I think it’s hilarious that I’m quoting show tunes with a guy known for his hard-rocking edge, but up close Tyler seems more like a normal guy than a rock god.

  Until he touches my hand. The nearness of him raises every hair on my arm, alerts every nerve ending, and fries my brain. He nearly stumps me with the line, “What do you do with a B.A. in English?” but then I remember it’s from Avenue Q.

  Is he trying to distract me? The gleam in his eye tells me he is, so I fight dirty, drawing from a musical that’s rarely performed in the United States.

  “Tell me it’s not true. Say it’s just a story, something on the news.” I speak the line with the syncopation of the song.

  Tyler’s face is blank. He knows I’ve caught him and it’s just a matter of time before he admits it.

  “Um, it was that one show, you know which one I mean. The one with the guy and the girl and the dancing and the music?” He cracks a hopeful smile and runs his hands through dark hair that’s long on top, pushing it out of his face.

  “You’re wrong. There were two guys. Brothers.”

  “Right!” Tyler exclaims, as if he’s picked up on my broad hint. “And one guy had a nose, right in the middle his face?”

  I laugh. “You give up?”

  Tyler hangs is head. “Under duress.”

  “Blood Brothers,” I say. “Willy Russell.” I stab my fork into the point of a thin slice of chocolate ganache cake and chuckle. I love to win.

  Tyler’s hand darts across the table, scoops up a gob of whipped cream from the side of my plate and dots it on my nose. “Clever girl. I should have known better than to underestimate you. I hereby declare you the winner.”

  I grab my napkin and wipe my face while Tyler licks his finger. The move brings another flush to my face and I gulp more water to stay cool.

  Stay cool, my ass. He’s promised me a story and I’m playing a stupid lyrics game with him rather than reporting my next story.

  But maybe this incongruity could be the hook?

  I know this about writing about stars: readers want to see the most fantastic, otherworldly elements of stars’ lives, but they also want the nitty-gritty details to be reassured that stars are just like us.

  This thought sobers me for my mission and I have to ask. “When do I collect my prize?”

  FIVE

  I stay quiet as desserts are finished, trying to blend into the background as I overhear bits and pieces of conversation. The sharpest and most quarrelsome come from Dave, and I finally learn why Tattoo Thief’s own record label threatened to sue
the band for breach of contract.

  The band can’t release songs without the label’s approval. Worse, Gavin’s song was nothing like their usual material, contradicting the brand the label is working to build. Music press speculation about a solo album for Gavin is making everyone tense, especially after his two-month hiatus.

  Tyler leans close to my ear. “Do you really want to come see where we practice?” His brown eyes crinkle at the corners. He stands and I’m even more aware of how he towers over me.

  “What—now?” I balk. It’s after eleven, not exactly an hour most stars give interviews. Is this a booty call?

  Tyler shrugs. “Why not? Life’s short. If you don’t seize the moment, you could miss it entirely.” He plunges his long arms in the sleeves of a slim leather jacket and pushes his chair under the table. With or without me, he’s going.

  “I’m in.” I can’t afford to miss this opportunity for another story about Tattoo Thief and I’m thankful I have a notebook in my purse. “Let me go say goodbye to Beryl.”

  I tell Beryl I’m leaving and we make plans to meet up for lunch tomorrow to talk it out. It’s hard to look at her, quiet and kind, and to feel the depth of my betrayal reflected in her eyes. I can tell she’s still wary of me.

  Gavin stands behind her with his arms wrapped protectively around her waist and I meet his ice-blue eyes. I mouth the words “thank you” and he nods slightly.

  Tyler waits for me by the door. “Time to talk to the press!” he calls to his other band mates with a laugh. “I’m going to tell her all your dirty secrets, Jayce.”

  Jayce scowls. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Then quit hassling me about the gig on Thursday.”

  Dave’s head snaps up. “What gig?” I know he was their business manager for years and I imagine he’s still protective of their time.

  “Just a guest spot.” Tyler shakes it off as if it’s nothing. “Felix asked me to play before Gavin got back.”

  “Fine,” Dave mutters. “But don’t do anything that gets us blowback like ‘Wilderness’.”

  I wince and feel even smaller.

  “Scout’s honor,” Tyler promises. He holds up a snappy three-fingered Boy Scout salute. I mentally add it to the list of things I’ve observed tonight that are so out of character compared to what most people think of Tattoo Thief.

  They’re bad boys. Rough, hard-partying, tattooed, and smoking hot. That’s the persona I’ve always seen, which is why the sensitive good-boy vibe of “Wilderness” made such waves.

  Tyler pops a pair of aviator shades over his eyes and pulls me out of the restaurant to the curb, looking quickly in both directions. Is he checking for fans? For paparazzi?

  He jumps into the street, raises one arm and forces a shrill whistle from his mouth. Huh. He’s hailing a cab. How—ordinary. I assumed he’d have a limo outside, but Tyler lacks the affectation of some stars who’ve made it.

  Not that I get to talk to those folks much. As the second-string music reporter for The Indie Voice, I’m stuck with the un-famous scraps.

  What’s the opposite of a rock star? A black hole? A pebble? Whatever it is, most musicians I interview haven’t made it, and many are so shamelessly self-promotional it makes me ill. They suck up to me hoping I’ll write the world’s most flattering piece about them.

  I won’t. I’ve been at this for a year and I want to write an article that actually makes a band, but I’ll lose my credibility if I write puff pieces instead of real reviews.

  A taxi screeches to a halt by Tyler and he pulls open the door, looking back at me frozen on the sidewalk. I give myself a mental prod and trip forward in my super-tall shoes, ducking into the cab and wondering if Tyler’s eyes are on my ass.

  I slide over and Tyler jumps in behind me. “Tenth and West Twenty-Ninth Street,” Tyler tells the driver. I’m shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling his lean, muscled thigh against mine and smelling his leather jacket and a woodsy, spicy scent.

  It makes me lightheaded.

  I turn to look at him, brushing my hair out of my eyes. His aviator shades are still on and his expression gives nothing away.

  “Ty—”

  “Shh.” Tyler presses his index finger on my lips. “Wait ’til we get home.”

  Holy smokes. His light touch shoots a current deep inside me. I’m not used to this. Bad boys, in my experience, don’t show this kind of restraint.

  If this trip to the band’s practice space is a booty call, why isn’t he groping me? Why isn’t he shoving his tongue down my throat?

  These questions swirl in my brain and mix with the kind of questions I’m supposed to ask for an interview, such as, “How is your sound evolving?” and “Which album do you consider your best work?” and “Tell me about your creative process.”

  Tyler flips a twenty through the little window behind the cab driver and we exit on a quiet industrial street a few blocks removed from the main street bustle.

  We walk west beneath yellowish streetlights. My heels are killing me and I try not to limp as I keep pace with his long-legged strides.

  “Why not have the cab drop us off closer to your place?” I ask after a block.

  “Because I don’t have a doorman.”

  I quirk my eyebrows at Tyler and he explains: “I don’t want to take the chance that the driver recognizes me and tells someone—it would be pretty hard to keep fans away from my building. When they found Gavin’s place they were all over it and it drove him crazy. It almost got him kicked out of his co-op. That’s why I didn’t want you to say my name in the cab.”

  “Oh.” I stumble and then right myself, keeping my head down, concentrating on not tripping over the uneven sidewalk in the dim light.

  “Hold on,” Tyler says and extends his right elbow. I wrap my left hand around his leather-clad forearm gratefully. He rests his hand lightly on mine as we walk in silence for a few hundred feet.

  “I need you to promise me you won’t say where this is in your article, Stella. Not even the neighborhood.”

  Behind the aviator glasses, Tyler’s face is pinched with worry. Even though I need to keep this story real, I can give him this much.

  “I’ll carry the secret to my grave.” I put my right hand over my heart.

  Tyler hesitates and then nods. “I believe you will.”

  At the next corner, Tyler turns down a side street but stops abruptly, fishing for keys in his pocket. We face a dingy metal door with a peeling sign that says DO NOT BLOCK. A few yards away, a Dumpster is shoved against the squat, square building’s brick walls. Beyond that, cars are parked along the building.

  I don’t feel unsafe since I’m standing next to Tyler, but I’m disappointed that we’re not going to the über-hip practice studio I imagined.

  Tyler twists keys in a series of three locks to open the industrial door, then follows me inside a stairwell with worn timbers for stairs. The walls are covered with vibrant layers of paint, some of it graffiti, and round white globe lights the size of soccer balls hang at various levels.

  Tyler secures each lock behind us and the space smells of old wood, paint and newspapers. I’m afraid I already know what’s coming next.

  “It’s on the top floor.”

  Damn. I debate taking off my shoes but I’m sure I’d skewer a foot on a splinter or stray nail.

  Tyler must have seen my face fall. He pulls off his aviator glasses and tucks them inside his jacket’s chest pocket. “Hey, don’t look so worried. I won’t make you walk all the way up. We have a freight elevator, but it’s so old that it takes forever.” He turns his back to me. “Hop on,” he says over his shoulder.

  Is he for real? I’m small, but do I really want him carrying me up five flights of stairs? My face heats.

  “Come on,” he coaxes. I push my purse behind me with its strap across my body, hike up my stretchy black jersey dress and put my hands on his broad shoulders.

  Tyler squats and bounces me up against his back so effortlessly that
I squeak with surprise.

  “Hold on.” He climbs the steps fast, his broad hands wrapped under my bare legs just behind my knees. I can’t help but feel how my legs are spread, my panties pressed against the small of his back and his leather jacket.

  Each bounce against his back makes my nerves more raw, my body more traitorous with desire. Did I come here for a booty call, or to write a story? Gah, I don’t know. I want them both. But I can only choose one.

  I need to keep him at arm’s length. He’s a story. A subject. And as a journalist, I can’t get involved.

  But as I’m riding him, I know I’m already involved. His touch to my lips in the cab. His hand pulling me through the restaurant. Tyler’s got bad boy inked all over him in each tattoo and he’s got the attention of every cell in my body.

  Bad boys are just my style.

  My face is flushed by the time we reach the top stair landing and Tyler’s not even breathing hard. He lets me slide off his back and I pull my dress back into place and gather my wits.

  Tyler unlocks two more deadbolts in another wide metal door and ushers me inside, hitting an industrial light switch panel to illuminate the old warehouse.

  I gasp as I hear the locks click behind me. This was not what I expected at all. The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high, crisscrossed by massive timbers. The floor is wood, worn smooth and shiny in some places. Multi-paned warehouse windows run from waist high to the ceiling and bare Edison bulbs hang down on long cords.

  I follow Tyler from the front door to the kitchen in the opposite corner of the wide-open warehouse, trying to look everywhere at once. Along the only wall without windows, an open set of stairs leads up to a loft. I can’t see what’s up there, but a storage area underneath holds a couple of old bikes, random sound equipment, and a speaker missing its cover.

  “Want a drink?” he asks. He gestures for me to sit on a stool behind the kitchen island’s tall bar.

  “Sure. Vodka, if you have it.”

  Tyler opens and closes cupboards and I glimpse a few liquor bottles. They’re not what I want, though they’ll do in a pinch. He looks in the freezer. “Lucky you. Someone left this behind.” He puts a glass on the concrete counter and pours a stingy shot.