“Stella. Hang on here.” I can see Tyler fighting for control and I’m struggling to breathe normally too. I’m in his lap, his arms were around me and I can feel his erection pressing against my very damp panties.
He shouldn’t be pushing pause right now when every sign points to play. Or fast forward! Even slow-mo, if that’s his style. But pause?
“Stop,” he commands. My hips are still moving against him of their own free will. Oh, God. Stop. That’s the kiss of death.
“Seriously? Stop?” My face is flaming with humiliation and I climb off Tyler’s lap and grab my shoes, trying to shove them on my feet as fast as possible. “Whatever you say, Tyler. At least you made up your mind. You’ve been sending mixed signals all night.”
My voice says I’m angry with him, but I’m really just mad at myself. First I decided to keep it professional, just do the story after he’d offered me access. Then his touch—it was the kneecap that did it—lights me on fire and I throw that very sane plan out the window.
Then I have two or three more shots to further fuck with my resolve. And then, the foot rub. Tyler has a secret weapon.
So I’m angry because Tyler pushed me past my limits, even though I was the one who climbed into his lap. I started that kiss and he ended it. That should tell you everything you need to know, and it should tell me to leave him the hell alone.
Tyler’s face darkens and he’s mad that I’m mad.
“Mixed signals? I was giving you what you wanted, your story, so that you wouldn’t try to dig into Beryl and Gavin’s life and get something else on them. Something ugly.”
Tyler’s statement hits me like a slap in the face. “Is that what you think I’m about?” I hear my voice rise. “That I’m going to throw my best friend under the bus again?”
Tyler’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You said it yourself: again. I did what I thought I should do to protect Gavin.”
My jaw goes slack, realizing Tyler was playing me to give me the story he wanted me to write, rather than the truth. His stupid little comments about facts being real and stories being true actually revealed his motives.
I stalk to the kitchen to grab my purse as my heels echo loudly on the wood floor. Angry tears slide down my face and I shove aside the bar stool I sat on when Tyler touched my knee with one finger. That asshole really had me going.
I stuff my notebook in my purse and turn to look at Tyler, who’s still seated on the couch, his hands buried in his hair.
“Have a nice life, Tyler,” I say, and I wish I could say something more cutting to make up for how embarrassed I feel. “I’d say it’s been fun, but I’d be lying.”
I stalk to the heavy industrial front door, twist the deadbolts and pull the wide handle. I can’t turn around and look back at Tyler, afraid of what I’ll see.
My trip down five flights of stairs is slow and painful as I limp in my stupid shoes and cling to the handrail to keep from falling. I snort up the snot in my nose from crying—I’m looking super attractive right now with a night’s worth of black mascara sliding down my cheeks.
Damn him. I’ve been in plenty of compromising situations after getting frisky with a bad boy, but I can’t remember one quite so humiliating. I can’t remember a time when a bad boy turned me down.
He played me. That’s the thought that sticks in my brain. I always say, “a bad boy can’t break your heart,” because with them, you’ve got no expectations. You don’t expect roses. You don’t expect to be wooed or complimented or spooned. You don’t expect to be called the next day or taken home to mother.
And that’s what kills me about Tyler. I assumed he was a bad boy, with his tattoos and devil-may-care rocker attitude. But then, somewhere along the line, I started to think he was good.
And it bit me in the ass.
I’m shaking by the time I reach the bottom landing, and I struggle to turn the locks on the ground-floor door. The top lock is stuck and I curse, breaking a fingernail on the stubborn metal.
More curses as I pant and push. I hear pounding behind me and Tyler descends the stairs two at a time. His eyes are red and tight and he has his phone in his hand.
“Stella. I’m sorry.” He turns his palms up and I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for. Pushing me away? If he regrets it, he makes no move to show me he wants me physically. I feel trapped but there’s nowhere to run from him.
He reaches over me and presses one hand hard against the slightly warped metal door, releasing the highest deadbolt. I want to escape into the humid night that feels heavy on my skin, but Tyler grabs my arm before I can flee.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Everything about his body electrifies mine and yet I’m fighting to get out of his grasp. My brain is still soaked in vodka and I can’t make sense of this night.
“I called you a cab.” Tyler points to the yellow cab idling at the corner. “I wanted to make sure you get home safely.”
I know I should thank him but I shake out of his grasp instead, clutching my purse as I hobble to the cab. I can handle bad boys. I can handle liars and users and cheats. But Tyler’s small, gentle gesture wrecks me. All I want to do is get away, get back to the home that is not my home, burrow under my pillow and cry.
I slam the cab door shut and give the driver my temporary address. My tears are done but the damage they wrought is still smeared across my face, so I can’t hit a bar for a nightcap to smooth the jagged feelings that threaten to strangle me.
Instead, I rummage around in my purse for tissues—none, not even a fast-food napkin—and then paw for loose change to top off the fourteen dollars I have in cash for cab fare. I’m teetering on the edge of my credit limit and I’m afraid my card might be declined.
When the cab pulls up to Neil’s apartment I tap on the glass. The meter wasn’t running and I’m nervous the cabbie’s going to try to overcharge me.
“How much?” I ask as I glance at his taxi license and try to memorize the numbers.
“It’s paid,” the driver says. “It was paid when they ordered the cab.”
Shit. Tyler’s just rubbing it in now, or trying to make it up to me so I won’t write something horrible about Tattoo Thief. I feel like such an idiot. He played me and I fell for it.
SEVEN
“So. The elephant in the room. You haven’t told me why you gave me those papers last night.” Across the table, Beryl nibbles on a thin, crispy breadstick at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that can’t decide if it’s Greek or Italian.
Oh, good. Let’s explore another item on my list of colossal failings. Last night with Tyler left me wrung out and sleepless until I finally drowned my nattering doubts in alcohol.
But today’s lunch is about fixing what’s broken. The two pages I gave Beryl show I trust her with my biggest and most painful secret.
One page was a court document my parents filed against the first man I ever loved. The other was a picture of an ultrasound.
“You know I transferred to the University of Oregon as a sophomore,” I start. “I spent my first year at Manser Academy, the performing arts school in San Francisco.”
“Performing arts? What was your major?” Beryl’s only known me as an aspiring journalist, but being a Broadway star was my first ambition.
“We had a visiting artist-in-residence, a hot musical director who filled in while the regular prof was on sabbatical. And when I say he was hot, I don’t just mean popular. I mean panty-incinerating, turns-every-head, Gavin- or Tyler-hot.”
Beryl raises her eyebrows when I mention the guys in Tattoo Thief, but she lets me continue.
“Dixon Ross was thirty-five and I was a freshman, but he cast me as Cinderella in Into the Woods and we spent a lot of time together. A lot.”
We order plates of pasta from the lone waiter, though right now I just want a shot of Ouzo. The story creeps from my mouth in rancid breaths, hidden too long inside me.
“I fell for him in every way. His looks, his intelligence, his talent. And he wanted me. I though
t I was so grown up. I thought I could handle it.”
“He was your first?”
I nod miserably. “I’d always been a good girl. My parents gave me anything I wanted and I lived to be onstage, in front of the lights, to sing my heart out and bring the house down. I never needed a reason to rebel. But when I met Dixon, I was out of the house and could do anything I wanted.”
“And you wanted him.”
“Yes. I think I really fell in love with the power he gave me, the ability to perform. But he was a director to his core. It got to the point where I’d do anything he asked.”
“He took advantage of you.” It’s not a question. Beryl knows where this is going.
Like a puppeteer, Dixon used my thirst for affection to manipulate my obedience. He’d beckon me to his office with a text and take me on his desk between appointments. We even had sex on the stage one night, with the spotlights trained on us. It was exhilarating.
Our pastas arrive and I chase my ravioli around on my plate before I continue.
“It was stupid,” I conclude. “I let him do what he wanted with me and he used me. I knew we should use protection, but he told me he didn’t like the way condoms felt. And I was afraid to ask my family doctor for birth control for fear he’d tell my parents.”
“That’s why one of those pages was an ultrasound.”
“Yeah. When I went home for Christmas break, my period was way too late. I peed on a stick and it was positive. The housekeeper found the test in the bathroom trash and told my mom.”
“How did your parents react?” Beryl’s tone is calm and without judgment.
“My father had the college ship my stuff back from the dorm. My mom kept saying I’d let ‘the world’ influence my morals. When they found out who the father was, they really lost it, but I think they just wanted someone to blame.”
“I don’t understand why they sued him,” Beryl says. “The court paper looked like some kind of civil settlement. Were they trying to pay him to stay out of your life?”
“No. You know how my birthday is in November? I started college when I was seventeen. In California, that makes my affair with Dixon statutory rape. My parents threatened to press charges and ruin his reputation.”
Beryl shakes her head sadly. “Oh, Stella, I had no idea. What a mess.”
I blink back tears and tell her the rest—Dixon settled with my parents for a large chunk of money that I can’t touch until I’m twenty-five, and any hope I had of working on Broadway vanished because he’d probably blacklist me. My parents cut off tuition for Manser Academy, blaming the arts for corrupting their little girl.
“So what happened to the baby?” Beryl orders us coffees to linger a little longer. I feel guilty that I never told my best friend this. I’ve never told anyone.
“My parents put me under house arrest so I couldn’t get an abortion.”
“Did you want to keep the baby?”
“I don’t know. But not having an option was like a noose around my neck. I felt like a prisoner in my own body.”
Beryl’s eyes widen. “They forced you to have it?”
“They would have. When I complained about stomach pain, my mom didn’t even want to take me to the doctor at first, she was so afraid I would try to get an abortion. But then I started bleeding. I passed out on the bathroom floor and our housekeeper found me.”
Beryl gasps and squeezes my hand and I’m transported to that long, dark month, confined in my house and the hospital. I didn’t listen to music the entire time.
“I had an ectopic pregnancy, so they had to do emergency surgery. I think of the baby as Blue, because he was the size of a blueberry when I lost him.”
Beryl and I sip our coffees in silence, letting old secrets sink into fresh wounds. I tell her that after I healed, I got into yoga and applied to new schools. My parents didn’t want me to go far from our southern Oregon home, but when I got into the University of Oregon, I decided to get away, take out loans for the in-state tuition and work-study my way through college.
“At least I was able to make my own decisions and my own mistakes.”
“Do you regret it?” Beryl asks. “Do you think of your choices as mistakes?”
“I wish it had never happened, if that’s what you mean. I wish I’d never met Dixon Ross, never gotten pregnant, and never had to sever ties with my parents. I just want to put all of that behind me, pretend it never happened and start fresh.”
“But it did happen. Cutting out a part of your history, no matter how painful, isn’t that like cutting out a part of your body? Something that makes you, you?”
“I think of it as moving forward. If you can’t forgive, at least forget and get on with life.”
Beryl hmms and I can tell she’s unconvinced. But I don’t need to convince her, only show her that I trust her with this secret, and try to earn her trust again.
Beryl checks the time on her phone and I know she’s got to go. I should go back to work, too, but I’m afraid how we’re leaving things still isn’t right.
“Gavin and I are flying out to Oregon tonight and we’re going to finally get some time together, just the two of us,” she says.
I give up on my coffee and drain the rest of my water. “You’re lucky your uncle’s giving you the time off. I’m covering another concert on the Fourth of July, but at least it’s a good one.” I tick off the bands playing at Indie Day: The Ruins, Shaken Heart, and Quatrain.
Beryl’s smile encourages me. “Make it count. Do enough of the right thing enough of the time and it will change your course. I promise.”
I grab the check before it hits the table and Beryl nods a silent thank-you, but it looks like something else is bothering her.
Finally, she spits it out.
“When I found out that you left with Tyler last night, I was pissed. I was afraid you’d take advantage of him for another story.”
“He offered!” I sound defensive. Of all the things I expected her to confront me about during our lunch, I didn’t imagine Tyler would be one of them. “He showed me their practice space for another story.”
“Last night? That’s pretty late to be giving an interview.” Beryl’s brow furrows.
“I wasn’t sure if it was really about a story, or a booty call, or what.” Beryl gives me a sharp look. “But don’t worry. It wasn’t. A booty call, I mean. He obviously had no intention of that.”
“Then what did he want?”
I duck my head again, my face flaring from last night’s embarrassment. “He wanted to protect you guys. He thought if he gave me a story, I’d stay away from writing bad stuff about you and Gavin. But you’ve got to believe me. I’d lay down in the street before I’d hurt you again.”
“I believe you, Stella. But don’t mess with Tyler, OK?”
I think of the way I felt when I was near him and an involuntary tremor passes through my body. He does something to me on the most primal level that I can’t ignore.
“I know you’ll be careful about your next article. But I’m more worried about Tyler. He doesn’t have the”—she searches for a word—“experience you do. He started getting cute around the time Tattoo Thief got wickedly popular, so he’s not great with girls. Don’t lead him on.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s not like that. He’s already made that clear.”
Beryl sits back in her chair. “Oh. Well, Gavin told me he’s been hurt before. If you jerk him around it’ll get difficult for all of us.”
“Don’t worry, Beryl. I don’t intend to go anywhere near him.”
EIGHT
I debate whether I can smuggle a flask into the Indie Day concert and ultimately decide it would look bad if security found it on me. I’m afraid they’d strip my media pass.
I settle for downing several pre-function shots in Neil’s apartment before I head to the venue, a massive stage set up in Brooklyn Bridge Park. The night is alive with shouts from partiers and I hear the crackle of small fireworks as I wa
lk in fairly sensible shoes to the venue.
See? I’m learning.
My media pass doesn’t grant me full backstage access, but I’m led to a trailer where several other reporters stand around swilling top-shelf booze. Wow. They’re treating us well. Usually the best I can hope for is that a bartender will slip me free drinks.
I order a vodka tonic and then another, daring the server to card me. Even though I’ll be twenty-three this year, being short means people often underestimate my age.
The PR lady for the main act, The Ruins, is making the rounds, handing out signed swag and CDs with the band’s latest music and photos. They’re up after two openers, Quatrain and Shaken Heart, both bands I recognize from my time on the second-string music circuit, and I’m encouraged because I’ve reviewed both of those bands well.
Maybe I’m doing something right.
PR Lady tells us The Ruins’ band members will trickle in later to answer questions while the opening acts perform, but I want to write about the music more than the personalities, so once the opener starts I leave the trailer and walk through several security gates to the main stage area.
Other than a lone photographer, I’m the only member of the press here so far.
The crowd gathers behind a wavy orange plastic fence held up by metal stakes. There’s a five- or six-foot gap between the fence and the stage for media and security, giving us up-close access.
I groove with the first opening band, Shaken Heart, noting how they’ve become tighter and more polished since I wrote about them several months ago. The lead singer looks amazing in her new pink hair and sparkling mini-dress, and sweat glistens on her skin as she sings about heartbreak and hope.
I feel my off-the-shoulder black shirt sticking to me on this humid night and sweat trickles down the back of my leg beneath my skirt. The sun is fading and I’m desperate for a breeze off the water to cool me down.
When the next band, Quatrain, takes the stage, the pitch of the audience’s roar rises higher. Everyone’s in an amped-up party mode this Fourth of July, no doubt anticipating the headliner band and fireworks after dark.
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) Page 5
