Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  “I’m OK, Tyler. No permanent damage.”

  “It looks bad.” His voice is hoarse; he was probably every bit as scared as I was.

  “I’ll heal. Maybe there won’t even be scars.”

  I look down at my kneecaps and I doubt it. They’re a pulp from the rough, gravel-strewn asphalt where I fell. My palms aren’t quite so bad but my chin took a definite beating. I’m not looking forward to seeing a mirror.

  Tyler stares at my knees and he bends, squatting to see them closer. Like he did Tuesday night, he extends a single finger to touch my knee, carefully skirting the bloody mess and sending more shivers through me as he traces the side of my leg along unbroken skin.

  “That scared the shit out of me,” he confesses and straightens up, shaking his head as if to clear the memory from his mind. “I saw you go down. I saw the fence knock you down and people just jump on top of it. I saw the security guards too far away to do anything about it.”

  I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face to his chest in pure gratitude. “Thank you. You saved me.”

  Tyler stands stiff and awkward, until his body relaxes and his arms circle me. We stand together on the bridge for a long minute and I listen to his heartbeat. It’s racing faster than mine, I think.

  I pull Tyler tighter against me and snuggle into him, his green button-down shirt soft, his skin smelling of sweat, soap and spice, and his muscles hot and hard beneath his thin shirt.

  Tyler saved me and it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. He could have been crushed too. He could have been mauled by a bunch of fans. But he jumped off the stage and pulled me out from where I was suffocating.

  I draw a deep, ragged breath of relief as I keep holding Tyler, and I feel his halting breath as he responds. I’m aware that people are passing us on the bridge deck but I’ll ignore them as long as I can.

  I’m in a perfect little bubble, throbbing knees and chin aside, and I’m not ready to leave it just yet.

  A whistle and a boom pops the bubble. I hear a crackle and a sizzle and look up to see a firework’s white sparks rain down. More whistle-boom-crackle-sizzle and umbrellas of color splash across the sky.

  I sneak a glance up at Tyler and he’s smiling. “Good timing.” I grin up at him as explosions light up the night.

  “Best seat in the house,” he agrees, still holding me tightly against his chest. He pivots our bodies so we’re both looking to the side to see the show. “You in a rush to get home?”

  “No. I thought you were.” His manic pace leaving the concert venue certainly suggested it.

  “I was just freaked out about what happened. I wanted to get away, get you somewhere to get fixed up.” He looks at me closely. “Are you really OK? I didn’t think we’d be able to find a cab right by the concert, but I probably shouldn’t have made you walk. I’m sorry.”

  I squeeze him a little more tightly and love how our bodies fit together, his so much longer than mine but each curve on my body fitting with the planes of his, as if we are two pieces of a puzzle. As if we are meant to go together.

  “I’m going to be fine, Tyler. I’m tougher than I look.” The words are truer than he could know. “Just because I’m short doesn’t mean I’m fragile.”

  “Short-ish.” He chuckles and I remember our conversation from his loft. “You just prove good things come in small packages.”

  Tyler thinks I’m good? When I left his loft two days ago he implied I was a bad friend and a back-stabbing reporter.

  I’m afraid he’s only being nice because of what’s happened tonight and I frown. I can’t blame him if he thinks bad things about me. I did stab my friend in the back. I deserve it.

  No amount of apology can erase my record. Only goodness, like Beryl said. Only right choices, from now forward.

  A crackle close to my ear rattles me and I look up to see an enormous firework rain down on us. The proximity scares me and my body’s on high alert as each sizzling point of light falls, twinkles, and burns out.

  Tyler looks down at me and our eyes lock, my neck craned back and my mouth inches from his. I want to explore his face, his soft lips, his smooth jaw, but instead I let his eyes hold me as tightly as his arms are around me. We reestablish the connection that took my breath away when he was onstage. When he looked at me then, I felt like an audience of one.

  Tyler drops his head lower and if I stand on tiptoe, I could reach his lips. But he’s not doing what every other guy does—tongue down my throat, hands on my tits, the sex-charged promise of more.

  I want more. The heat in his expression has me boiling over with desire, and after a night like tonight, sweaty sex and several shots of booze would definitely help me sleep better.

  Maybe you’re not good enough for him. The guilty voice in my head shames me again. It crushes me. When I was under the spell of Dixon Ross, that fear hung over my head like a spider dangling from the ceiling.

  I feel Tyler’s breath against my face as the fireworks continue around us, but I don’t want to make the next move. I can’t. I tried that once and he rejected me, and I can’t take the humiliation of it happening again.

  But I also can’t take the fact that Tyler’s been an incredible tease, on one hand touching my kneecap like he wants to put his hands everywhere on me, and on the other hand pushing me away.

  The reversals are maddening.

  I still my body against his, fight off the trembling, fight against my desire to grab his face and devour him. He has to make this move. I have to know he wants it as much as I do.

  I swallow and involuntarily lick my dry lips, mentally kicking myself for the come-hither gesture. But Tyler’s eyes darken, his pupils dilate, and his gaze drops to my mouth. His lips find mine with a whispering touch, and he’s so gentle I’m afraid to kiss him back and frighten him away.

  He deepens our kiss and I moan—I swear I did not mean to do that!—and I open my mouth to his exploring. I pull Tyler closer to me and my hands move up his back on either side of the guitar and backpack. His tongue traces gentle strokes at the corners of my mouth.

  I try to be still, try to contain my enthusiasm, but when I feel his teeth nibbling my lip, a dam breaks inside me and I kiss him back with a hunger that shocks us both.

  I unwind into Tyler’s arms, letting all of the night’s tension go. Feeling me pliable in his embrace is all the encouragement Tyler needs to pull me closer to him.

  I let his tongue stroke mine and I savor his taste, like mint and marshmallow. I recognize the latter as Vocal EZE, a throat spray that many performers use.

  I wrap my arms around his neck as he runs his fingers up and down my back and finally lifts me off my feet in a slow spin. We kiss like movie stars. Or rock stars. One of us, anyway.

  When we break, I’m breathless.

  And Tyler? He’s actually … panting. Oh, Lord, what have I done to this guy? He doesn’t let go of me as we take this much-needed breath.

  “You are … you are just …” Tyler opens and closes his mouth like a fish, struggling for words. It is adorably awkward and I want to rescue him.

  “You’re my hero,” I whisper, and put his hand against my heart. It rests just above my breast with my hand on top of it. I feel the heat from Tyler’s hand through my top and I hope he can feel my heart beating hard in my chest.

  Tyler reaches for my other hand and I grimace in pain. He rolls my wrist over and sees bloody scrapes and dirt embedded along the base of my palm where I hit hardest when I fell.

  Tyler shifts with unease and sets his sights on the Manhattan side of the bridge. “We have to get you cleaned up. Come on.”

  ELEVEN

  A black Lincoln Town Car waits for us on the far side of the bridge just as Tyler promised. I sigh with relief.

  But I can’t let Tyler take care of me anymore—I can’t bear to give him another window into my many failings. That’s how Dixon controlled me, always keeping me on the edge of acceptance and rejection.

  The same way Tyler
’s push-pull keeps me off balance.

  I should go back to Neil’s place and deal with my knees and chin myself. I set my jaw and lean forward to speak to the driver. “Stanton and Clinton on the Lower East Side, please.”

  “What? I thought—I thought you’d come home with me.” Tyler’s eyes are heated with passion, promising more than another scorching kiss.

  Why am I fighting it? I want that. Tenderness would crush me, but lust I can handle. I can deal with aching want in the moment and the empty aftermath.

  Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor. I must have repeated that line a hundred times when I played Cinderella in Into the Woods, and I’ve lectured Beryl about the fact that it’s not every day a rock star shows interest.

  I’m not going to miss this chance.

  “We can go to yours.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. Sure, I get nearly crushed and then taken to bed by hot rock stars every week. Or at least twice a month.

  Tyler tells the driver his real address and I know he must be worried about me to allow the car to drop us off at his door. We ride in silence and he clutches my hand, his strong fingers gently stroking the inside of my wrist.

  He unlocks the deadbolts and when we get into the painted stairwell, I’m nervous. He hands me his guitar and tells me to put it on, then turns his back to me and squats.

  “Climb aboard.” Tyler seems cheerful now that we’re in his space and I do my best to get on his back without getting my bloody knees on his shirt. My shirt is grimy but at least it’s black and doesn’t show.

  Tyler climbs the five flights much slower than last time and I can’t tell if I’m too heavy or he’s just tired. I wear his guitar and he’s turned his backpack to the front of his chest. This man would make an excellent pack mule.

  I giggle at the thought as he puts me down on the top landing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Tyler the pack mule,” I say. “You’re in insanely good shape to not even let that faze you. No wonder girls go crazy over your band. All of you are just built.”

  “You think they only want us for our bodies?” Tyler frowns, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “And here I thought it was our raw artistic genius that was irresistible.”

  “That, too,” I assure him and we cross the loft to his kitchen. “How about a drink?”

  Tyler looks at me as if this hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh, sure. Right. Cups are there.” He points to the kitchen cupboard next to the refrigerator where tall glasses are kept, but I want something stronger.

  “How about shot glasses?” I ask. I lost my buzz hours ago and I’m in desperate need of something strong to settle me down. Or someone strong. This could turn out to be a good night after all.

  Tyler furrows his brow. “Yeah, there’s still a little vodka left. Although I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I was going to get you ibuprofen.”

  “Vodka’s great for pain.” I brush past him and find the nearly empty bottle in the freezer. Damn. I pour myself one shot and let the liquid slide down my throat while Tyler drains a tall glass of water. He refills his glass, I refill mine, and we drink in silence.

  Tyler braces his hands on the counter and his face looks pale and sweaty. Tonight left a mark on him, too.

  “Tyler? You all right?”

  He opens his refrigerator, snags a can of Sprite, and chugs it.

  “Just thirsty. I’m fine.” It’s a weird statement because he’s already downed two large glasses of water. But the Sprite seems to make him feel better.

  “I’ve got to check something. I’ll get you a shirt to change into and I’ll help you clean up your scrapes. Meet you in the bathroom?”

  “Sure.” When he’s out of my sight climbing the stairs to his bedroom loft, I pour one more vodka shot, the last of the bottle. When it’s down I feel more human again. I can handle this.

  I go to the bathroom and pee, kicking my legs forward to inspect the scrapes on my knees. They’re bad. Really bad, with tiny gravel chips and dirt ground into my cuts, cemented there with dried blood. If I don’t do this right, the wounds will get infected.

  I try washing my hands to get the gravel out of them and I whimper in pain. When I inspect my palms closely I see tiny pebbles embedded between deep ribbons of skin and I’m afraid it will take tweezers and a whole lot more vodka to fix it.

  I’m glad I’m not alone. If I went back to Neil’s, he’d be hounding me to write a harrowing, first-person account of my astounding rescue by one of the hottest rock stars on the planet.

  You know. Tabloid shit.

  When a crowd of thousands rushed the stage at Indie Day, the toppled barrier nearly crushed one reporter to death until white-hot rocker Tyler Walsh put his own life in danger to rescue her…

  Event producers claim faulty installation caused a fence to collapse at the annual Indie Day concert, and fans nearly crushed a reporter beneath its weight…

  Tyler Walsh, bassist of the rock band Tattoo Thief, risked his life to rescue a woman when an unruly crowd toppled a barrier fence at the Indie Day concert…

  I squeeze my eyes shut and force my mind to stop spinning options for a lead. As much as the story could be gold career-wise, writing it makes me anxious. I want to keep what happened between Tyler and me private.

  Huh. Now there’s a painful truth: that’s all Beryl wanted, too.

  She wanted Gavin’s video to be a private connection, just between them. Considering she has to share him with millions of fans and hundreds of people in the industry—his label, promoters, roadies, and even journalists like me—I realize it’s not too much to ask to keep some things for herself.

  My eyes fly open when Tyler wraps his arms around my waist. He’s changed into a white T-shirt and cut-off sweats. It’s a very good look for him.

  Tyler kisses my shoulder lightly and opens my wet palms to reveal the damage. It’s bad.

  “Sit here.” He lifts me to sit on the bathroom counter between the two raised basins and pulls off my shoes. He fills both sinks with hot water, as hot as my hands can stand, and squirts a bit of liquid soap in each that smells of eucalyptus.

  It stings like a sonofabitch. He sits on a stool, settles my bare feet in his lap, and picks up a pair of tweezers to work on my knees. I try to breathe through the pain. Tears leak out of both corners of my eyes and I look at the ceiling far above us, trying to count the boards, anything to hold the tears at bay.

  As Tyler works, tears leak from my eyes. I hold my hands in the sinks and try not to flinch every time Tyler touches my knee, but I’m shattering him. He looks physically ill as he tends my wounds, and I imagine he’s also repulsed by the state of my face, a lovely combination of snot, tears, and ruined makeup.

  “Fuck. Stella, I can’t do this to you.”

  Tyler pushes my feet out of his lap and stands. I drop my head, sobbing, and I hear the shower start running. This is so mortifying. This is worse than when he rejected me the first time. Now he thinks I’m disgusting.

  I want to hate him.

  I feel Tyler’s soft touch on my arm and I look up to see him shirtless, with nothing but charcoal gray boxer-briefs on. This change makes no sense.

  His tattoos are painted all the way up his left arm and some on his right arm, but what really wrecks me are the twin studs on either side of his nipples. Hell. This man does sexy the way most people do breathing. Every. Fucking. Moment.

  The nearness of him makes me feel worse and I can hear myself blubbering, saying something about how I should go, even though I’m not coherent enough to put on my own shoes.

  “I want to get you in the shower, see if the water pressure can knock some of that gravel loose.” Tyler’s voice is gently coaxing, as if I’m a wounded wild animal. “I’ll help you.”

  Tyler tugs at the hem of my shirt and pulls it up over my head, revealing my simple black satin bra that holds less than a handful in each cup. Even for my small hands. I know Tyler’s seen better and I search his eyes for a reaction, bu
t they’re tender and not … hungry.

  They don’t want me.

  I spiral into even more misery as his close body affects mine and I’m afraid my nipples peak to meet his. I’m afraid he sees this. And he still doesn’t want me.

  This is so pathetic.

  He pulls me from my perch on the counter and pushes my stretchy black skirt down over my hips without removing my panties. My bra and panties don’t match and I imagine the women who fight over Tyler always match. And their bra cups runneth over.

  He leads me to the shower and it’s clear he intends my underwear to be a substitute bathing suit. He takes the stool inside the large shower stall, setting it opposite a built-in bench.

  I’m drowning in the humiliation of what Tyler thinks of me, but I can’t push him away while he’s willing to play nurse. I need him and my body hurts too much to do it myself.

  Tyler guides me under the rain-can showerhead and I drench myself. It feels like diving through light, bubbly water as it rushes across my skin.

  “Stella. You need to let the water work.” He has me sit on the stool just outside the water’s range and he picks up my feet, placing my knees directly under the rushing water. “Put your hands face-up on your thighs.”

  I obey and feel the sting as the water reaches the crevices torn open in my skin.

  Tyler sits on the built-in bench, my ankles clasped in his hands. When he starts a foot rub I almost lose it, the pleasure of his touch mixing with the pain of the water’s onslaught. I try not to look at the way the water’s soaked his underwear, making every curve within them absolutely apparent to me.

  I say I try not to look, but I might be lying.

  I’m wearing blue cotton boy shorts that rank far lower on the sexiness scale than what I’m sure Tyler expects from women he dates.

  The pins and needles in my wounds intensify as Tyler steadily cranks up the shower’s heat until I can’t stand it. My legs and forearms are bright red from the temperature while my back chills.

  “I—I can’t take it anymore,” I tell Tyler, and he immediately releases my feet and bumps down the water temperature a few degrees. He helps me stand, pushing the stool aside and pulling me back into the shower stream for several seconds.