While the other girls drooled over his rakish good looks and charming affectations, I drove myself to shine so he’d cast me in a lead role and ignore the traditional pecking order that gives preference to upperclassmen.
He chose me. Of course he did. But he was cut from the same cloth as those mall talent scouts, trading flattery for favors.
And I didn’t realize it until it was too late.
Tyler clears his throat behind me and I jerk with surprise, immersed in reflection and the rhythm of folding and stacking clothes.
“Stella? You OK?” He grabs the top edge of the loft platform and hangs forward.
I’m sad. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long—month.” I drag my eyes away from his arms.
“Can I do anything to help you?”
Yes. You can hold me again. I shake my head. This answer is impossible. His shifting moods unnerve me, swinging from aroused Tyler to repelled Tyler, from concerned Tyler to indifferent Tyler.
Right now he’s in helpful mode, but how long that will last? And which mood will replace it?
“You’ve done enough already,” I say, then backtrack when it’s clear he misunderstands me. “I mean, I’m grateful for you giving me a place to stay for a little while. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can. I just don’t want it to be—awkward.”
I use that word to sum up the turbulent chemistry between us. I’ve fantasized about him every night since we met, even though our connection always ends with him pushing me away.
I’m a sucker for punishment.
“It’s no rush, you don’t have to go right away,” Tyler says. “I like having company. It makes this place feel less empty. I know there’s not much privacy,” he gestures to the fact that my bed can be seen from the rest of the warehouse, “but you’re welcome to stay until you find somewhere that works better.”
His expression is sweet and sad and I wonder if sometimes he feels as lonely as I do. Without thinking, I stand and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest the way I did on the bridge when I called him my hero.
I feel him tense with resistance, then relax into me.
“You keep rescuing me, you know that? First from the fence, and now from sudden homelessness.” I squeeze his middle in gratitude. Even though he doesn’t want me, he’s been damned nice to me.
“Don’t forget about rescuing you from those killer shoes the night we met.” I hear the smile in Tyler’s voice as he rests his chin on top of my head.
“And from my killer editor’s demand that I write a follow-up story on Tattoo Thief. That saved my job.” God, I sound pathetic. “I feel like a walking disaster when I’m around you, Tyler. I wish I could tell you I actually have my shit together, but circumstances would suggest otherwise.”
Tyler pulls back from me slightly and tips up my chin with a crooked finger, forcing my brown eyes to meet his. “You’re no disaster, Stella. You’re special. You’ve got moxie.”
I snort a laugh. “Moxie? That’s a weird old word.”
“Are you telling me you’re a shrinking violet posing as a kickass girl?”
“Kickass girl. I like that. But how would you know? As far as you’ve seen, I’m a second-string music reporter who got lucky with the fact that her best friend is dating a rock star. And then proceeded to throw that friend under the bus.” The last admission brings a fresh wave of self-loathing and I hide my face back against Tyler’s firm chest.
Which smells fantastic. But I digress.
Tyler’s quiet for a few minutes and I imagine he agrees with my self-assessment. But then he pushes me away from him and his look is serious.
“Stop it, Stella. This ends now. You apologized. It’s over.” I sniffle and an enormous rumble rips through my belly.
Tyler frowns, then bends down and hoists me from the waist, my head and upper body bent over his shoulder and hanging down his back.
“Tyler! Put me down!” I laugh and kick and pound on his back but he keeps walking, ignoring my pleas.
He dumps me on a kitchen barstool and I land with an oof. “What are you doing?”
“Feeding you.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“I heard your stomach. When was the last time you ate?”
I can’t answer immediately, and Tyler shoots me a told-you-so look.
“I need to eat pretty often. And I told you, I like the company. So what are we going to have?”
“Cereal?”
“Simple carbs. Not good enough. We need some protein.” Tyler opens the fridge and pulls out several wrapped packages and fruit. In minutes, he assembles a little picnic spread of cheese, salami, apples, grapes, crackers and nuts, and some weird jelly I’ve never seen before.
“It’s quince paste. Try it.” He spreads some on a cracker, topping it with a bit of sharp cheddar. The salty crystals in the cheese, buttery crisp cracker and tangy sweetness of the thick jelly melt together in one fantastic bite. “You see?”
“Mmff.” I chew and nod, trying to communicate just how much I appreciate this offering. No man has ever fed me before. When I lived with Blayde, he was a fend-for-yourself guy, content to live on Frosted Flakes and the pizza place around the corner.
Tyler and I eat in silence. I sit on a stool opposite him, while he bends his long torso over the kitchen counter. It becomes a game, like a stare-down, to see who will talk first. We communicate with little signs that say, You have the last piece of apple, and Here, I’ll break the last piece of cheese to share with you.
These tiny gestures affect me more than words and suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the kindness of it all. Tyler’s been nothing but kind to me—hot and cold, yes, but always kind—and it rocks me to my core.
I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t hold back the tears, so I drop my head and just let them go, hoping he will be too busy putting the plate and knife and cutting board in the dishwasher to notice.
But of course he notices.
“Stella.” He comes around the kitchen island fast, his arms open, but before he reaches me, he hesitates as if I might burn him.
Once bitten, twice shy, I think bitterly.
“Are you OK?”
I shake my head but I can’t speak; my voice would break the dam and I’d dissolve into sobs. I feel stupid, crying so much in front of him.
And he’s been far too human in front of me. I wanted him to be an untouchable rock star. I wanted Tyler Walsh to be a hard-edged, devil-may-care bad boy, so that I could keep him at arm’s length and focus on what I needed—another story.
I refuse to look at his face, afraid his eyes will show me too much care. It’s like a drug, becoming accustomed to people caring about me, and when it vanishes I’ll be sucked into the withdrawal of despair.
I push myself off the barstool to avoid his touch and run to my space under his loft. Other than the bathroom, there’s not a shred of privacy in this warehouse, so I can’t even cry in peace. I sense Tyler observing me from the kitchen as I sit on the air mattress, pawing through clothes I don’t see, hoping desperately he won’t try to talk to me again.
I need space. I need room to think but I feel like I’m in prison under a guard’s surveillance. I try to rein in my feelings and suppress the sobs in my chest.
I’m sad and I’m lonely and I feel so fucking vulnerable that one gentle word will break me. How is it possible I can handle every other form of rejection from a bad boy—every fake see you around or even, Can I call you?—but when Tyler rejects me, it stings like salt ground deep in my wounds?
My blood boils with passion from wanting him and anger from wanting him to want me back. It’s a lost cause. He has his pick of thousands of fans who throw themselves at Tattoo Thief, so it’s no surprise he doesn’t want me.
“Stella, do you want—?”
Tyler’s voice startles me and I whirl around, my last angry thought exploding from my mouth.
“I just want some fucking privacy!” I storm past him to the b
athroom, where I slam the door like a petulant child.
I turn the sink tap to freezing cold and plunge my head under it. The cold makes my scalp tingle and throb. Brain freeze.
I count to fifty, and then to a hundred. Stop. I have to stop but it’s some sick game to get me past the horror of what I’ve just done. I have no right to treat him like this, yet each drop of Tyler’s kindness is like water torture.
One more drop and I break.
One more drop and he breaks me.
I shut off the water and pull my head out from under the tap, rubbing my hair fiercely with a towel. My eyeliner swerves drunkenly down my face in wide tracks and I look like a zombie as I emerge from the bathroom.
Tyler’s absent and the lights are off. There’s a small lamp on the shelf by my bed that wasn’t there before. Its off-white shade casts enough light to guide me back to my bed. I listen but I don’t hear Tyler.
Did he go out? Or just go to bed? I can’t see up into his bedroom loft. I need to apologize but I’m too chickenshit to do it tonight.
Instead, I gulp three shots of vodka to silence the ugly voices in my head. I slip out of my clothes and into an old T-shirt, climb on the air mattress and feel it shift beneath my body.
Shame and sadness flood me, but sleep wins.
FIFTEEN
I try to be quiet as I let myself back into Tyler’s loft, but there’s a rhythmic thunk-chink, thunk-chink sound and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.
Morning sunshine illuminates long swaths of orange fabric hanging from the edges of the wooden loft platform. There’s movement behind the fabric and another thunk-chink.
“What are you doing?” I stand by the front door stupidly, holding a bag of pastries. I can’t see Tyler, but I hear his voice from the other side of the rippling orange fabric.
“What does it look like?” His voice is neutral and I can’t tell if he’s still mad at me.
“It looks like a lot of orange.”
Tyler’s head pops from between two sheets of fabric and his brow furrows. “I thought orange was your favorite color?”
I shake my head. “It is. But what are you doing to the loft? I mean, why?”
Tyler steps between the fabric pieces and gestures grandly to them. “I made you curtains.”
I nearly drop my peace offering, I’m so gutted by this gesture. Tyler has every right to kick me out for being an ungrateful bitch. At what point did I get so bitter that I’d lash out at a guy who’s been nothing but good to me?
No wonder he’s not that into me.
I’m not that into me, either.
“Seriously? When did you, I mean, how did you even think to make this happen? I wasn’t even gone an hour.”
Tyler grins. “I told you I have neighbors who are fashion designers. Maren downstairs is a total cloth-hoarder, so I went down after you left and bribed her for a bolt of fabric and the use of her staple gun. She even helped me cut it.”
I’m stunned but I can’t fall apart again. Can’t. Won’t. I feel small for my petty outburst last night, and even smaller that he turned my tantrum into yet another chance to be nice to me.
I am officially crossing Tyler off my bad-boys list and adding him to a very dangerous list of good guys.
A list of one. One perfect guy who I could never deserve in a million years. Fuck.
I hold up a brown bag with a weak smile. “I tried to come up with a good apology, but there aren’t enough bakeries in Manhattan to top what you’ve done. Thank you,” I add in a small voice. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Shut it, Stella.” Tyler takes the bag dotted with tempting, buttery splotches and makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Don’t talk to me about what you deserve. We never get what we deserve. Only what we earn. And some grace, and some luck.”
We spread the pastries on the kitchen bar and Tyler sits next to me on a bar stool, leaving plenty of room between us. In silent agreement, we adopt the try-everything strategy for this breakfast and I make a little piggy of myself after Tyler rips each pastry in half.
They taste fantastic, especially with Tyler’s smooth, strong coffee. When Tyler leans back from the bar, I peek up at him from behind a curtain of hair that helped me avoid his gaze as we sat side by side.
“Can you forgive me, Tyler? I’m so sorry for the way I treated you last night. I—I felt so awful and I took it out on you.”
“I forgive you.” Tyler nods but looks worried. “Stella, what happened last night? Is living here so bad? You don’t have to stay.”
“Oh, no, Tyler. It was my own stupid little pity party, nothing you did. This place is great. Really. I don’t deserve—” He gives me a sharp look and I stop. “I mean, I really, really appreciate you. This. And I wish there was some way to repay you.”
Tyler’s mood shifts and his familiar playful smile returns. He taps his temple. “Hmm, I’m thinking.”
Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.
“You did say you’d give anything to get a story on the band. And I never held you to it.” His sly look tells me I’m not off the hook.
“More chocolate croissants?” I pretend to make a move off the barstool to fetch them but he reaches a tattooed arm out to still me. The simple touch electrifies me, shooting goosebumps from my bare wrist to my shoulder.
“No. I OD’ed on carbs already,” Tyler frowns and reaches over the bar for a small, black pouch that’s lying on the kitchen counter. “I was thinking of a tougher assignment.”
My eyes widen with alarm.
“The band’s got an event next Tuesday. Will you come with me? Usually, we just go alone, but now Gavin’s with Beryl, and Dave will take Kristina and Jayce always has a flavor of the month. It would be weird if I went solo.”
“You don’t want to go with one of Jayce’s—?” I don’t think the busty girls qualify as friends.
“No.” Tyler unzips the pouch, pops the top off a small canister, and pulls out a thin strip of plastic. I study his movements and forget he’s focused on me. His fingers still, waiting for my answer.
“Oh. I guess I can go with you. I don’t think I have to cover a gig that night.”
“Good. I need a buddy.”
That last word levels me. Buddy. I smash down my disappointment and plaster on a smile. Tyler pulls a fat blue pen from the pouch.
“What’s the event?”
“Movie premiere. It’s the next Spider-Man and they used one of our songs from Beast on the soundtrack, so they invited us.”
My eyes get huge. “Like a red-carpet thing?” I shake my head fervently. I can handle sitting through a movie, but I don’t want to be in the middle of a bunch of photographers. I thought he was inviting me to a show like the last one, something that doesn’t demand more than clean jeans.
Tyler laughs. “There’s a bit of that. Nothing too horrible. All I want you to do is sit by me and watch the movie.”
That doesn’t sound too bad. And besides, I owe him for so many things. I’m just about to accept when he adds, “I’ll buy you popcorn.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll totally go.” I laugh, letting him think I’m persuaded with food. Even eight-dollar movie popcorn feels like a luxury to me. “But I’m worried about what I should wear. I don’t have … much.”
I don’t want to admit to Tyler the true extent of what I don’t have—money, a wardrobe, or room on my credit card. I don’t have a job that pays well, a boss who treats me decently, a family that talks to me, or a boyfriend. Or even a pet fish.
I regret taking so much for granted when I lived with my parents and could afford pretty much anything I wanted.
“Don’t worry about what to wear. Kristina will call you and Beryl. She’ll work something out.” Tyler’s eyes smile at me and I feel a warm rush of pleasure. I could live in that smile.
He turns back to the bar and presses the pad of his middle finger against the blunt end of the blue pen. He touches a button—snap—and his eyes squint for a split-second.
He squeezes his fingertip, revealing a bright red bead of blood, and touches the bead to the plastic strip from the canister.
Tyler’s eyes lift from beneath his dark lashes and he catches me staring. He says nothing, just lets me watch.
Tyler plugs the strip into a machine that looks like a stopwatch. Numbers on its screen make him grimace. He pulls a thin green syringe and a clear bottle of liquid from the pouch.
“I didn’t want you to know, but since you’re living here, I don’t want you to find out the wrong way,” Tyler says, and it confuses me even more. “You have to know in case I’m ever acting weird. Like really weird, like drunk or something.”
“What if you are drunk?”
“Not likely,” Tyler shakes his head. “I don’t really do that. Besides, beer has a ton of carbs.”
“That’s why you have light beer? Why are you worried about carbs so much?”
“I’m diabetic. I have to regulate my blood sugar. And you, sweet Stella, just totally screwed it up with the pastry bribe.” Tyler smiles; he isn’t mad. He draws a long pull of liquid from the bottle into his syringe, pulls up his shirt, pinches the flesh at the side of his waist and plunges the needle in.
I gasp but Tyler shakes his head.
“Don’t freak out. It’s a really thin needle. Doesn’t hurt nearly as much as this prick.” He taps the blue pen-like lancet. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t write anything about it.”
I promise. “How—how often do you have to do that?”
“Maybe six times a day. Always before I eat, but I slacked off and didn’t do it this time.” Tyler frowns. “Not smart. It makes me feel sluggish or worse if I slack. Jayce gets on my case about it.”
I remember what Jayce told me about taking care of Tyler last night. I’ll bet this is what he meant.
Tyler zips the black pouch closed. “So, anyway, if I start acting weird, I might have low blood sugar. I just need a Sprite or something.” He grins and holds up his hands, as if to say, No big deal. “You can take a turn rescuing me.”
SIXTEEN
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) Page 10
