As soon as I leave the cool, air-conditioned bubble of Tyler’s warehouse loft, the sticky heat assaults me, proof that the heat wave predicted to hit New York is well on its way.
Sweat trickles down my spine by the time I reach the subway. The rest of the commuters look and smell equally ripe. Yuck.
I plop down in my cubicle and I’ve only just logged into my computer when Neil accosts me at my desk.
“You owe me lunch. Seriously. How come I couldn’t reach you last night?” His arms are crossed and he looks annoyed.
“I was at a show and had my phone off. I’m sorry you had to pack up my stuff. Did you see the bottle of wine I left you?”
“Oh. Yeah.” His snippy tone makes me a little passive-aggressive and I decide not to tell him about the poppy seed stuck in his teeth.
“Well, I’d better get to work, but I owe you for letting me stay in Violet’s room. Want to go to lunch at one?” I smile brightly.
Neil huffs “fine” and walks away. Drama queen.
I’ve barely caught up on e-mail and scheduling out shows for the coming week when Heath pops his head out of his office.
“Stella? A word?”
Why does he always say that? It sounds ridiculous.
In his office, he gestures for me to sit, yet he remains standing. I’m wearing a short-sleeved, V-neck blouse and I suspect Heath’s trying to get a better angle on my cleavage.
“I’m not going to publish the article you filed on Tattoo Thief.”
“What? Why?” Instantly I feel defensive. That was good writing. I was totally sober when I edited it.
“Too soft. I asked for a story about playboy Gavin settling down, and you gave me a puff piece about a loft practice space. This isn’t Better Homes and Gardens, honey. At a minimum, I need you to punch this up, add some more grit, especially after all that stuff about Gavin’s muse overdosing. What else can you get on the band? What kind of access do you have?”
I squirm in my chair, terrified of answering that question. If Heath knew I was living with a member of Tattoo Thief, he’d shit and fall back in it. He’d sign me up for an exposé and demand I go through Tyler’s underwear drawer.
And he’d rationalize it because Tyler knew I was a journalist when he took me in.
“I barely know the band. But if I ask, I might be able to see them practice.” I’m walking a fine line here. What I’ve said to Heath is technically true, but it conceals my real access.
If he found out I was holding out on him, he’d find a hundred reasons to fire me. And then I’d really be screwed.
“You’d see Tattoo Thief live?” Heath rolls this idea around in his head. “They’ve been impossible to reach for the last couple of months. Until Gavin went on Late Night and dropped the bomb on Jimmy Fallon. That could have been your story, Stella.”
I shake my head. Heath would sell a sex tape of his little sister to the media if he thought it would help him get ahead. I have to keep his expectations as low as possible so he doesn’t demand something equally awful of me.
“I can’t promise they’ll let me, but I can ask my friend to ask the band if I can come to a practice. OK?”
“Let’s do better than that.” Heath clicks something on his computer screen. “I just forwarded you the e-mail of a freelance photographer Neil suggested. Bring her to the practice. Her stuff looks arty and edgy, and that could work for this story.”
“How long do I have?”
“Thirty inches. Get that story nailed for next week.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Heath’s assigning feature-length space. But he expects a lot more, and I’m not sure that’s something Tattoo Thief is willing to give.
“What if they don’t want to do the story?”
Heath’s expression darkens and his words are cutting. “Convince them. Considering their reputation, I’m sure you’ve got a few assets to help you negotiate.”
I hear the emphasis on ass and it sickens me. Just because he’s a nasty letch doesn’t mean the guys in Tattoo Thief are like that.
Tyler’s just the opposite.
Or maybe not. Maybe he’s just that way with me.
“I’ll do my best.” I stand and move toward the door, afraid to promise anything.
“No. Just do it.” Heath’s eyes are sharp. I’m trying to remain noncommittal, so he sets the hook: “You follow through on this story, Stella, and it can make the difference between the big leagues and the farm team.”
I mumble “Yes, sir,” and slip out the door, feeling the full weight of his meaning. A strong feature story would do great things for my career at The Indie Voice. A weak story could end it, or at least guarantee my exile to writing the dregs of the music scene.
***
On my sweaty slog home, I think of a dozen ways to approach Tyler about letting me attend a practice. I trudge up the sweltering stairwell and hear music.
Practice is in full swing in the loft. The guys are so intent on a song, they don’t notice me when I walk in the door. All of them are glistening with sweat, and Tyler’s heather gray T-shirt clings to his narrow back, perspiration soaking either side of his spine.
It’s freaking hot.
The band plays loud and I try not to draw attention to myself as I tiptoe to the kitchen to deposit my bag of groceries and, more importantly, get a drink. I pull vodka from the freezer and let the door hang open to bathe in the cool air.
That’s when I realize something’s wrong—the air conditioning in Tyler’s loft isn’t working.
Sun streams through the warehouse windows and this place feels like a greenhouse, hot and humid. The first heat wave of the year is here and life without A/C is going to get ugly. I do a couple of icy vodka shots, but they aren’t nearly enough.
I search my bedroom for something lighter than my work clothes. Slim pickings; I’m way behind on laundry. I find an eyelet sundress with thin straps that can work without a bra and I hastily change into it, again thankful that Tyler put up curtains for me.
As I stuff my laundry in a fat duffel bag, I hear the band stop playing. I peek out of my room as Gavin grabs beers from the fridge. Dave lectures Tyler about a tricky transition that got mangled on the last run-through and Tyler argues that they need to work in lockstep on the downbeat.
“Until Tyler gets the A/C fixed, I am officially against working out after practice,” Jayce says, sitting on a weight bench but making no move to actually lift.
“Me too,” Gavin agrees, and clinks beer bottles with Jayce. Dave scowls at them.
I give myself a mental push into the room and Tyler looks surprised. He didn’t know I was here. “Hey guys, sorry to intrude,” I say.
“It’s cool,” Jayce says. “How do you like your new digs? I mean, other than the fact that it’s a hundred degrees in here. Tyler never put up curtains for me.”
Jayce creases his brow in mock jealousy but Tyler waves a hand to dismiss him. “Don’t be a whiner. You’re lucky I put up with you. The price was right, and of course the company was outstanding.”
“Never let it be said that I was ungrateful,” Jayce says. “You saved my ass by putting me up here. And now you get to save Stella’s.”
I frown, not liking where this is going.
“Lucky me,” Tyler says. “She’s got a much nicer ass than you do.”
Jayce rolls his eyes and I decide to bring up my new problem before this goes any further.
“Guys? I hate to ask you this, but I’m wondering if I might be able to watch you practice tomorrow.”
“Why?” Dave’s on high alert and he moves between me and the band. His protective instincts and past experience as their manager make this one-word question a little scary.
“Um, my editor wanted more than just a short story about your practice space. He really wants people to see you and feel you guys in it. He wants me to write about what it’s like at practice.”
“No. Absolutely not.” Dave’s expression is fierce.
Gavin shrugs. “What’s the big
deal? You just heard us. Write about that.”
I shake my head. “I only got here a couple of songs before the end. And anyway, I promised Tyler I wouldn’t write about anything without asking for permission first. So I didn’t take notes.”
Jayce tilts his head toward Dave. “Sounds like Stella’s playing by the rules. I’m game to let her come to practice. As long as she puts in her article that I’m the good-looking one. And I’m single,” he adds, cackling.
“It’s too big a risk,” Dave says, digging in his heels. “At a minimum, she should have to go through our PR people.”
I panic. That could take weeks. I try a different tack and appeal directly to Dave.
“I hear your concern, and I know that it’s hard to trust me. I don’t blame you. But fast-tracking a feature article right now could really help Tattoo Thief, especially with a storyline that’s not about Lulu.”
Gavin winces as I say her name. “She’s right, Dave. We’ve got to shift the story. Make it about our music.”
Jayce punches Dave in the arm. “Majority rules, bro. You say no, Gav and I say yes, and Tyler says…?”
I send Tyler a pleading look and he nods once. “Tomorrow? We usually practice from two to five.”
I hear Dave grumble a curse.
“I can be here. Would you—would it be OK if I brought a photographer?” I cringe just asking the question, but Heath won’t settle for a story without it.
“You’ve got to swear him to secrecy. Blindfold him when you bring him here.” Tyler’s eyes twinkle at me and I melt a little more in this heat. It’s like he’s got a direct line to my swoon button.
Gavin picks up his bag and lines up his empty beer bottle on the kitchen counter with a few others. “I’ve got to jet. Beryl’s waiting for me and my place has A/C. Maybe I’ll bring her tomorrow and we can all go out after?”
“Sounds like a party. I’ll bring a few friends, too.” Jayce wiggles his eyebrows and I suspect they aren’t just friends.
“Kristina will love that,” Dave answers sarcastically and he ducks into the bathroom. Tyler and Gavin are locked in a quiet discussion by the door and Jayce brings his beer bottle to the kitchen counter by me.
“Tyler told me,” I say to Jayce quietly. “About his diabetes. Is that what you meant when you said to take care of him?”
Jayce nods. “He’s not disciplined enough. When something’s bugging him, he lets his blood sugar get all wacky. It’s not good for him. I saw it when I lived here.”
“I’m not sure what to do or what to watch for.”
“You’ll know. If he gets too low it’ll look like he’s stoned or really out of it. You’ll see it before he does. Just give him a nudge.”
I promise to look out for him.
***
The band leaves Tyler and me alone in the loft and it’s too quiet in this oppressive heat. I miss the steady hum of the air conditioner. I grab my purse and two bags of laundry from my bed.
Tyler bounces up to me. “Where are you going?”
“Ice skating,” I deadpan, but Tyler’s still in motion on the balls of his feet.
“Want to go get dinner?”
“I’ve got ramen.” I point to the few groceries I brought home. “Besides, I need to conquer this mountain of laundry or else I’ll be going naked tomorrow.”
Tyler raises a brow, his eyes skimming my thin sundress. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Stop it. I’m going to bask in the bliss of an air-conditioned Laundromat. Probably not something you’ve done in years, huh?” I imagine the perks of being a rock star include shedding mundane aspects of life like laundry.
“I’ll come with you.” Tyler picks up his aviator glasses and phone. I stare at him in disbelief.
One, there’s no way he’s not going to be noticed. He’s so tall and fit, I can’t imagine this rock god failing to draw attention to himself.
Two, I’m sure he has better things to do. Laundry is so ordinary.
Three, I’m sure there are other people he’d rather be spending time with.
I try making a case for why he should not come, but he cheerfully ignores my infinitely reasonable points and hoists my stinky clothes over his shoulder.
He’s about as stubborn as … I am. I give up, slip on flats, and drop my purse strap over my head.
This is just too weird.
Tyler and I trudge through the sticky heat to the Laundromat, reveling in the blast of cool air near the front door. A few other people are reading paperbacks, texting, or playing games on their phones. To my surprise, they don’t rush Tyler for an autograph.
I start my laundry and shove Tyler aside to get in front of the cool air. He shoves me back and it’s game on—we’re making heaps of noise tickling each other in this little skirmish. The people in the Laundromat ignore us.
Finally, Tyler declares me the winner and leans on a washing machine. I turn slowly under the jet of cool air, arms over my head as if I’m getting a spray tan. The air shifts with an updraft and I squeal, holding my dress down to avoid giving him a Marilyn Monroe-style flash of my panties.
Tyler smiles. “This is so … normal.”
“Yep. Normal people do this every day.”
“I mean, it feels like my normal life. This is how I grew up, my mom and me doing laundry. I miss that.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say, because although this is my new normal, and how my life has been for the last four years, it’s not how I grew up. I don’t remember ever washing and folding a load of laundry when I was a kid. The housekeeper did it for us.
“Don’t get me wrong, there are some major perks from being in the band. But things happened so fast in the last couple years that it’s hard to get used to everything. You know what I mean?”
I give Tyler a look and he reddens. Of course I don’t know what he means. I’m the one eating ramen noodles and scraping the bottom of my purse for laundry quarters. He could buy anything at any time, and he just rubbed it in.
“Shit. Stella. I didn’t mean it like that.” He moves to touch my arm but I skirt away from him, transferring my laundry from washer to dryer.
I keep my back to him, but I don’t want to rub it in, either. He didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, so during the dry cycle I talk to him—really talk—and I tell him how I grew up, wrapped in the upper-class privilege of dance and music lessons with no household chores to distract me.
Tyler describes how his mom raised him solo and put herself through college. His eyes shine with pride when he recalls how she bought a house for them when he was thirteen years old—their first permanent home after years in crappy apartments and Friday nights spent at the Laundromat. This house’s garage was the place where Tattoo Thief began.
The irony of these stories is not lost on us—his normal was working-class and now he’s leading a rich life, while my normal was rich and I’ve lived like a broke college student or journalist for the last four years.
We head back to Tyler’s loft with my clean laundry and I feel like we got away with some minor crime because nobody recognized him.
I make my ramen noodles while Tyler builds a heaping sandwich. He tells me it’s easier to go out in public because he’s not the front man. Fans recognize Gavin far more often than they spot the other guys.
It’s also a matter of context, Tyler says, because nobody expects to run into somebody famous at a Laundromat.
“You want to know my favorite disguise?” His eyes are bright with mischief and I nod, my mouth full of noodles. “UPS guy. The brown shorts and shirt. I got the set as my Halloween costume one year and now I can get away with going anywhere if I’m wearing it.”
I laugh and nearly snort noodles out my nose, imagining Tyler playing that role.
When we’re done with dinner, we’re both drenched with sweat and Tyler lets me take the first shower. He’s trying to get someone to come fix the air conditioner, but tonight’s going to suck.
Just befor
e I get out of the shower, I flip the nozzle to cold. My nipples pucker as I force myself to endure the freezing downpour for a full minute before I shut the water off.
I skip underwear and throw on thin cotton pajama shorts and a tank top. Tyler takes his shower, and by the time he’s finished, I’m soaked in sweat again. The plastic air mattress is cloying, trapping heat and moisture against my skin.
“’Night, Stella.” The curtains surrounding my bed flutter as Tyler walks by but he doesn’t slow down.
My heart sinks with his casualness, but I can hardly expect warmth after being so cold to him last night. “Good night.”
I hear the boards above me creak as Tyler gets in his bed, and then I hear a whirring sound.
That bastard. He’s holding out on me.
SEVENTEEN
I seethe in silence. I know that sound—a fan. The privacy curtains make my space feel even more oppressive, without a hint of breeze.
“Tyler?” I ask quietly, unsure if he’s asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Is that a fan?”
“Yeah.”
This is so unfair. I decide to take matters into my own hands and I grab my pillow and blanket. Even sleeping on the floor under some breeze would be better than this.
I climb the stairs to his loft. “Are you decent?”
Tyler sits up and stares at me. He’s deliciously indecent—bare-chested, wearing nothing but boxers, the sheets and blankets on his bed shoved down to his feet. The fan on top of a dresser blows toward his bed.
My breath catches but I try to be businesslike. I march around his king-sized mattress and spread my blanket on the floor between the dresser and bed.
“What are you doing?” He looks utterly confused.
“It’s too hot. Since you only have one fan, I thought I could catch a little breeze up here. Is that OK?”
I flop my pillow on the floor and dare him to say no. Hair clings to my neck and my tank top is damp with sweat.
Tyler looks like he wants to say something, but he finally just mumbles OK. I lie down on the floor and shut my eyes, trying to get comfortable, but it’s really just plywood beneath my blanket. I should have brought up my yoga mat.
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) Page 11
