Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief)

by Tretheway, Heidi Joy

  Tyler bends and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, avoiding my deep ruby lips that Jemma somehow plumped to epic proportions. I feel the heat from his lips course through my body, zinging and bouncing through me like a pinball machine.

  I can’t help leaning into him. Even though I don’t have the words to tell him how I feel, I close the inches between us. His breath catches and his fingers trail from my waist up my ribs, his eyes heated and wanting.

  “Would it be weird if I told you about the things I want to do to you right now?” he murmurs. “They’re illegal in some states.”

  My eyes widen with the promise in his gaze—hungry, voracious even. After what he’s already done to me, I’m more than willing.

  “Tyler?” Gavin calls from the living room. “Stop making out with Stella and get out here. The car’s downstairs.”

  Tyler’s lips purse to suppress his grin. “Who says we’re just making out?” he calls.

  Naughty boy.

  Gavin laughs and I follow Tyler to the living room, where Beryl is stunning in a vampy purple strapless dress that shows off her hourglass figure. Mine is black and beaded, a halter neck with a deep vee in the back that feels flapper-esque.

  We pile into a stretch limo, picking up Dave and Kristina, then Jayce and Shelly. Gavin pours champagne and I glance at Tyler and decline the glass. I’d like a couple pre-function shots in my system, but I just told Tyler I’ve stopped drinking.

  It makes me do stupid shit.

  I was fine with stupid when my life was a blur of shows, late nights and anonymous bad boys, but Tyler’s goodness makes me want to be good, too.

  “So what’s your manager’s game plan?” Kristina asks, her ice-blue gown glowing under the car’s violet interior lights. “Are you going in first or are we arm candy?”

  Dave checks his phone before answering and frowns. “I still haven’t heard back from Chief. Let’s have the band go in first. We’ll do the press rail and you ladies can take the direct route. Meet you inside.”

  Kristina nods, as much the girls’ team captain as Dave is Tattoo Thief’s. She’s done this for months, but Beryl, Shelly and I are newbies. Shelly giggles and snuggles closer to Jayce, whose hand rides high on her thigh.

  The car slows and the girls hang back, letting Tattoo Thief exit first in a barrage of flashing lights. On the other side of the tinted glass, dozens of photographers swarm Emma Stone, one of the stars of The Amazing Spider-Man 2. She poses with her date, who towers over her the way Tyler would tower over me.

  I’m glad I’m not going out in that. I’d probably trip in my heels and do a faceplant on the red carpet.

  The guys straighten their jackets, waving at the crowd outside of our car. Girls shriek I love you at Tattoo Thief. It reminds me that there are thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of women who would happily shove me aside for a shot at Tyler.

  I expect the band to follow Emma down the red carpet but a stocky guy with a skinny beard catches Dave by the elbow and whispers in his ear. Dave turns back to the band and nods his head to the car where we’re waiting behind a closed door.

  Oh, shit.

  Beryl sees the panic in my eyes when Dave opens the car door and offers a hand to Kristina. Jayce is next, and Shelly shimmies out of the car, her breasts barely contained in a strapless, sequined fuchsia cocktail dress that screams look at me.

  Beryl squeezes my hand, aware this is the last thing I want. “Just smile, look at Tyler and don’t answer any questions,” she says. “Pretend you don’t even hear them.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Tyler! Tyler, give us a smile over here!” Tyler turns to the photographers calling his name, smiling at them with his body cemented to my side.

  He stands tall and proud, grinning like he just won the lottery. I can almost forget the flashing and the screaming and how this could look to my editor. Almost. Why did I agree to come with him?

  He wraps my hand under his elbow and bends to my ear. I catch his words floating just above the roar of the crowd as girls scream his name. “The best thing about being here right now is being with you.”

  I draw strength from his touch. I replay Beryl’s instructions in my head, smiling like crazy as my eyes bounce between the red carpet ahead of me and Tyler’s handsome profile.

  He really is gorgeous. His light olive skin glows with health and I have a fleeting thought about his diabetes. He looks so strong and vital; it’s shocking to think that every day he’s locked in a complicated dance that demands constant attention to his blood sugar.

  “Tyler! Who’s this? Where’s Kim Archer?”

  My head swivels to Tyler and my face betrays surprise. He squeezes my arm and keeps smiling, though it no longer reaches his eyes. I smile back at him, all teeth and no twinkle.

  Something’s very wrong.

  “When did you and Kim break up? Is this your new girlfriend?” More shouts from the photographers and I hear a clanging in my head as I start to piece together their shouts into a narrative.

  “Where’s your baby?”

  “How do you feel about being a father?”

  “What does Kim Archer think about your new girlfriend?”

  Tyler’s stride is plodding, the joy I saw in his eyes when I first exited the limo replaced by terror. He smiles and waves at the crowd as if nothing’s wrong, but I feel the invisible arrows hit his body with each question.

  “Did you know about the baby?”

  “Were you there at the birth or were you on tour?”

  “Why aren’t you taking responsibility for your child?”

  That last one stings and a gate drops down on Tyler’s face, a stony expression to get us across the last few yards of the red carpet. But before we can escape, the man with the skinny beard, whom I now recognize as Tattoo Thief’s manager, anchors Tyler’s other arm.

  “You’ve got to talk to them, Tyler,” the manager hisses over the noise of the crowd. “Kim Archer cashed in her threat and went to the media. The story just hit the wire and Twitter. Time for damage control.”

  My smile is plastic and my cheeks ache. I make a move to release his arm and let him talk to the press alone, but Tyler clamps down on my hand.

  “I need you with me, Stella. Just remember: Facts are real. Stories aren’t always true.” Tyler’s voice rasps and I remember these words. They’re the same words he spoke the first night I went to his loft to see his practice space.

  The manager gives me a once-over and a word of warning. “What you say and do right now will affect Tyler immensely.”

  I swallow and force my grin wider to show Tyler I’ve got his back. We face the throng of reporters.

  With each new question, the assault gets more pointed and more personal.

  “What’s your relationship with Kim Archer now? Does she know about your new girlfriend?” A blonde in a Grecian-draped navy gown pushes a microphone under Tyler’s mouth and his jaw tenses as he measures his next words carefully. A black-clad cameraman hovers over the blonde’s shoulder.

  “Relationships are more complicated that a soundbite, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiles and the reporter’s back arches slightly. She’s responding to his physical presence the way any woman would. With a swoon.

  “So you’re still together with Kim? Or are you with…” the reporter looks at me and pushes the microphone closer to his mouth, willing him to fill in my name.

  “I’m really excited to see the Spider-Man premiere tonight. Working on its soundtrack was inspiring. Did you ask Emma Stone about the scene that features our song?” Tyler grins again, letting the non sequitur sink in.

  He just said no comment without saying that on camera. It’s a technique I learned in journalism school, and I admire his savvy. Tape of him saying “no comment” or looking flustered would be played again and again with the reporter’s voiceover describing an alleged torrid affair. That would be damaging, but what Tyler’s giving right now is harmless.

  Facts are real. Stories aren’t al
ways true.

  The reporter’s questions have my brain swirling and I’m seething. It’s not quite jealousy—more the empty feeling of being left out of this part of his life. I suspect this is the secret he hasn’t shared with Dave or Gavin yet.

  Seeing she’ll make no headway with Tyler, the reporter turns to me. “Have you seen Tyler’s baby?” It’s a point-blank question with only a yes or no response, and I cover my hesitation with a small cough.

  “I’ve seen more than you would imagine,” I tell her and lift my eyebrows. She leans in toward me, her eyes coaxing me for a girlfriend-to-girlfriend spill. But this act is bullshit, and I’ve been playing her side of the game long enough to know better.

  “I’ve seen Tyler be an amazing friend. His talent speaks for itself, but what people don’t see is a guy who’s willing to go out of his way to help others.” I take a half-step back from the microphone, my smile bright and my body language signaling this interview’s end.

  Tyler pivots us and walks to the next reporter, whom I recognize from Entertainment Weekly. Now we’re in lock step, smiling and playing off each other as if this press chat is just a barrel of laughs. This is important—if a paparazzo captures just one cranky look on his ten-frames-per-second digital camera, that’s the shot we’ll see online later tonight.

  Tyler answers questions with the minimum amount of information and I glean more about the baby and the fact that Kim Archer is a real part of his past. He won’t say anything more than she’s “an engaging person” and he “wishes her the best” but I feel the strain as his arm tenses through his suit.

  I want to ask him about everything right this minute. I want to know who Kim was to him, what she looks like, and if her three-month-old baby girl is, indeed, his.

  Could it be true? A year ago, Tattoo Thief’s fame exploded. The band’s first album, Feast, was in heavy rotation on pop, rock and alternative radio. I don’t expect that Tyler’s lived like a monk in the past, but I’m not sure I’m ready to face the real consequences if a fling created something more.

  A person. A baby. My stomach clenches at the memory of my pregnancy and I’m not ready to ask him for the truth. Facts are real, but stories aren’t always the truth? Tyler’s statement feels more like a riddle with each moment.

  Tattoo Thief’s manager finally rescues us, pulling us away from our last interview and into the relative safety of the theater lobby where press are banned. I look around desperately for Beryl but see no one I recognize.

  Tyler tips up my chin and looks carefully at my face. He’s no longer performing for the cameras and his eyes are tight and frightened. “You get through that OK?”

  I nod, then shake my head as the weight of the questions crashes on my shoulders. I was so unprepared for this, and it’s clear he was, too.

  Tyler pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a hasty text, watching the phone for an immediate response. When it flashes, I read the reply from Gavin. Beryl will be right out.

  “I have to go in. Beryl’s going to take you somewhere private. Take all the time you need, OK?” Tyler’s thumb strokes my shoulder and I don’t know whether to run from him or to him. This is all too much to take in.

  Beryl sweeps into the lobby in a flash of deep purple and she pulls me away from Tyler, her eyes narrowed with anger. “You have some serious explaining to do,” she throws over her shoulder. The story blindsided the rest of the band and reporters pumped them for information, too.

  Beryl leads me to a stairway tucked at the far edge of the theater lobby and we climb, not speaking, our eyes exchanging the knowledge that some serious shit has just gone down.

  She pushes open a door to a sitting room with leather couches, a full-length mirror and a long vanity. Beyond that, another door leads to sinks and toilets.

  “What just happened?” I whisper, clutching Beryl’s hand and trying to decipher the press rail blur.

  “You didn’t know either? Jayce just filled us in. Tyler had a fling with some chick a year ago, and now she claims he’s the father of her child. Gavin and Dave didn’t know this was even happening and they’re livid.”

  I look up at the sitting room lights and blink rapidly, willing away the sting in my eyes as the word fling confirms that Kim Archer is real. And she was with Tyler.

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. Gavin thinks she’s just a hot groupie who caught Tyler’s eye. He said she was all over him for a month or two.”

  I grimace, hating the visuals Beryl’s putting in my head. “Why did this all come out now?”

  Beryl shrugs. “I guess it was timed for maximum damage. Jayce said her lawyers have been after Tyler for a couple weeks, trying to get him to cough up a lump sum or child support or something. The timeframe fits, but she hasn’t proved the baby is his yet.”

  Timeframe? Oh. The time when Tyler was fucking her coincides with when the baby was conceived. I hate the word yet in Beryl’s last words. And I’m also insanely jealous of this other woman, no matter how deeply she’s buried in Tyler’s past.

  The sitting room door swings open and a woman in a dramatic red gown sweeps by us on her way to the restroom. Beryl straightens and smiles at her, and I admire her poise. Thanks to Beryl’s housesitting job, she’s spent time in the company of the stratospherically wealthy, and I appreciate that she doesn’t let that wealth intimidate her.

  When the woman passes, Beryl gives me a swift hug. “We can’t talk about it here. This is what we’re going to do: go downstairs, sit back and enjoy the movie, and then let the men who are crazy about us take us home to bed.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “It is easy, Stella. No matter how many women scream at Gavin and Tyler, we’re the ones they picked. Chin up and own that. Whoever this Kim Archer chick is, she’s part of Tyler’s past, but not his future.”

  Unless. That word creeps into my mind at the end of Beryl’s sentence. A baby is forever. If Tyler fathered Kim’s child, she’s guaranteed to be a permanent part of every Christmas and birthday from this day forward. The thought sickens me.

  Beryl leads me down the theater aisle to the third row where Tattoo Thief is seated. Servers dressed as old-time cigarette girls pass out retro candy, gourmet popcorn and cocktails.

  I take my seat between Tyler and Beryl and immediately Tyler’s arm is around my shoulders, his lips moving against my ear.

  “Stella. I’m so sorry you had to hear it like this. You deserve better.” Tyler’s face is pained and his whisper raw. I feel like I’m gliding on a knife edge, forced to choose whether to cut him down or comfort him.

  I choose to help. I turn to face him and my lips brush his, coaxing the first real smile I’ve seen from him since he helped me out of the limousine. “It’s not about what we deserve, remember, Tyler? It’s grace, forgiveness, and maybe luck.”

  I kiss him again, letting my mouth linger on his long enough that he can’t mistake my meaning. He blindsided us with this media disaster and I could freak out or get angry, but I’m not going to. For the first time, my connection to a guy runs deeper than my concern for myself. I want Tyler to make it out of this OK.

  I catch a familiar face out of the corner of my eye and I look up just as the house lights go down and pitch me into disorienting darkness. My pulse races and I struggle to understand why. Is it fear? Anger? I’m not sure who I just spotted, or if my eyes were mistaken. I shouldn’t know anyone here but Tattoo Thief and friends.

  I try to escape from this flash and the tension set on Tyler’s face by watching the movie. I even try celebrity spotting without being too obvious. Jamie Foxx and Andrew Garfield sit in the front row.

  Throughout—action scenes, funny parts, even the romantic bits—Tyler clutches my hand like a life ring. I try to ease his tight grip by stroking his hand, letting him know that I’m here, I’m attuned to him, and I’ll protect him.

  That’s what I did with my interview answers. And that’s what I want to do now
in whatever way he’ll let me. Since I met Tyler, I’ve been in one stupid disaster after another, and each time he’s rescued me.

  Homeless. Drunk. Crushed under a fence. Running in fear of an editor’s threat. Maybe this string of screw-ups in my life isn’t repellant to Tyler. Maybe it’s exactly what he needs to relate to me?

  I remember a line Tyler lobbed in our latest round of guess-the-lyrics: “I cheer, I rave, for the virtue I’m too late to save.” That’s from “The Sadder-But-Wiser Girl” in The Music Man, a song about wanting a woman who’s been hurt and who’s made mistakes.

  Tyler doesn’t want a Barbie doll. He told me as much when he rejected Teal at the Bowery Hotel; he even called Jayce’s groupies “dollies,” because they were so overly made-up that they appeared very much like real dolls.

  Flawless. Faultless. Plastic.

  I’m flawed in every way—foul-mouthed and flat-chested, short-tempered and career-impaired. It feels impossible that Tyler and I could be together. It feels too good to be true.

  I guess Kim Archer is proof of that.

  When the movie ends, Tattoo Thief’s members are somber, each still digesting what happened in the media lineup. It’s clear Gavin and Dave are still angry but they’re not going to have it out here. Dave decides we’ll scatter again and sends us out different exits to avoid the cluster of reporters outside the main entrance.

  I follow Tyler out a side door where a black car is waiting for us. As I climb in, I hear pounding footsteps and shouting. A reporter is running toward our car.

  “Tyler! Do you deny Kim Archer’s baby is your child?”

  Tyler jumps in the car behind me and slams the door. He can’t get away from this nightmare fast enough.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  We don’t talk on the ride to his loft, but I inch across the seat and work my hand beneath Tyler’s to twine our fingers together. He looks surprised at this gesture, as if I thought he was repellent, but he allows me to hold his hand.

  His head is bent—with what? Shame? Guilt?