“What about that redhead? The tall girl who came to our practice?” Jayce asks me.
“Violet?” I ask. “She’s a freelancer.”
“Perfect,” Chief says. “We’ll pay for the photos, choose the ones we like and release them at the end of the conference. If you can get her in time.”
“Can we trust her?” Gavin asks.
“I do.” I retrieve my phone from its hiding place, plugged into its charger under a waiting room table. Violet picks up on the third ring and her voice is cloudy with sleep.
“Hi, Violet. I’m sorry to call you so late, but I need another favor.”
“Stella.” She says my name like a sigh.
“For the record, I’m not drunk, I don’t need pancakes, but I would gladly do anything for you if you could come to Roosevelt Hospital and take some pictures. Like, right now.”
Violet clears her throat. “What’s going on?”
I relate the shortest possible version of Tyler’s seizure, the media feeding frenzy, and the press conference that’s less than an hour away.
“They’ll pay you,” I promise her. “I trust you and that’s what we need right now more than anything—someone we can trust.”
I hear rustling through the phone. “Tell me the name of the hospital again?”
“You’ll do it?” I nearly squeal. I guess I didn’t believe she would, especially after the colossal favor she did for me this morning.
“Stella, I’m already halfway down my apartment stairs. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
I repeat the directions and hang up. My smile tells the band everything they need to know—Violet’s coming.
Kristina and Beryl steer me toward the bathroom at the side of the waiting room.
“We’ve got to get you ready.” Kristina hangs two garment bags from the door of a toilet stall. She unzips them, revealing four dresses.
Kristina picks through them, frowning at the first two. “Not red,” she mutters. “Black’s for a funeral. Blue is better on camera, but this dark green would look good with your hair.”
She points me to the oversized stall and tells me to try on the blue one. It still has tags on it and I ask her where she got the dresses so quickly.
“Called in a favor.” Kristina shrugs. “Personal shoppers can get after-hours access. I guessed on the size.”
I emerge from the stall and Kristina frowns again. The blue shift is definitely meant for a curvier girl, with the hips hanging too wide and the darts in the bust making my chest look even flatter than usual.
“Try the other one.”
I switch to the forest green dress, a wide boat neck that crosses over my shoulders and has a bit of stretch in the material for a closer fit.
Kristina nods her approval and Beryl takes a flatiron to my hair to smooth its air-dried lumpy frizz. As Beryl works, Kristina coats my eyelids with several shades of pale brown powder, then hands me a mascara wand.
“The cat-eye you normally do will look too extreme on TV,” she explains. “Just go for the natural look, mostly top lashes. We don’t want it to look fake.”
I snort. This is all about fake. Tyler’s in the emergency room and I’m playing beauty parlor dress-up.
When we emerge from the bathroom, Gavin has also changed into a fresh blue T-shirt, darker jeans, and shoes instead of flip-flops. Violet’s here too, with Jayce at her side.
“You ready for this?” Gavin asks me, and his arm reaches out to Beryl to pull her into his shoulder. Their closeness reminds me that this is what I’m fighting for—a chance to be with Tyler on our own terms without reporters pecking at us every moment.
Jayce leads Violet back to Tyler’s bed, his hand resting lightly on her back to steer her. I follow them and Tyler’s still asleep when we pull back the curtain.
Violet gestures me to one side of the bed, her camera out and ready. I pick up Tyler’s cool hand and caress it, thankful this is not the one strung with wires and an IV drip.
I pull up his covers to mid-chest. I arrange his hospital gown so it doesn’t pinch under his armpits and brush his dark hair off his forehead. His long lashes twitch and I still, afraid I’ll wake him. He shifts slightly and sighs, settling into a deeper sleep.
I kiss Tyler’s forehead and forget the room, Jayce, and Violet. I forget the minutes ticking down to the press conference and the dozens of instructions Chief issued.
There is nowhere else I’d rather be. No one else I want more.
THIRTY-TWO
I don’t see Jayce and Violet leave. Lost in my bubble with Tyler, I’m startled by a voice behind me.
“Stella. It’s time.”
Gavin. I squeeze Tyler’s hand one final time and brush my lips against his knuckles, then rest his hand on his chest. I follow Gavin down two flights of stairs to where Dave is waiting for us in a hallway.
“Chief’s getting the press settled in there,” Dave explains, pointing to a door. “Jayce said your pictures are good and he’s with Violet uploading them to a portal right now.”
“Any final words of wisdom?” I ask.
I’m trying to find a lighter note, but Dave looks grim. “Just the facts, Stella.”
Tyler says facts are real, but stories are not necessarily the truth. More than ever, it’s time to prove this by telling the true story of facts that drove such ugly speculation.
The door opens slightly and Chief ushers us in. I’m blinded by flashes and grateful that Gavin takes my arm to lead me to the side of the lectern where a half-dozen microphones are arranged.
Chief sets the ground rules: we’ll give short statements, then take questions by invitation only. He tells the media that exclusive photos of Tyler in the hospital will be available immediately after the conference. I hear a buzz from the press and start counting. There must be thirty or forty photographers and writers here.
Gavin speaks next, reminding the media that Tyler was the person who brought Tattoo Thief together in the first place, who developed the network that got the band their big break in New York, and who anchors the music on bass.
“I owe Tyler so much, not the least of which is a real sense of family. He and his mom, Cheryl, took me in when I was on my own, and I will always call them family.”
Gavin nods at a tall brunette in a neat suit sitting at the far side of the small auditorium. She’s not taking notes.
“We are thankful that after Tyler’s health scare, which we’ll tell you more about in a moment, that he’s stable, resting right now, and likely to be released from the hospital tomorrow. He’s healthy and this incident doesn’t affect Tattoo Thief’s next album or our tour plans.”
Gavin adds a few more details and promises to take questions at the end.
“Now I have the opportunity to introduce you to a new member of Tattoo Thief’s family, a friend we’ve become very close to recently. She’s also been my girlfriend Beryl’s best friend for many years.” Gavin gestures me to come closer to the microphones.
“I’m Stella Ramsey,” I start, and my voice wavers. Nerves threaten to strangle me but I gulp air and push the fear aside. Now is not the time to panic. If I can handle Tyler choking on his own blood, I can handle this.
“When I arrived at Tyler’s apartment this afternoon, Tyler didn’t seem like himself. He was sluggish, like he’d gone without sleep for too long.” I word this carefully as Chief instructed me, avoiding any suggestion that I thought he was drunk.
“I heard him coughing and found him choking on blood. The doctor told me later that he’d bitten partway through his tongue.”
I hear a gasp from the crowd and a stronger buzz of whispers. “You can imagine my fear for him. I rolled him on his side to prevent choking. I called 911 and let in the ambulance crew.”
I swallow and glance at Gavin, who nods to encourage me. “A seizure caused this. A diabetic seizure that was the result of low blood sugar. Tyler has Type 1 diabetes.”
I step back from the microphones and Gavin and Chief immediately
flank me. The reporters are all talking at once, and Chief holds up his hand for silence before he calls on the first questioner.
“Has Tyler had other seizures? Has he ever had one while performing?”
Gavin fields these questions simply. “No.”
Chief points to another reporter.
“Why were you in Tyler’s apartment?”
“I’m his—roommate,” I say, and the word feels bitter in my mouth. “Tyler invited me to stay with him while I moved between apartments.”
“You looked like more than roommates at the Spider-Man premiere,” the next reporter follows up. “Are you and Tyler Walsh dating? Is it exclusive?”
Something inside me shifts and my reporting instincts take over for my nerves. I remember the bridging statements I learned in my PR class, and the reporter’s playbook of retorts. No time like the present to test my skills.
“I enjoyed the premiere with Tattoo Thief and my best friend Beryl, but my relationship with Tyler isn’t a topic for discussion right now. What’s important is that he’s healthy and healing after a big scare.”
“Were you fired by The Indie Voice today because you wouldn’t do a story on Tyler?” the next reporter asks, and I squint but I can’t see who’s asking. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was someone from my former paper.
“The Indie Voice published two stories I wrote about Tattoo Thief, one about Gavin’s song, ‘Wilderness,’ and one profiling the band’s practice,” I answer.
When Chief nods to the next reporter, there’s blood in the water. “You didn’t answer the question. Weren’t you fired? And can you explain why you screamed obscenities and threw coffee mugs at your former boss, Heath Rhodes?”
Gavin tilts his head slightly to hide a smile.
“I think we disagreed on the fundamentals of my role, so yes, I’m seeking other opportunities. I explained to Mr. Rhodes that my career goals were in music and feature journalism, not celebrity gossip.”
I let the subtext of that sink in among the reporters: I don’t want to be like you.
But now I’ve stirred the hornet’s nest. “Was Tyler Walsh a heavy drug or alcohol user like you, Ms. Ramsey? I have sources confirming you routinely drank heavily on reporting assignments, including an incident this morning at the bar two blocks from your former employer.”
What the fuck? There was no incident, just Violet helping a drunk girl down from her barstool and off to the land of pancakes. But now that the question has been asked, the lie is seeded as fact.
Fix false facts first. That’s the mantra I learned in class, so I take apart the question, bit by bit. “First, Tyler Walsh is not a drug abuser in any sense. Second, he rarely drinks alcohol. I’ve seen Tyler have a light beer occasionally, but it’s nothing compared to the way I abused alcohol.”
I hear Chief suck in a breath behind me. I’m going off-script, but I don’t care. This is the truth, all of it, and I’m tired of sparring.
“I drank too much and too often. I drank to get numb or relax or just plain get wasted. Tyler saw what I was doing and demanded that I stop. I’m grateful for that. And while I haven’t been perfect—getting drunk this morning after getting fired is proof of that—I’m committed to staying sober.”
Chief’s face reddens but his mild, plastic smile doesn’t twitch. Gavin pats my elbow, the quietest and most appreciated “Atta girl” I’ve ever known.
Chief points to a reporter in the front row, and I hope for a change in subject. I get my wish, but the first two words out of the reporter’s mouth are a nightmare.
“Kim Archer plans to sue Tyler Walsh to retain full custody of her baby girl, claiming he’s an unfit father due to his alleged drug overdose. How will you respond to the lawsuit?”
I step back from the microphones as if they’ve transformed into snakes. There’s nothing in that question I want to touch.
But Gavin offers his most charming smile. “If Kim Archer is so genuinely concerned about identifying the father of her daughter, why has she failed to respond to six requests for genetic testing?” he asks.
The room hushes in shock.
“Why has she chosen to wage a public war against a man who she pursued from the beginning? Why was Tyler forced to change his phone number after she repeatedly harassed him? The fact that Kim Archer has a child does not make Tyler a father. The fact that they dated, even during a certain timeframe, does not confirm his paternity. Only a DNA test can do that.”
Gavin’s eyes are fierce and fiery as he defends the man who is the closest thing he has to a brother. “So while we’re here at the hospital, we’ve prepared two blood samples for testing with an independent lab. One will confirm that Tyler is not, in fact, the father of Kim Archer’s child. The other will confirm that he has no drugs whatsoever in his system. We dare Kim to match him—on both counts.”
The echo from Gavin’s last statement ricochets off the back wall and the reporters buzz from the drama. This is what Gavin meant about spinning the story our way. I can see I have a lot to learn from a man trained in the school of hard tabloid knocks.
Chief calls on a frantically waving hand from the middle row. “But Kim has provided proof that Tyler is the father. He gave her ten thousand dollars to buy her silence.”
Gavin scoffs. “And I’ve got a ten-thousand-dollar bridge to sell you. The only thing the money proves is that Tyler is generous and naïve. He knows Kim doesn’t have much money, and he wanted her baby to have a good life. But Kim twisted that gift against him as purported proof the baby was his. And you fell for it.”
This is getting ugly and I’m loving every minute of it now that I’m no longer in the hot seat.
“Last question,” Chief warns, and jabs his finger toward a man at the back.
“Gavin, you claimed responsibility for Lulu Stirling’s drug overdose, but you haven’t answered for Tyler’s incident today. Was his seizure caused by a drug overdose, too?”
I reel back, fearful that this question will hit too close to home for Gavin. I wish I could throw myself in the path of this bullet to protect him. His face twitches and I can see it’s hit its mark.
Gavin looks down and takes a breath, his hands gripping the lectern so hard his knuckles are white.
“Yes,” he whispers, and the room is silent. “The drug Tyler overdosed on is … insulin. And in tribute to the paramedics and doctors who helped Tyler today, Tattoo Thief is making a donation to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation to help kids and adults like Tyler better manage their diabetes. And if you join us in donating, I’ll match it.”
Holy wow, Batman. Gavin just landed the knockout punch.
Chief shoves us out the side door while the reporters yell more questions. I focus on Gavin’s broad shoulders in front of me as I follow him down a corridor and into a room where the rest of the band, Beryl, Kristina, and Violet are waiting for us. A closed-circuit television shows a live feed from the pressroom.
Beryl wraps Gavin and me in a fervent hug. “You were amazing! Just stellar!”
I shake my head and point to her boyfriend. “Oh, no. I was warming up amateur hour compared to Gavin. He killed it.”
“What about getting fired? Was that true? Did you really get fired over Tyler?”
“Yep. This morning kind of sucked, until Violet rescued me.” I gesture to her to come closer to our little group, but she hangs back.
“This is a story I have to hear,” Jayce says, then spots the brunette I saw in the pressroom as she slips in the door. “Mom!”
Jayce wraps his ridiculously fat biceps around the woman and lifts her off her feet as she laughs.
“Put me down, Jayce! I don’t have Tyler here to protect me.” Jayce releases her and she pats his cheek. “I can’t believe I have to keep saying this, but look at you! You’ve grown.”
Jayce flexes his arms with pride. “Dave’s a slave-driver on the weights. You should see Tyler.”
“I’m dying to. I just got here and when I told the front des
k I was here for Tyler Walsh, they sent me to the media circus instead of his room. I think they thought I was a reporter.”
“I don’t blame them. You look good, Mom,” Gavin says, giving her a gentler hug than Jayce.
“Thanks for what you said about being part of our family,” she says. “Even though it’s been years since you moved, I still miss you guys making noise in my garage and destroying my refrigerator.”
Gavin turns the woman toward me. “I think Stella would like to say hello.”
I swallow. I would, but I don’t know where to start. “Hello, uh, Mrs. Walsh.” I hold out my hand to shake, but she wraps me in a warm embrace.
“You can call me Cheryl or Mom—that’s what the guys call me. I’m so glad to meet you face to face, after all that Tyler’s told me. Would you walk me to his room?”
Cheryl waves at the band and follows me upstairs, asking gentle questions about how I’m feeling after the press conference and if I’ve eaten.
I answer wrong and her eyes crinkle with concern.
I pull back the curtain around Tyler’s bed and he’s still sleeping. Cheryl wraps his hand in hers and strokes his hair. I shrink back toward the gap in the curtain to give them privacy.
“Stella, you can stay. He’d want you here, too.”
Tyler stirs at the sound of his mother’s voice. His eyes blink open slowly, his head turning to look at each of us. “Mah. Ella.” A smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“Tyler, you stinker, what kind of trouble have you gotten into now?” Cheryl asks.
Tyler shrugs and points to his mouth.
“Lucky Stella. She’ll get no arguments from you for a week,” Cheryl laughs. “Stella just did a press conference with Gavin. They stuck up for you. You would have been proud.”
“Ah am,” Tyler says, reaching his free hand out for me. I take it and squeeze, letting tears of happiness fall down my cheeks as the weight of the day lifts from my shoulders.
***
I argue desperately to stay by Tyler’s bedside through the night, but Cheryl and Tyler overrule me. It’s long past midnight when we leave the hospital, and Gavin directs his driver to escort Cheryl and me to Tyler’s loft.
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) Page 22
