Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (19 page)

I was wrong. A $100 cab ride from Hoboken proves it. Also, the nasty sneakers and maid’s uniform currently in your trashcan. I’d say, ‘don’t ask,’ but if you do, I’ll tell you the whole story.

I feel like I can’t find a way to steer my life, like my rudder is broken. I get what you mean about searching. I get being stuck. But now I’m so un-stuck I might come unglued. I’m drifting from thing to thing, and I’m not handling any of it right.

Like you said, I need an anchor. I need a friend. I wish you’d talk to me again.

I hope you’re safe and happy. I hope you heard Maasai songs and they made your heart sing. I hope you come home soon. It looks totally different already.

I love it. I hope you do.

I miss you,

Beryl

I keep watch over Gavin’s gray bubble like a vigil. If I had my phone, I could send a text to Anthony, sure he’d go caveman on Peter in a heartbeat. Anthony’s sharp and strong and possessive. But what I need is Gavin.

He’s broken, and I think he gets what’s broken in me.

I’m drifting to sleep under a blanket on the couch when I hear my laptop’s familiar ping.

Gavin:
Beryl, I’m here for you.

I scramble for my computer, pulling it on my lap.

Me:
Gavin.

Gavin:
Are you safe? Are you OK now?

Me:
I’m safe at your place. I dozed off on the couch. But I’m still not OK.

Gavin:
Tell me.

And so I type him the whole awful story, from charming Peter to rich Peter to dangerous Peter. Gavin rarely interrupts, just a few comments to let me know he’s listening.

Gavin:
I’m sorry I went dark. I wish I had been there for you. I would have helped you.

Me:
I know you would.

Gavin:
I never would have let you go with him. I know his type. Spoiled. Rich. Thinks he can get away with anything.

Me:
Look who’s talking.

Gavin:
Ouch.

Me:
Sorry. You know I didn’t mean it that way.

Gavin:
No. It’s fair, considering what you’ve seen of me. I came apart and did pretty much anything I wanted.

Me:
You hurt someone to get what you wanted.

I freeze. There it is. Another accusation, and I’m sure Gavin’s going to run away from me again.

Me:
Oh, shit, Gavin. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.

Gavin:
Bull. You did mean that. And I can handle it. I’ve done a lot of thinking this week, about how I have to face the truth, and admit it. If I don’t, I’ll never get past it.

Me:
And?

Gavin:
I have to admit that I used Lulu. She helped me write, helped me refine my songs. And even when she was spiraling—and I knew she needed help—I kept using her. I didn’t want her to go into treatment, not right away, because I needed her.

Me:
Did she need you?

Gavin:
She needed a lot of things. She needed someone who would protect her. Who could save her from herself. But I didn’t do that for her. That guilt keeps chasing me no matter how far I go.

Me:
I feel like I need a protector. Two bad dates has me thinking my brain or my heart doesn’t work right.

Gavin:
Wait—two?

Me:
Yeah. I went out with a guy last week. That didn’t go well either.

Gavin:
What did he do to you?

Me:
Nothing. I mean, I stopped things before they went that far.

Gavin:
Why?

Me:
If I tell you, you’ll think I’m ridiculous.

Gavin:
Tell me anyway. And I don’t think you’re ridiculous. Not at all.

Me:
I heard you. On the radio.

Gavin:
When?

Me:
When we were … you know. This is embarrassing.

Gavin:
Are you saying my voice killed the mood?

Me:
Something like that.

Gavin:
Double ouch.

Me:
I didn’t mean it like that.

Gavin:
Then what?

Me:
I heard your song and it was like you were there in the room with us. And I wanted to be with you. More than with him. That’s why I stopped.

Gavin:
Oh.

Me:
I sound like an idiot. I can’t believe I told you that. Now you’re going to think I’ve gone all fangirl on you.

Gavin:
Have you?

Me:
No. I mean, I like your music, but it’s not that. It’s this—our conversations.

Gavin:
Not my killer bod?

Me:
Hello, ego. I’m Beryl.

Gavin:
I was joking.

Me:
Yeah. But you do have a killer bod. I Googled you.

Gavin:
I told you not to! The last thing I want is for you to start believing some of the garbage online.

Me:
Sorry. You’ve probably figured out I don’t always do what I’m told.

Gavin:
Me, neither. But will you do something for me, if I ask you?

Me:
Yes.

Gavin:
Anything?

Me:
That’s a big request.

Gavin:
Trust me.

Me:
I do.

Gavin:
Go upstairs to my room. Take your computer.

Me:
OK. I’m here.

Gavin:
Open the bottom drawer of my dresser.

Me:
K.

Gavin:
There’s a shirt in there. Light blue, lots of holes. It says Camp Crestwood.

Me:
Found it.

Gavin:
Put it on.

Me:
???

Gavin:
Just do it, Beryl. You said you trust me.

I strip down to my underwear and pull his shirt over my head. It’s soft and paper-thin from hundreds of washings.

Me:
OK.

Gavin:
This is me giving you a hug, Beryl. It’s the closest thing I can think of. I want to hold you and tell you things will get better.

I inhale the shirt’s smell and suddenly Gavin’s there, wrapped around me. I bring the shirt to my nose and catch the musky scent of his soap and his sweat.

Me:
I feel you. I can smell you.

Gavin:
Good. Now get in my bed.

I pull back the stark white duvet cover that’s crisp and new, another change I made to Gavin’s home.

Gavin:
Which side are you on?

Me:
The left side. Closer to the bathroom.

Gavin:
That’s my side! Can you scoot over?

Me:
No. I like this spot better.

Gavin:
Beryl, you’re killing me over here.

Me:
Fine. Have it your way.

I scoot over to the other side, even though he can’t see me.

Gavin:
I Googled you, too, you know.

Me:
Seriously? I doubt there’s much to show for it.

Gavin:
You’d be surprised. I found tons of articles you wrote for the
Oregon
Daily Emerald
and the
Cottage Grove Sentinel
.

Me:
They sucked.

Gavin:
No. You’ve got talent. I like how you start your stories.

Me:
It’s called a lead.

Gavin:
Yeah. The one about the hot air balloon that did a forced landing in a cul-de-sac. About the wind?

Me:
The lead was, “The wind wasn’t cooperative, but the neighbors were.”

Gavin:
That was cool. Do you write other stuff?

Me:
Stories and poems and stuff. In a journal, just because I can.

Gavin:
That’s why I started doing music. I want you to send me something you’ve written. Something nobody else has seen. Can you do that?

Me:
Yes.

Gavin:
Promise?

Me:
Pinky swear.

Gavin:
I saw pictures of you. You’re beautiful.

Me:
LOL

Gavin:
Don’t insult me by telling me my eyes don’t work right. I love your smile.

Me:
I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.

Gavin:
They’re not in my bed right now.

Me:
But they were.

Gavin:
You know how to kick a guy when he’s down. I admit I had my share of adventure.

Me:
I know. Google tells all.

Gavin:
Don’t believe everything it tells you. The life of a rock star is seriously exaggerated. When we started, none of us in the band could get a date. But when we started getting famous, girls just came from everywhere, throwing themselves at us.

Me:
Poor you.

Gavin:
Don’t snark. There was a tipping point when it got out of control and I had to start shutting it down, isolating myself from fans. That’s when it got lonely.

Me:
Were you lonely? When you left?

Gavin:
Lonely doesn’t even begin to cover it. More than anything, I was angry. I hated myself. I hated my band mates for not setting things straight, for letting me keep pulling at Lulu instead of pushing her into treatment. And I hated my assistant for helping me hurt her. He didn’t kill Lulu, but he bought her the stuff that did.

Me:
No wonder you fired him.

Gavin:
I’m surprised I didn’t kill him. I’m surprised I didn’t kill myself.

Me:
You wouldn’t.

Gavin:
No. You’re right. Life is too exciting and messy and unpredictable to give up. I’m telling you all this crap about what I hated in my life, but it was an adventure.

Me:
That’s what I wanted when I came to New York—an adventure. I wanted exciting and messy and unpredictable.

Gavin:
And?

Me:
Well, tonight sucked, but most of my time in the city has been incredible.

Gavin:
I hope all of tonight didn’t suck.

Me:
No. Not now. I like being here with you. I feel like you’re closer, being in your shirt and your bed.

Gavin:
I wish I could feel you. I’d rub your back. I’d spoon you.

Me:
And pet my hair?

Gavin:
For as long as you want me to. Until you fall asleep.

Me:
Would you stay with me? Or would you get up in the middle of the night and go somewhere else if I snore?

Gavin:
Of course I’d stay. And in the morning I’d kiss you awake. Like Sleeping Beauty.

Me:
Then you’d be sorely disappointed. I sleep ugly. If you were here tonight, you’d wake up next to a girl with raccoon-eye makeup and hair sticking up in twenty directions. You’d be horrified.

Gavin:
I’d be horny. I’d have you out of my shirt and flat on your back. And trust me, I wouldn’t be looking at your hair.

I squirm and my hand trails down my stomach, fingering the edge of my underwear. This is getting really personal. But I’m dying for him to tell me more.

Me:
Don’t stop there.

Gavin:
You want me to tell you everything? Tell you how it will be when I kiss you and steal your breath? When I kiss your breast and hear your gasp for the first time?

Me:
Yes.

Gavin:
I’ll tell you how we’ll feel, skin to skin. I’ll tell you how I’ll take time to explore you, and how I’ll find the spot inside you with that catch, that switch that makes you more alive than anything.

I find the catch he describes and my breathing shallows. I type the next word urgently.

Me:
More.

Gavin:
We’ll lock together and find a rhythm that will make you forget where you are. You’ll forget what’s happened before—the bad dates and the bad guys and the way they hurt you. But I’ll make you remember how it feels to fly.

Me:
Yes.

Gavin:
Are you flying now? Are you touching where I will be when I finally get to be part of you?

Me:
Yessssssssssss

I lean on the S key because I’m incoherent, soaring as I hit a peak, then gliding on a high that really is like flying. I feel Gavin’s softness in his shirt, I smell the musk and cedar of his scent and soap, I hear his words in my head. As I’m touching my body, he’s touching my soul.

Gavin:
Beryl. I’m here. I’m holding you—my shirt and my pillows and my bed are everywhere I’ll be when I’m back.

Me:
When?

That’s the word that matters to me.

Gavin:
I have to do something before I come home. I’m in Bali and I’m going to Sydney next.

Me:
Civilization?!

Gavin:
Yeah. It will be a shocker.

Me:
And then you’ll come back?

Gavin:
I will. Beryl, you need to sleep. It’s the middle of the night, and I don’t want you wrecked tomorrow because of me.

Me:
I don’t want to let you go.

Gavin:
Don’t worry. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be here tomorrow, same time.

Me:
Gavin.

Gavin:
Yes?

Me:
Thank you. For being my anchor. And for letting me fly.

Gavin:
Just be there when I get home.

Me:
Hurry.

I arrive at the office early on Monday morning and push through a pile of new paperwork to regain my grasp on reality.