Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (14 page)

Me:
Maybe you need a friend to give it to you straight, even if you don’t want to hear it. Cut the crap, Gavin. Own what happened. Everything you did or didn’t do. Don’t explain it away like, “you don’t understand,” or, “I was under so much pressure.” Own that shit!

Gavin:
I’ve heard enough.

He goes dark again and my stomach plummets. I smack my laptop shut, angry with him for abandoning our chat and angry with myself for dishing out exactly what he said he couldn’t take—more conviction.

All the reversals leave me drained and aching, feeling the whiplash as he lets me in and then shuts me out. My responsible side craves stability and Gavin offers none of that. With every conversation, the sand shifts beneath me and I’m not sure what he wants from me. Or if he wants me at all.

I know I should walk away now, but the hook’s set too deep. I believe in him. When I read his lyrics, I finally understood him.

But I don’t know how to make him understand me. I don’t know how to help him heal before he drowns in his own guilt or shame.

Stella earns a nasty look from our yoga instructor as she grills me on the rest of my night with Anthony. I’m in downward-facing dog position, feeling the pull in the back of my legs, when she hisses her ultimate question.

“So how is he in bed?”

“I have no idea,” I pant. “We made out in the cab and then I got out at Gavin’s place.”

“Seriously? That guy was hot. He was built like a tank. And you were obviously into him, sucking face for, like, an hour. Why not go for it?”

I can’t tell her that I feel like I’d betray Gavin by bringing another guy to his apartment, so I give her a different reason.

“Jeff.”

“You are
not
still stuck on him?”

“No, I’m wayyyy over him,” I assure her. “It’s just—he left a mark. And getting kissed the way Anthony was doing it last night brought all of those feelings back, hard.”

Stella lowers her knees to her mat and turns to face me, her wide eyes gentle. “Beryl, Jeff was a jerk to expect you to trail after him like a good little wifey. You had to do your own thing, and this is it. But you can’t pull back from every guy thinking he’ll ditch you because you’re not—”

She balks, but my mind is already completing the line:
because I’m not good enough
. Or,
because I’m not who he wants me to be
. I don’t even know who Gavin wants me to be. Friend? House sitter?

The more that I know, the less I’m sure of what I want to be for him.

The yoga teacher’s next instruction interrupts my train of un-
om
-like thought and I turn back to Stella.

“I’m over him,” I assure her. “Just because Jeff isn’t willing to stick around while I try something new doesn’t mean I can’t find someone who
likes
that I don’t have it all figured out. Maybe he doesn’t have it figured out either. Who knows? Gavin might turn out to be the catch of the century.”

Stella stares at me. “He’s
definitely
the catch of the century.”

“I meant Anthony,” I choke, realizing my mistake. “I wasn’t talking about Gavin. I’m going out with
Anthony
on Tuesday.”

“With Gavin on the brain? That’s a recipe for trouble,” Stella says, stretching to the new pose without effort. I envy her lithe, slim body that can bend in any shape while I huff and puff through this class.

“Look, Gavin’s never going to happen,” I say, as much to convince Stella as to convince myself. His silence is eating at me. “He’s thousands of miles away. I just have him on the brain because I’ve been doing all this stuff on his house.”

“Sure.” She’s skeptical. “So what’s on the menu for Anthony? And I don’t mean the food.”

***

It’s creeping close to eight and I’m nervous for my first date in New York. I decide to skip my bumpkinwear and go straight for the good stuff in Lulu’s closet—an off-white high-waisted dress with a full skirt that’s been dip-died in raspberry tones. With my dark hair down it looks fantastic.

I put on my favorite necklace—my dad’s flight wings from his leather jacket, which I had soldered to a gold chain—and woven platform sandals.

Charles gives me a low whistle and then breaks into a grin, opening the door with a flourish. He signals a taxi and just as I’m about to step in I have a moment of inspiration and thrust my phone in Charles’s hand.

“Can you take a picture of me?” I ask him. “I want to send it to my mom.” I pose in front of the yellow cab, my hand on its door, and smile wide as he hits the button.

“Thank you!” I give him a peck on the cheek and dive into the taxi, ignoring the cabbie’s annoyed huff for making him wait thirty seconds. I send the photo to my mom in a text, telling her I’m having fun, I’m safe and not to worry.

Mom:
When you say not to worry, it makes me worry.

Me:
Sorry, Mom. I’m fine. Really.

Mom:
Do you want me to come see you? I’ve been so worried about you.

I balk. Since when does she volunteer to fly anywhere? Our few vacations were never farther than Oregon’s beaches or mountains.

Me:
Do you really want to?

Mom:
Berry, this is a really big move you made. I’m proud of you. And I miss you. Our apartment feels so empty. Can I come visit?

I think of the extra bedroom at Gavin’s place and text
yes
before I wise up and change my mind. She needs me.

Me:
Let me know when you can get a flight.

Mom:
I will, honey. I’m hoping I can be there for your birthday. I can only get away for the weekend, but I’d like to see you. And that dress looks amazing on you.

Me:
I love you, Mom.

Mom:
Love you too, B.

I turn off my phone and sit back as the cab heads down Broadway to SoHo—the name means South of Houston street, I’ve learned. We pass stores for every fashion brand I can think of and at least as many more that I’ve never heard of.

It’s a whole different vibe than the Upper West Side and Gavin’s neighborhood—edgier, grittier, and younger. It amazes me that so many kinds of cities can be crammed together on one tiny island.

Anthony has chosen a well-known restaurant, Balthazar, and as I walk a block to the restaurant from where the cab left me, I feel a tremor in the earth, realizing a few seconds later it’s just the subway vibrating the sidewalk.

He’s already at the bar. He’s saved me a seat and ordered me a glass of champagne. Wow. The royal treatment.

He leans forward and kisses my cheek, an almost-quaint gesture that lingers. I smooth the goose bumps on my arm and blame it on the air conditioning. It’s been a long time since I’ve been wooed.

Anthony launches into questions about me and Oregon and my new job and what I’ve done so far in the city. I’m still pretty shell-shocked by the
hugeness
of everything, since New York’s buildings are twice as tall as Seattle’s.

The hostess seats us in the restaurant and I find out more about him—he’s in construction, which explains his impressive muscles, and he’s working his way up at his uncle’s company with the hope of someday taking it over with his cousin.

“Is your dad also part of the business?”

Anthony shakes his head. “He’s a doctor. He wanted me to go pre-med but I’d rather work on big, cool buildings than stress when someone’s life is on the line.”

I nod, listening. He’s got great manners, another beautifully starched shirt, and rough hands that definitely do more than type.

My mind takes this thought to a decidedly dirtier place and I flush, color heating my neck and chest. Anthony doesn’t miss a beat.

“What were you just thinking?” He’s got a naughty gleam in his eye and I’m tempted to let him in on my little fantasy involving his hands and very little clothing. I lick my lips.

“Just admiring my view,” I say, and take a bite of halibut to make my mouth stop talking.

“Mine’s better,” he says, and his liquid brown eyes narrow into a panty-incinerating gaze that brings my goose bumps back in force.

A server comes to take our dessert order and I’m grateful for the interruption, but Anthony doesn’t let me off the hook. A curved brow tells me he knows exactly the effect he’s having on me.

***

One steak, one halibut, several glasses of wine, and a shared pot de crème later, we’re arm-in-arm leaving the restaurant. He’s a winner—sweet, sexy, and funny. He asked me all the right questions and had all the right answers to mine.

His hand moves from my waist to the back of my neck, slowing me as we walk up the sidewalk beneath a construction awning.

“Beryl, you are an amazing woman,” he says, and kisses me gently. I reach up to pull him closer and his response is instant: he hauls me off my feet and crushes me against him, bruising my lips with a ferocious kiss that leaves me breathless. “It was torture, waiting this long to properly kiss you.”

“If that was properly, I can’t wait to see improperly,” I say, and mentally slap myself on the forehead. Can I be any more obvious?

Anthony grins, still holding me against him. I’m a curvy girl, not a featherweight, yet he’s lifted me effortlessly. It feels fantastic.

“Your place or mine?” his chest rumbles, his eyes darkened by desire.

“Yours.”

I’ve never seen a man hail a cab so fast.

If Stella’s place is small, Anthony’s is microscopic. It’s a ground-floor unit in an old brownstone building and we key in through two doors before reaching his apartment.

The room is ten feet wide and at least twelve feet high with a tall window facing the street and one wall all in brick. A couch faces a large flat-panel television on a desk, a table has two wooden folding chairs tucked under it, and the only access to the bathroom is through a tiny kitchen that seems more to scale for an airplane or a sailboat.

A wide wooden ladder in front of me draws my eyes up the brick wall to a loft above the kitchen and bathroom.

“What’s up there?” I point to the loft.

“Bedroom,” Anthony says. “It’s small, but it’s just what I need right now. Close to work, close to fun, and not much to keep clean.”

I look more closely and see that the apartment is meticulously clean. His work boots are lined up neatly by the door and the wooden floor shines.

Anthony mistakes my inspection for disapproval rather than appreciation. “I know it’s not as fancy as your Upper West Side place…”

I hush him with a kiss that has his hands deep in my hair, pulling my face toward his, bringing me to my tiptoes to reach his full mouth.

When we break, I explain. “That’s not my place. I’m just the house sitter. I’m taking care of a dog.”

Anthony’s eyebrows quirk. “Then where do you live?”

“Nowhere yet. I told you, I just moved to the city. My roommate situation fell through, but thankfully I have this house-sitting gig to buy me time to figure out a permanent address.”

Anthony nods in understanding and I excuse myself to the bathroom where I wash my hands and neck, trying to avoid smudging my mascara. I finger-comb the tangles from my curly hair and straighten my dress.

I look at myself in the mirror. Am I ready for this?

No idea.

So I jump.

Anthony has the full seduction routine going when I exit the bathroom—there’s music on the radio, he’s poured us two glasses of wine and he’s swapped the harsh overhead light for a softer glow from a table lamp.

Nice.

He beckons me to the couch and I sit, taking the glass of wine he offers.

I try to figure out how to cross my legs properly on his deep couch that feels like it’s sucking me in. The thrum of sexual tension coursing through my body doesn’t help, and I feel pinpricks of sweat at the nape of my neck even though Anthony’s air conditioner is running.

“So do you have brothers and sisters?” His question seems genuine, but I can’t help but feel disappointed. It’s a slow draw, a nice guy move, not the ferocious need that he attacked me with outside the restaurant.

It freaks me out that I like ferocious better.

I shake my head. “Nope. Just me.”

“And do your parents still live in Oregon?”

Ding! This is the question that always comes up in every friendship or relationship—some variation of a totally normal, totally mundane question about my folks that forces me to explain
my dad is dead.

And in that moment, I am transformed from a normal girl into someone to feel sorry for. To pity. But I grit my teeth and make the admission.

Anthony holds my hand. “I’m sorry, Beryl. I have no idea what that’s like, but I’m sorry.”

It’s as good a response as I generally get, especially from a person who hasn’t lost someone close to them.

“Yeah. That question always turns me into Debbie Downer.” I flash a forced grin and drain my wine.

“Well, life’s not always perfect. Even for people who look perfectly happy.”

I nod, my mind instantly flashing to Gavin, the charmed life of a white-hot rock star on the outside, while behind the scenes he’s a broken boy who’s run away from home.

Anthony sets down his wine glass and takes mine again. Like the time he took my glass in the club, it’s an intimate gesture that turns up the heat between us. He traces my shoulder to smooth a curl that tangled in the strap of my sundress.

“I like this curly,” he says. His fingers hook the strap of my dress and pull it down. His eyes watch me as his thumb traces my collarbone from shoulder to clavicle, then down to the scoop neck of the dress between my breasts.

I hold my breath, frozen, watching him watch me, melting into the couch as he undresses me, finding the hidden zipper under my arm and dropping the other strap. Soon, my pale pink strapless bra is exposed and the dress pools at my waist.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his arms pulling me closer as his hands skate across my back, sending shivers from the crown of my head to my belly and lower.

His head bends to kiss me and I kiss him back, letting him tip me back on the couch as our mouths get hungrier, more impatient. He supports most of his weight on one arm and I feel him shift, his lips trailing down my neck to my décolletage, his tongue tracing the line where my bra begins.