Tyler shifts with unease and sets his sights on the Manhattan side of the bridge. “We have to get you cleaned up. Come on.”
ELEVEN
A black Lincoln Town Car waits for us on the far side of the bridge just as Tyler promised. I sigh with relief.
But I can’t let Tyler take care of me anymore—I can’t bear to give him another window into my many failings. That’s how Dixon controlled me, always keeping me on the edge of acceptance and rejection.
The same way Tyler’s push-pull keeps me off balance.
I should go back to Neil’s place and deal with my knees and chin myself. I set my jaw and lean forward to speak to the driver. “Stanton and Clinton on the Lower East Side, please.”
“What? I thought—I thought you’d come home with me.” Tyler’s eyes are heated with passion, promising more than another scorching kiss.
Why am I fighting it? I want that. Tenderness would crush me, but lust I can handle. I can deal with aching want in the moment and the empty aftermath.
Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor. I must have repeated that line a hundred times when I played Cinderella in Into the Woods, and I’ve lectured Beryl about the fact that it’s not every day a rock star shows interest.
I’m not going to miss this chance.
“We can go to yours.” I shrug as if it’s no big deal. Sure, I get nearly crushed and then taken to bed by hot rock stars every week. Or at least twice a month.
Tyler tells the driver his real address and I know he must be worried about me to allow the car to drop us off at his door. We ride in silence and he clutches my hand, his strong fingers gently stroking the inside of my wrist.
He unlocks the deadbolts and when we get into the painted stairwell, I’m nervous. He hands me his guitar and tells me to put it on, then turns his back to me and squats.
“Climb aboard.” Tyler seems cheerful now that we’re in his space and I do my best to get on his back without getting my bloody knees on his shirt. My shirt is grimy but at least it’s black and doesn’t show.
Tyler climbs the five flights much slower than last time and I can’t tell if I’m too heavy or he’s just tired. I wear his guitar and he’s turned his backpack to the front of his chest. This man would make an excellent pack mule.
I giggle at the thought as he puts me down on the top landing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Tyler the pack mule,” I say. “You’re in insanely good shape to not even let that faze you. No wonder girls go crazy over your band. All of you are just built.”
“You think they only want us for our bodies?” Tyler frowns, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “And here I thought it was our raw artistic genius that was irresistible.”
“That, too,” I assure him and we cross the loft to his kitchen. “How about a drink?”
Tyler looks at me as if this hadn’t occurred to him. “Oh, sure. Right. Cups are there.” He points to the kitchen cupboard next to the refrigerator where tall glasses are kept, but I want something stronger.
“How about shot glasses?” I ask. I lost my buzz hours ago and I’m in desperate need of something strong to settle me down. Or someone strong. This could turn out to be a good night after all.
Tyler furrows his brow. “Yeah, there’s still a little vodka left. Although I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I was going to get you ibuprofen.”
“Vodka’s great for pain.” I brush past him and find the nearly empty bottle in the freezer. Damn. I pour myself one shot and let the liquid slide down my throat while Tyler drains a tall glass of water. He refills his glass, I refill mine, and we drink in silence.
Tyler braces his hands on the counter and his face looks pale and sweaty. Tonight left a mark on him, too.
“Tyler? You all right?”
He opens his refrigerator, snags a can of Sprite, and chugs it.
“Just thirsty. I’m fine.” It’s a weird statement because he’s already downed two large glasses of water. But the Sprite seems to make him feel better.
“I’ve got to check something. I’ll get you a shirt to change into and I’ll help you clean up your scrapes. Meet you in the bathroom?”
“Sure.” When he’s out of my sight climbing the stairs to his bedroom loft, I pour one more vodka shot, the last of the bottle. When it’s down I feel more human again. I can handle this.
I go to the bathroom and pee, kicking my legs forward to inspect the scrapes on my knees. They’re bad. Really bad, with tiny gravel chips and dirt ground into my cuts, cemented there with dried blood. If I don’t do this right, the wounds will get infected.
I try washing my hands to get the gravel out of them and I whimper in pain. When I inspect my palms closely I see tiny pebbles embedded between deep ribbons of skin and I’m afraid it will take tweezers and a whole lot more vodka to fix it.
I’m glad I’m not alone. If I went back to Neil’s, he’d be hounding me to write a harrowing, first-person account of my astounding rescue by one of the hottest rock stars on the planet.
You know. Tabloid shit.
When a crowd of thousands rushed the stage at Indie Day, the toppled barrier nearly crushed one reporter to death until white-hot rocker Tyler Walsh put his own life in danger to rescue her…
Event producers claim faulty installation caused a fence to collapse at the annual Indie Day concert, and fans nearly crushed a reporter beneath its weight…
Tyler Walsh, bassist of the rock band Tattoo Thief, risked his life to rescue a woman when an unruly crowd toppled a barrier fence at the Indie Day concert…
I squeeze my eyes shut and force my mind to stop spinning options for a lead. As much as the story could be gold career-wise, writing it makes me anxious. I want to keep what happened between Tyler and me private.
Huh. Now there’s a painful truth: that’s all Beryl wanted, too.
She wanted Gavin’s video to be a private connection, just between them. Considering she has to share him with millions of fans and hundreds of people in the industry—his label, promoters, roadies, and even journalists like me—I realize it’s not too much to ask to keep some things for herself.
My eyes fly open when Tyler wraps his arms around my waist. He’s changed into a white T-shirt and cut-off sweats. It’s a very good look for him.
Tyler kisses my shoulder lightly and opens my wet palms to reveal the damage. It’s bad.
“Sit here.” He lifts me to sit on the bathroom counter between the two raised basins and pulls off my shoes. He fills both sinks with hot water, as hot as my hands can stand, and squirts a bit of liquid soap in each that smells of eucalyptus.
It stings like a sonofabitch. He sits on a stool, settles my bare feet in his lap, and picks up a pair of tweezers to work on my knees. I try to breathe through the pain. Tears leak out of both corners of my eyes and I look at the ceiling far above us, trying to count the boards, anything to hold the tears at bay.
As Tyler works, tears leak from my eyes. I hold my hands in the sinks and try not to flinch every time Tyler touches my knee, but I’m shattering him. He looks physically ill as he tends my wounds, and I imagine he’s also repulsed by the state of my face, a lovely combination of snot, tears, and ruined makeup.
“Fuck. Stella, I can’t do this to you.”
Tyler pushes my feet out of his lap and stands. I drop my head, sobbing, and I hear the shower start running. This is so mortifying. This is worse than when he rejected me the first time. Now he thinks I’m disgusting.