My eyes get huge. “Like a red-carpet thing?” I shake my head fervently. I can handle sitting through a movie, but I don’t want to be in the middle of a bunch of photographers. I thought he was inviting me to a show like the last one, something that doesn’t demand more than clean jeans.
Tyler laughs. “There’s a bit of that. Nothing too horrible. All I want you to do is sit by me and watch the movie.”
That doesn’t sound too bad. And besides, I owe him for so many things. I’m just about to accept when he adds, “I’ll buy you popcorn.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I’ll totally go.” I laugh, letting him think I’m persuaded with food. Even eight-dollar movie popcorn feels like a luxury to me. “But I’m worried about what I should wear. I don’t have … much.”
I don’t want to admit to Tyler the true extent of what I don’t have—money, a wardrobe, or room on my credit card. I don’t have a job that pays well, a boss who treats me decently, a family that talks to me, or a boyfriend. Or even a pet fish.
I regret taking so much for granted when I lived with my parents and could afford pretty much anything I wanted.
“Don’t worry about what to wear. Kristina will call you and Beryl. She’ll work something out.” Tyler’s eyes smile at me and I feel a warm rush of pleasure. I could live in that smile.
He turns back to the bar and presses the pad of his middle finger against the blunt end of the blue pen. He touches a button—snap—and his eyes squint for a split-second.
He squeezes his fingertip, revealing a bright red bead of blood, and touches the bead to the plastic strip from the canister.
Tyler’s eyes lift from beneath his dark lashes and he catches me staring. He says nothing, just lets me watch.
Tyler plugs the strip into a machine that looks like a stopwatch. Numbers on its screen make him grimace. He pulls a thin green syringe and a clear bottle of liquid from the pouch.
“I didn’t want you to know, but since you’re living here, I don’t want you to find out the wrong way,” Tyler says, and it confuses me even more. “You have to know in case I’m ever acting weird. Like really weird, like drunk or something.”
“What if you are drunk?”
“Not likely,” Tyler shakes his head. “I don’t really do that. Besides, beer has a ton of carbs.”
“That’s why you have light beer? Why are you worried about carbs so much?”
“I’m diabetic. I have to regulate my blood sugar. And you, sweet Stella, just totally screwed it up with the pastry bribe.” Tyler smiles; he isn’t mad. He draws a long pull of liquid from the bottle into his syringe, pulls up his shirt, pinches the flesh at the side of his waist and plunges the needle in.
I gasp but Tyler shakes his head.
“Don’t freak out. It’s a really thin needle. Doesn’t hurt nearly as much as this prick.” He taps the blue pen-like lancet. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t write anything about it.”
I promise. “How—how often do you have to do that?”
“Maybe six times a day. Always before I eat, but I slacked off and didn’t do it this time.” Tyler frowns. “Not smart. It makes me feel sluggish or worse if I slack. Jayce gets on my case about it.”
I remember what Jayce told me about taking care of Tyler last night. I’ll bet this is what he meant.
Tyler zips the black pouch closed. “So, anyway, if I start acting weird, I might have low blood sugar. I just need a Sprite or something.” He grins and holds up his hands, as if to say, No big deal. “You can take a turn rescuing me.”
SIXTEEN
As soon as I leave the cool, air-conditioned bubble of Tyler’s warehouse loft, the sticky heat assaults me, proof that the heat wave predicted to hit New York is well on its way.
Sweat trickles down my spine by the time I reach the subway. The rest of the commuters look and smell equally ripe. Yuck.
I plop down in my cubicle and I’ve only just logged into my computer when Neil accosts me at my desk.
“You owe me lunch. Seriously. How come I couldn’t reach you last night?” His arms are crossed and he looks annoyed.
“I was at a show and had my phone off. I’m sorry you had to pack up my stuff. Did you see the bottle of wine I left you?”
“Oh. Yeah.” His snippy tone makes me a little passive-aggressive and I decide not to tell him about the poppy seed stuck in his teeth.
“Well, I’d better get to work, but I owe you for letting me stay in Violet’s room. Want to go to lunch at one?” I smile brightly.
Neil huffs “fine” and walks away. Drama queen.
I’ve barely caught up on e-mail and scheduling out shows for the coming week when Heath pops his head out of his office.
“Stella? A word?”
Why does he always say that? It sounds ridiculous.
In his office, he gestures for me to sit, yet he remains standing. I’m wearing a short-sleeved, V-neck blouse and I suspect Heath’s trying to get a better angle on my cleavage.
“I’m not going to publish the article you filed on Tattoo Thief.”
“What? Why?” Instantly I feel defensive. That was good writing. I was totally sober when I edited it.
“Too soft. I asked for a story about playboy Gavin settling down, and you gave me a puff piece about a loft practice space. This isn’t Better Homes and Gardens, honey. At a minimum, I need you to punch this up, add some more grit, especially after all that stuff about Gavin’s muse overdosing. What else can you get on the band? What kind of access do you have?”
I squirm in my chair, terrified of answering that question. If Heath knew I was living with a member of Tattoo Thief, he’d shit and fall back in it. He’d sign me up for an exposé and demand I go through Tyler’s underwear drawer.
And he’d rationalize it because Tyler knew I was a journalist when he took me in.
“I barely know the band. But if I ask, I might be able to see them practice.” I’m walking a fine line here. What I’ve said to Heath is technically true, but it conceals my real access.
If he found out I was holding out on him, he’d find a hundred reasons to fire me. And then I’d really be screwed.
“You’d see Tattoo Thief live?” Heath rolls this idea around in his head. “They’ve been impossible to reach for the last couple of months. Until Gavin went on Late Night and dropped the bomb on Jimmy Fallon. That could have been your story, Stella.”
I shake my head. Heath would sell a sex tape of his little sister to the media if he thought it would help him get ahead. I have to keep his expectations as low as possible so he doesn’t demand something equally awful of me.
“I can’t promise they’ll let me, but I can ask my friend to ask the band if I can come to a practice. OK?”
“Let’s do better than that.” Heath clicks something on his computer screen. “I just forwarded you the e-mail of a freelance photographer Neil suggested. Bring her to the practice. Her stuff looks arty and edgy, and that could work for this story.”
“How long do I have?”
“Thirty inches. Get that story nailed for next week.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Heath’s assigning feature-length space. But he expects a lot more, and I’m not sure that’s something Tattoo Thief is willing to give.
“What if they don’t want to do the story?”
Heath’s expression darkens and his words are cutting. “Convince them. Considering their reputation, I’m sure you’ve got a few assets to help you negotiate.”
I hear the emphasis on ass and it sickens me. Just because he’s a nasty letch doesn’t mean the guys in Tattoo Thief are like that.