Beryl grabs me in a rough hug that I’m not expecting. “Stop it. I forgive you. And we’re going to talk about this later.”
She releases me and our eyes lock. “But don’t you do that to me again or I’ll kick your ass and never tell you another secret. Besides, I’ll bet these guys would give you an exclusive if you’d just ask.”
“We would,” Tyler confirms, and I stagger back in surprise as his tall frame appears between us. “But you have to ask pretty please.”
His whole face smiles and he radiates a contentment that I’m desperate to feel again. Beryl relaxes and smiles back at him, probably as glad as I am that his presence shifts our tense mood.
“OK,” I mumble, not sure what he really wants. “Pretty please?”
“With a cherry on top,” Tyler prompts and I balk. I have to look up, way up, to meet his rich brown eyes and he seems so amused I’m afraid he’s laughing at me.
“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” I say it in a child’s singsong cadence.
“And sprinkles? And whipped cream?” Tyler’s eyes dance and I squirm under his gaze. He’s torturing me on purpose. Beryl grins and I’ll bet she’s enjoying the show.
I go for broke. “Yes, and nuts and hot fudge and anything else you want.” I put out my hand to shake on the deal as if I’m ready to make him an ice cream sundae. In exchange for—what exactly?
“Well, that’s an offer I can’t refuse.” Tyler pumps my hand slowly, up and down, sending a shiver up my spine as his large hand completely envelops mine. “You just promised me anything. So my answer is yes, you’ll get your exclusive. Stick with me, little lady.”
FOUR
“Stella’s going to do another story on us,” Tyler announces to Jayce and Dave, and they exchange twin looks of surprise.
I’m still annoyed by the little lady comment, but when Tyler pulled me away from Beryl to meet his band mates, I could hardly refuse.
“We can’t just let her write about Gavin, right? I’m going to give her an inside scoop on Tattoo Thief.” Tyler introduces me to Tattoo Thief’s lead guitarist and Jayce’s biceps flex as he shakes my hand.
The drummer, Dave, doesn’t extend a hand to shake—he ignores me completely and pivots his body toward Tyler, his jaw tight. “Why would you do that? After the shitstorm she just caused, that’s the last thing the PR department is going to let you do.”
Tyler laughs. “Live by your rules, Dave, and I’ll live by mine. Besides, I’m pretty sure Stella’s got a different approach this time.” His gaze shifts to me and I fidget.
“I have a lot to make up for,” I whisper, my head bent. “I just wanted—I just wanted to show the world how great that song was.”
“There’s more where that came from,” Jayce adds. Dave glares at him. “It’s all Gavin can talk about since he got back. Less post-production. More acoustic. He wants to transform our sound.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Tyler says, the way a parent might dismiss a child’s threat to hold his breath until he gets his way.
Dave stands up straighter, his thick, ropy muscles tensing. Beneath his close-cropped dark hair and olive skin, his face is a mask of control.
“Tyler, no. Don’t do this. You can’t trust Stella farther than she can throw you, and I don’t even like her being here tonight. Who knows what she’s going to write tomorrow?” Dave turns to me and growls, “And this conversation is strictly off the record.”
I want to spit back that a source can’t demand to go off the record after the fact, but I resist.
“Gavin invited her.” Jayce counters with a shrug, brushing back thick, golden hair that falls in unruly waves just below his collar.
“Without asking us,” Dave adds.
“He asked me here to apologize to Beryl,” I say. “But I also have a job to do. I can’t say no to what Tyler’s offered.”
“You never should have offered it,” Dave snarls through clenched teeth. He moves a few inches closer to Tyler, his posture taut and aggressive.
“Easy…” Jayce warns. His voice is calm but his body language is commanding, as if he’s ready to break up a fight. A couple of inches taller than Dave and several inches shorter than Tyler, Jayce easily outweighs both of them with his muscled bulk.
“Dave, chill. You’re not the manager anymore. And if Chief is mad about it, it’s on me, OK?” Tyler’s not backing down and I’m grateful, considering that something has to be on my editor’s desk by the end of the day tomorrow.
“Be careful, Tyler,” Dave warns.
“Screw careful. Life’s about being brave,” Tyler shoots back. His optimism rocks me and I want to feel that too. Badly.
Tyler hoists my chair from the end of the table and brings it around to settle next to his place just in time for the entrées. We’re served family-style, with heaping bowls of fettuccine Alfredo, mushroom ravioli, braised beef, and lemon chicken piccata.
Tyler insists on serving me heaping portions and I devour them, slipping into a conversation that doesn’t feel like an interview.
He tells me about growing up in Pittsburgh, starting the band in his mom’s garage and struggling to make it when Tattoo Thief first moved to New York four years ago.
But he gets far more from me, teasing out my college major, how I got my job, how I met Beryl, and even my unfortunate housing situation at Neil’s place. With each question and each bite of food—rich and flavorful food like I haven’t had in weeks—I feel my walls crumbling a little.
I don’t know why Tyler is being so nice to me, but his cheerful presence exudes peace. The pressure on my chest that threatened to choke me when I arrived at the restaurant is lifted. I feel lighter, more whole, as if I’ve been dying of a disease and he’s found the cure.
This is a very dangerous place to be.
“How did you get into music?” Tyler asks, his warm brown eyes focused on mine.
“I’ve loved it since I was a kid. I spent every cent of my allowance on music and I still remember when I got my first iPod. I stayed up all night making playlists.”
Tyler’s slightly crooked grin appears. “Do you play anything?”
I flush and look down at my plate. “Yeah. I took some lessons. Piano and …” I don’t really want to have this conversation.
“And what?”
“And voice, and violin, and tap, ballet, and jazz.” I tick off my overscheduled adolescence on my fingers. “Even some ballroom and gymnastics.”
“Whoa. Sounds like you were insanely busy.”
“Yeah. I did my homework in the car when my mom drove me to lessons. Sometimes I had two a night.”
“So what happened? Do you still play or sing?”
I shake my head quickly and the wine sloshes in my brain. I should probably slow down on it, but it’s loosened my tongue.
“I quit. Decided to do journalism instead.”
“Bullshit. When you were talking about your iPod, you looked like you need music to breathe. What happened really?”
The waitress clears our plates and I’m grateful for the interruption. I sip my water and turn to Tyler. “Sounds like you’re trying to do a story on me. Which would be totally boring. What about you? Did you always plan to be a rock star?”
He laughs, a big goofy boom that makes some of the others look up at us. “No, I started out as a drama geek. I did musicals and just picked up the bass when I was waiting around during rehearsals.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. This isn’t something I’ve ever read about Tyler. “Musical theater? What shows did you do?”
“All the high school standards. Hello, Dolly, and Oliver and West Side Story. My favorite was The Music Man.”