Not that I get to talk to those folks much. As the second-string music reporter for The Indie Voice, I’m stuck with the un-famous scraps.
What’s the opposite of a rock star? A black hole? A pebble? Whatever it is, most musicians I interview haven’t made it, and many are so shamelessly self-promotional it makes me ill. They suck up to me hoping I’ll write the world’s most flattering piece about them.
I won’t. I’ve been at this for a year and I want to write an article that actually makes a band, but I’ll lose my credibility if I write puff pieces instead of real reviews.
A taxi screeches to a halt by Tyler and he pulls open the door, looking back at me frozen on the sidewalk. I give myself a mental prod and trip forward in my super-tall shoes, ducking into the cab and wondering if Tyler’s eyes are on my ass.
I slide over and Tyler jumps in behind me. “Tenth and West Twenty-Ninth Street,” Tyler tells the driver. I’m shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling his lean, muscled thigh against mine and smelling his leather jacket and a woodsy, spicy scent.
It makes me lightheaded.
I turn to look at him, brushing my hair out of my eyes. His aviator shades are still on and his expression gives nothing away.
“Ty—”
“Shh.” Tyler presses his index finger on my lips. “Wait ’til we get home.”
Holy smokes. His light touch shoots a current deep inside me. I’m not used to this. Bad boys, in my experience, don’t show this kind of restraint.
If this trip to the band’s practice space is a booty call, why isn’t he groping me? Why isn’t he shoving his tongue down my throat?
These questions swirl in my brain and mix with the kind of questions I’m supposed to ask for an interview, such as, “How is your sound evolving?” and “Which album do you consider your best work?” and “Tell me about your creative process.”
Tyler flips a twenty through the little window behind the cab driver and we exit on a quiet industrial street a few blocks removed from the main street bustle.
We walk west beneath yellowish streetlights. My heels are killing me and I try not to limp as I keep pace with his long-legged strides.
“Why not have the cab drop us off closer to your place?” I ask after a block.
“Because I don’t have a doorman.”
I quirk my eyebrows at Tyler and he explains: “I don’t want to take the chance that the driver recognizes me and tells someone—it would be pretty hard to keep fans away from my building. When they found Gavin’s place they were all over it and it drove him crazy. It almost got him kicked out of his co-op. That’s why I didn’t want you to say my name in the cab.”
“Oh.” I stumble and then right myself, keeping my head down, concentrating on not tripping over the uneven sidewalk in the dim light.
“Hold on,” Tyler says and extends his right elbow. I wrap my left hand around his leather-clad forearm gratefully. He rests his hand lightly on mine as we walk in silence for a few hundred feet.
“I need you to promise me you won’t say where this is in your article, Stella. Not even the neighborhood.”
Behind the aviator glasses, Tyler’s face is pinched with worry. Even though I need to keep this story real, I can give him this much.
“I’ll carry the secret to my grave.” I put my right hand over my heart.
Tyler hesitates and then nods. “I believe you will.”
At the next corner, Tyler turns down a side street but stops abruptly, fishing for keys in his pocket. We face a dingy metal door with a peeling sign that says DO NOT BLOCK. A few yards away, a Dumpster is shoved against the squat, square building’s brick walls. Beyond that, cars are parked along the building.
I don’t feel unsafe since I’m standing next to Tyler, but I’m disappointed that we’re not going to the über-hip practice studio I imagined.
Tyler twists keys in a series of three locks to open the industrial door, then follows me inside a stairwell with worn timbers for stairs. The walls are covered with vibrant layers of paint, some of it graffiti, and round white globe lights the size of soccer balls hang at various levels.
Tyler secures each lock behind us and the space smells of old wood, paint and newspapers. I’m afraid I already know what’s coming next.
“It’s on the top floor.”
Damn. I debate taking off my shoes but I’m sure I’d skewer a foot on a splinter or stray nail.
Tyler must have seen my face fall. He pulls off his aviator glasses and tucks them inside his jacket’s chest pocket. “Hey, don’t look so worried. I won’t make you walk all the way up. We have a freight elevator, but it’s so old that it takes forever.” He turns his back to me. “Hop on,” he says over his shoulder.
Is he for real? I’m small, but do I really want him carrying me up five flights of stairs? My face heats.
“Come on,” he coaxes. I push my purse behind me with its strap across my body, hike up my stretchy black jersey dress and put my hands on his broad shoulders.
Tyler squats and bounces me up against his back so effortlessly that I squeak with surprise.
“Hold on.” He climbs the steps fast, his broad hands wrapped under my bare legs just behind my knees. I can’t help but feel how my legs are spread, my panties pressed against the small of his back and his leather jacket.
Each bounce against his back makes my nerves more raw, my body more traitorous with desire. Did I come here for a booty call, or to write a story? Gah, I don’t know. I want them both. But I can only choose one.
I need to keep him at arm’s length. He’s a story. A subject. And as a journalist, I can’t get involved.
But as I’m riding him, I know I’m already involved. His touch to my lips in the cab. His hand pulling me through the restaurant. Tyler’s got bad boy inked all over him in each tattoo and he’s got the attention of every cell in my body.
Bad boys are just my style.
My face is flushed by the time we reach the top stair landing and Tyler’s not even breathing hard. He lets me slide off his back and I pull my dress back into place and gather my wits.
Tyler unlocks two more deadbolts in another wide metal door and ushers me inside, hitting an industrial light switch panel to illuminate the old warehouse.
I gasp as I hear the locks click behind me. This was not what I expected at all. The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high, crisscrossed by massive timbers. The floor is wood, worn smooth and shiny in some places. Multi-paned warehouse windows run from waist high to the ceiling and bare Edison bulbs hang down on long cords.
I follow Tyler from the front door to the kitchen in the opposite corner of the wide-open warehouse, trying to look everywhere at once. Along the only wall without windows, an open set of stairs leads up to a loft. I can’t see what’s up there, but a storage area underneath holds a couple of old bikes, random sound equipment, and a speaker missing its cover.
“Want a drink?” he asks. He gestures for me to sit on a stool behind the kitchen island’s tall bar.
“Sure. Vodka, if you have it.”
Tyler opens and closes cupboards and I glimpse a few liquor bottles. They’re not what I want, though they’ll do in a pinch. He looks in the freezer. “Lucky you. Someone left this behind.” He puts a glass on the concrete counter and pours a stingy shot.
I shoot the ice-cold vodka and put my glass back in the same spot, gesturing to him to fill it up again. The first drink warms me and the second shot revives the buzz I’d been working on at the restaurant.
If I’m not getting laid tonight, at least I can get tipsy.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
Tyler shakes his head. “I’ll stick to beer.” He pulls a low-carb light beer out of his refrigerator and I can’t help snickering.