Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) (8 page)

I mumble “I’ll try” to placate Stella, but on the cab ride home I have my doubts.

Where would getting to know Gavin get me?
Nowhere
, other than to satisfy my morbid curiosity. And he might be so far gone and screwed up that I wouldn’t even know what to do with him.

I’m getting a little obsessed with Gavin Slater because I’m living his life by proxy: his home, his dog, his stuff. I search YouTube and find a video of his interview on
Late Night with Jimmy Fallon
.

“So what inspires you? What drives your music?” Jimmy asks.

Gavin looks down at his shoes for a beat, and I can see his biceps and maybe even his nipples under a thin, tight T-shirt.

“What doesn’t inspire me?” Gavin grins, and runs a hand through his hair, spiking it even higher. “Life is music, and music is life. Music is the most important thing. And I can find inspiration in the smallest little things, like the way she sighs when she’s sleeping.”

“She? So is there a woman driving this inspiration?” Fallon sits forward, eager for the answer, and I find myself leaning forward too.

“It’s hardly a secret,” Gavin reaches across the host’s desk and taps a CD case with the picture of a woman, lion-scratched and bloody. I recognize the cover art for
Beast
.

“So you’re taken? That’s what the ladies here want to know.” The camera cuts to a shot of the audience and I hear shrieks from Gavin’s ardent fans.

“I’m taken by her. And I’m taken with a lot of women. Let’s not make anything too official.” Gavin smirks and I sour. Players—they’re not for me.

One of the things I liked about Jeff was that even though his frat brothers had plenty of women, he never made me wonder if he was being faithful. Gavin’s insinuation leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

“So what’ll it take to settle you down?” Fallon nails it, the question I’m sure a million girls are asking. Including me. But a cloud passes over Gavin’s face and for a fraction of a second he looks lost.

“Chemistry,” Gavin says, and plays another bad-boy card with the sex-charged innuendo. “And physics.”

Fallon stutters; not much surprises him. “Physics?”

“Yeah,” Gavin hunches forward, his elbows on his knees. It’s confession time, and I really listen. “Physics. Newton’s third law says, ‘for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.’ And that’s what I’m looking for. My opposite, and my equal.”

I watch as Gavin’s band plays “Peace of Madness” on Fallon and scan the crowd shots for the woman on the CD cover. I don’t see her, but I do see Gavin working the mic, the cords on his neck straining, his jeans hanging dangerously low off chiseled hips. A close-up shot of his pale blue eyes arrests me.

Finally, I close my laptop and breathe deeply, calming my racing heartbeat. Now that I’ve seen Gavin Slater in action—albeit on my laptop screen—I’m even more charged by him than before.

But something runs deeper than sheer lust, though that’s certainly what’s got my chest heaving right now. What is it? Intrigue? Fascination?

I can’t tell if crushing on Gavin Slater is fangirl crazy-talk or some kind of stalkerish need to know. Either way, it’s bad. I can’t understand why he’s gone from a confident player to a freak show, with a trashed apartment, abandoned dog, and scant communication with the real world.

Where the hell is he? It makes no sense.

I resolve to push my fixation to the furthest corners of my mind and focus on my new clients and my growing business.

Not
on fixing Gavin Slater. He’s broken.

“Hey, hey, hey, let’s get this going!” A heavily tattooed, shirtless black man pushes to the middle of my subway car as the train takes off. One of his friends presses play on a boom box.

Music thumps and a third man starts jumping—a one handed-handstand, a back flip, a front flip, all executed with unbelievable precision as the subway car rattles and shakes.

It’s my first-ever ride on the subway and I’ve built this up in my mind as a terrifying and confusing experience. The guys jumping around freak me out a little, but mostly I’m elated. They’re spinning around a pole, bodies perpendicular to it, all muscle and grace. I’m enthralled and grinning like an idiot and scrambling to get them a dollar.

This
is a New York show.

And I almost missed it. If I’d been Eugene-Beryl, I would have taken the time to read the subway map, study the routes, and decide precisely how I should get to work.

But now I’m New York-Beryl. A little less
ready, aim
and a lot more
fire
. I decide “try new things” will be my motto.

I arrive at the office before Dan and work on copy for a flier we’ll send to residents we already work with and to people who have access to those we don’t.

I make up services we
could
offer if someone asked for them, such as organizing closets and pantries, dry cleaning drop-offs and pick-ups, fully stocking fridges for the residents’ return, supervising plumbers and building professionals who make repairs in their absence, and a slew of other personal-assistant type tasks.

I imagine that these people have more money than time, so they’ll be willing to pay me to take care of details. And I realize that I’m going to need references, so I decide Gavin’s apartment makes a good proving ground. I compose a letter based on his last request.

Mr. Slater,

I can assure you we’ve been discreet about the state of your apartment and it has now been professionally cleaned. Additionally, we are pleased to provide our extended services in addition to your house sitting and property management package.

This will include removal of the clothing and personal items you mentioned from the gray guest room. We are also able to organize your kitchen, pantry, and closets. We will proceed unless otherwise instructed.

Sincerely,

B. Sutton

Keystone Property Management

I hit send and head to Dan’s office to pick up new files. He tells me my second house sitting gig starts tomorrow. It’s for one of his regular clients, a woman on the Upper East Side who’s headed to Los Angeles for a few weeks.

When do these people work?

When I get back to my desk, I see a message from Gavin.

I don’t care. You figure it out.

Rude! Gavin’s abrupt reply pushes my simmering resentment to a full boil. Before my brain can reign in my fingers, I click on his email address in the right-hand side of my screen and attempt to Google Chat with him.

Me:
Mr. Slater? Are you there?

Gavin:
Who’s this?

Me:
Beryl Sutton. From Keystone Property Management.

Gavin:
I thought it was Barry.

Me:
Never mind. I want to talk to you about your place. I have some questions.

Gavin:
What kind of a name is Beryl? Are you a guy or a girl?

Me:
It’s a good name. I was named after a famous pilot who crossed the Atlantic in her airplane, solo.

Gavin:
A woman? I thought that was Amelia Earhart.

Me:
There’s more than one woman pilot in history, asshole.

My fingers freeze over the keyboard and adrenaline shoots through me. What the hell did I just do? After all the horrible things I’ve been thinking about Gavin, that word just flew from my fingers.

I want to bang my head on my desk. I am
so
screwed.

Me:
Oh my God, Mr. Slater, I am SO sorry. I did not mean to type that. I meant there are more women pilots than *Amelia.* Please forgive me!!

Gavin:
Liar.

Me:
Excuse me, sir? I am truly sorry. That was totally unprofessional. It must have been autocorrect?

Gavin:
You’re a rotten liar. You meant to call me an asshole. Admit it.

Me:
No. I meant … it’s been a rough morning. PLEASE forgive me. I don’t want Keystone to lose your business because of my mistake.

Gavin:
Look, Beryl, it’s not like I haven’t heard it before. And if you lie about it, I’m not sure I can trust you with the rest of my business.

Me:
Mr. Slater, I am very, very, very sorry I called you an asshole. I totally did not mean to offend you. (Are you very mad?)

Gavin:
No. It actually made me LOL, and I don’t remember the last time that happened.

Me:
I’m sorry. My brain is always two steps behind my mouth. Fingers. Whatever.

Gavin:
Stop apologizing. And stop calling me Mr. Slater. I’m twenty-five. Mister makes me sound like a geezer.

Me:
Yes, sir.

Gavin:
Sir
sounds like I’m a drill sergeant. Just Gavin, OK?

Me:
OK. May I ask you about handling your apartment? Do I have your approval to proceed?

Gavin:
Yes. Now
you
sound like a drill sergeant. How old are you?

Me:
I don’t think that’s relevant.

Gavin:
Do I need to play my asshole card?

Me:
Twenty-three. Almost. My birthday’s in a few weeks.

Gavin:
See? That wasn’t so hard. I’m pretty good at interrogation. Do you think I could make it as a spy?

Me:
You’d probably need to live a little more … subtly. Ugly yourself up. Put on a shirt.

Gavin:
ROFL. How would you know?

Me:
A mysterious invention called the Internet.

Gavin:
You’re feisty. I like that. Don’t worry, Beryl, I won’t tell on you about the asshole thing. And for the record, I’m not an asshole all the time.

Me:
I guess I don’t have much to go on. You *were* kind of an asshole to leave your apartment such a dump.

Gavin:
I have my reasons.

Me:
Name one good one.

Gavin:
No.

Me:
OK. When are you coming back?

Gavin:
Wondering when I’ll kick you out?

Me:
There is some planning needed, yes.

Gavin:
Not anytime soon. I’m in Kenya now. It’s hot as hell, and I’m drinking coffee at an Internet café in Nairobi. Hot coffee. I must be crazy.

Me:
That thought has crossed my mind. What are you doing in Kenya?

Gavin:
Looking for something. I’m not sure.

Me:
Well, look for Beryl Markham. She died a long time ago, but she grew up in Njoro in the Rift Valley and she’s who I’m named after. She trained racehorses and flew elephant-scouting missions and all sorts of amazing stuff.

Gavin:
Why’d you get named after her? Family connection?

Me:
My dad was a pilot.

Gavin:
You fly with him a lot?

Me:
No. He died in a plane crash.

I blink hard to push back tears. I’ve been “handling” my dad’s death fine for nearly a decade, but every once in a while something unexpected shocks a round of fresh tears out of me.

Gavin:
I’m sorry.

Gavin:
Beryl? I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

Gavin:
I lost someone close to me, too.

Me:
I’m here.

Gavin:
I thought I lost you.

Me:
No. I just needed a breath.

Gavin:
That’s what I need. That’s why I’m out here.

Me:
For a breath?

Gavin:
Yeah, a breather. From the life and the music and the band and everyone.

Me:
What are you looking for, exactly?

Gavin:
I can’t tell you that.

Me:
Do you want me to do all that stuff I said I could do in the email?

Gavin:
Yeah, whatever.

Me:
You don’t sound too thrilled.

Gavin:
It’s complicated.

Me:
Try me.

Gavin:
It’s better if you don’t know.

Me:
Tell me anyway.

Gavin:
You’re a complete stranger.

Me:
So are you. And anyway, I’m bonded and I signed a zillion-page non-disclosure form, so I can’t tell the tabloids, if that’s what you’re worried about.

Gavin:
Actually, that’s not it.

Me:
What are you worried about?

Gavin:
You wouldn’t understand.

Me:
I told you. Try me. What was so fucking awful that you wrecked your apartment and ran away from your life?

My fingers are flying faster than my internal filter.

Me:
Because from where I sit, that life is pretty fucking charmed.

Gavin:
Fucked up, is what it is.

Me:
So tell me.

Gavin:
No. Just throw out the stuff like I told you.

Me:
And then what?

Gavin:
I don’t now. Maybe it’ll come to me.

Me:
Gavin?

Me:
Gavin?

Still no answer. Google chat still shows his green button active, though.

Me:
Don’t be an asshole.

Me:
OK, I’m sorry I called you an asshole. Again.

Me:
I’m going to go now. Take care of yourself.

***

I go home—check that, I go to
Gavin’s
home—replaying our conversation in my head. I know I crossed a line, pushed him too far, and fear churns in my core. Why can’t I think
first?
Speaking (or typing) my mind gets me in trouble. Every. Damned. Time.

I push the knot of worry down and decide that if he gets me fired I’ll deal with that when it comes. I don’t have the guts to tell Dan what happened.