Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) (8 page)

He’s missing the third button on his shirt. His fingernails are short and square. His shoes are new and his hair has some kind of product in it but it still flops around. His shirt flaps open to reveal two small, shining silver studs on either side of his nipples.

My brain spins—he’s pierced. That visual sends a bolt straight to my core. Add that to the tattoos and the rock band and the attitude and
put a fork in me.
I’m done. If I were here as just a fangirl, I’d be throwing my panties at Tyler right now.

That’s the last thought in my head when a blinding flash of pain explodes behind my eyes.

NINE

I can’t breathe. I can’t see. But I can feel myself falling.

My chin connects with the ground. A blow to my back knocks the air from my lungs before I understand what’s happening.

Which way is up?

My palms and knees are on fire as they’re ground into sharp gravel and asphalt. I crumple beneath an oppressive weight covering my body. I scream but it’s nothing, no more than a toothpick tossed on a bonfire compared to the crowd and a driving rock song.

Pain sears my back as I’m suffocated by the weight of a scratchy plastic orange fence, crushed by people walking on it with me underneath.

I struggle to break out of it, to push the fence back up, but the weight of the crowd is heavier, like someone’s standing on me.

I hunch over to protect myself, pushing back with all my might, hoping desperately someone will see me. It’s dark under the fence and I could be the sad statistic the other journalists write about in tomorrow’s stories.

The other journalists. The photographers. Where are they? I struggle to remember as another foot is planted on my back and it steals my breath again. I draw a lungful of air and shriek for help, begging someone to notice that I’m stuck here.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

That’s what I think as I realize that a half-dozen journalists and security guards spread across the front of the stage are no match for thousands of screaming, shoving fans who want to close the gap between general admission and the stage.

“Get back!” I hear it shouted, over and over. What a stupid thing to say. Of course I can’t get back, I can’t move because this plastic fucking fence is pinning me down like a lead blanket.

“Get back now! Get off of the fence! Move!”

Tyler’s voice sounds odd as it reaches my ears through the screaming crowd. It sounds angry and panicked, with a violent edge. The fence lifts slightly and the pressure on my back lessens.

I peek up at Tyler’s new shoes in the light spilling over from the stage, his strong hands grasping the edge of the fence above my head.

“Stella!” he yells, and it’s choked and wrong, nothing like Marlon Brando’s passionate cry in
A Streetcar Named Desire
. Tyler’s “Stella!” is hoarse and cracking with fear.

Tyler pulls the fence almost up to forty-five degrees, even though people are still trying to walk or climb across it and I hear him shout at them angrily. He reaches a long arm toward me and grasps my hand, but I think he’s afraid to pull in case I’ve broken something.

I tug on him for strength, trying to scoot forward enough to get my feet under me and get out from under the oppressive fence. We’re each clasping the other’s forearm and with my head down I can only see where my small pale fingers cover some of his tattoos.

I push and crawl and find my footing, wrenching myself to standing as Tyler keeps one hand locked tightly on me and the other holding up the fence. It’s bent completely over around us, pushing us flat against the stage and my body directly into Tyler’s.

I look around and see that only part of the fence has collapsed. The security guards are working at each end to right it while dozens of fans surge over it like a military invasion.

Noise clangs in my head. The band is still playing. I’m at the center of a microcosm of panic near the stage while thousands of people at the concert are unaffected and unaware.

I was nearly crushed to death by a crowd and almost nobody noticed. The band didn’t even stop playing. The show must go on.

I’m freaked out by the fact that what almost happened to me was nothing more than a blip on the radar. Considering I’ve spent my life trying to get noticed, first on stage and now in print, it’s more than a little bit sad.

But Tyler noticed. His eyes are blazing as he looks for our best exit. The fence is collapsed on both sides of us, blocking our way out. He releases my forearm and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling my small body against his frame. His eyes search my face.

“Are you OK? Tell me where else you’re hurt.” He touches my chin gently. It’s throbbing and sticky and I smell the dull, rusty stench of blood.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head, the shock disorienting me. What do I do next? The crowd is still pushing, more people climbing over the fence as the band plays what sounds like a finale. “I’m scared.”

The fence lies heavy against our lower legs and Tyler sandwiches me between himself and the front of the stage. His body protects me. I hear him shout something at the guards but they’re too far away to help us and they’ve got an obstacle course of fans and fencing to navigate first.

I hear Tyler curse in frustration and he looks down at me. “Can you walk?”

I nod.

“OK, I’m going to give you a boost. Just walk to the back corner.” He points to stage right. Before I’m ready, he reaches under my armpits and hoists me skyward, my butt just clearing the edge of the stage. He pushes my dangling legs to the side so they’re on the stage and I see my knees are deeply scraped and bloody.

I can tell Tyler sees them too.

Tyler points me to the back of the stage again and I scramble up on my feet as he boosts himself up on strong arms, kicks up a leg and rolls onto the stage. The band’s last chord plays and I hear the crowd explode in cheering and applause as I clamber offstage.

More pyrotechnics blind me and sparks shoot from the cannons on the stage perimeter. I blink hard and try to avoid tripping on cords strung across the floor like ropes in an obstacle course.

Tyler nods briefly at The Ruins, but he doesn’t slow down to take a bow with them. He grabs his guitar by the neck and follows me toward the backstage exit.

Tyler catches up to me as I navigate black steps that are illuminated only by strips of glow-in-the-dark tape. I’m still blind from the stage lights and thankful for his closeness as I stumble once and then regain my footing at the bottom.

“Follow me.” Tyler weaves through the backstage labyrinth among hulking sound equipment and black-clad techs. Few people notice us and nobody makes a move to stop us. My press pass bangs against my chest and my reporter’s notebook is lying somewhere under the toppled fence, but at least my purse is still on my hip, secured by its cross-body strap.

Tyler is in and out of a trailer in seconds, a soft nylon guitar case and a backpack in hand. He zips his guitar into the case and slings the strap over his head, shouldering the backpack after it. He takes my hand and I wince—it hurts, but I need this connection. I follow Tyler as the roar of the crowd and an encore song drown out everything else.

We’re released from the mess by a security guard at a back exit and Tyler buttons his shirt with one hand while never letting go of mine. He puts his aviator glasses on and guides me toward the bridge, climbing steep stairs that take us to the pedestrian deck elevated above traffic.

“Are you still OK walking?” Tyler asks and looks at my knees and face. I’m sure I’m a mess and I can smell the metallic tang of blood that’s congealing on my face, but I nod, still clinging to his hand. I just want to get away.

TEN

My body chills as it comes down from the adrenaline high. We walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with the city lights blazing on either side of the East River. Tyler is intense and focused, forcing me to hustle to keep up with his long paces.

I glance at his face but his expression is closed behind his glasses, his jaw tight. He grips my hand and I try not to wince because I don’t want him to let go.

I sniffle and wipe desperately at tears that leak down my face as we walk, aware that my face is a disaster. But this is Tyler, the boy who rejected me. He doesn’t care. I’m sure of it.

It’s also Tyler, the boy who saved me. And that thought cracks my heart open a little to the possibility that he
does
care.

I wrap my free arm around my middle and shudder, feeling the breeze off the water as it cools the humid night. We’re halfway across the bridge and my shivering finally alerts Tyler, who stops so abruptly I almost lose my hold on him.

“You’re shaking. Hang on.” Tyler pulls his backpack to the front of his body and unzips the main compartment, withdrawing a light gray cotton bundle. He holds the zippered hoodie sweatshirt open for me and I stuff my arms inside.

He turns me to face him and zips the sweatshirt all the way up to my chin. It’s far too large, the hem hanging almost to my knees and the arms at least six inches longer than my fingertips. I look like a child dressed in her daddy’s jacket.

But that’s what I need to feel right now—protected and safe, cared for and warm, the way I never felt when
my life slid sideways under Dixon’s control and then my parents’ smothering.

Tyler pushes the sleeves up until the cuffs reach my wrists and the extra fabric bunches on my forearms. He pulls the hood up over my hair and tucks stray auburn strands behind my ears.

It’s such an intimate gesture that I am frozen in place. I can’t read his expression behind those reflective glasses and it’s maddening, so I slowly pull them from his face.

His dark lashes are wet and his brown eyes are lined with worry. He’s looking at me as if I might fall to pieces at any moment. I want to reassure him. To comfort
him,
as crazy as that sounds.

“I’m OK, Tyler. No permanent damage.”

“It looks bad.” His voice is hoarse; he was probably every bit as scared as I was.

“I’ll heal. Maybe there won’t even be scars.”

I look down at my kneecaps and I doubt it. They’re a pulp from the rough, gravel-strewn asphalt where I fell. My palms aren’t quite so bad but my chin took a definite beating. I’m not looking forward to seeing a mirror.

Tyler stares at my knees and he bends, squatting to see them closer. Like he did Tuesday night, he extends a single finger to touch my knee, carefully skirting the bloody mess and sending more shivers through me as he traces the side of my leg along unbroken skin.

“That scared the shit out of me,” he confesses and straightens up, shaking his head as if to clear the memory from his mind. “I saw you go down. I saw the fence knock you down and people just jump on top of it. I saw the security guards too far away to do anything about it.”

I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face to his chest in pure gratitude. “Thank you. You saved me.”

Tyler stands stiff and awkward, until his body relaxes and his arms circle me. We stand together on the bridge for a long minute and I listen to his heartbeat. It’s racing faster than mine, I think.

I pull Tyler tighter against me and snuggle into him, his green button-down shirt soft, his skin smelling of sweat, soap and spice, and his muscles hot and hard beneath his thin shirt.

Tyler saved me and it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. He could have been crushed too. He could have been mauled by a bunch of fans. But he jumped off the stage and pulled me out from where I was suffocating.

I draw a deep, ragged breath of relief as I keep holding Tyler, and I feel his halting breath as he responds. I’m aware that people are passing us on the bridge deck but I’ll ignore them as long as I can.

I’m in a perfect little bubble, throbbing knees and chin aside, and I’m not ready to leave it just yet.

A whistle and a boom pops the bubble. I hear a crackle and a sizzle and look up to see a firework’s white sparks rain down. More whistle-boom-crackle-sizzle and umbrellas of color splash across the sky.

I sneak a glance up at Tyler and he’s smiling. “Good timing.” I grin up at him as explosions light up the night.

“Best seat in the house,” he agrees, still holding me tightly against his chest. He pivots our bodies so we’re both looking to the side to see the show. “You in a rush to get home?”

“No. I thought you were.” His manic pace leaving the concert venue certainly suggested it.

“I was just freaked out about what happened. I wanted to get away, get you somewhere to get fixed up.” He looks at me closely. “Are you really OK? I didn’t think we’d be able to find a cab right by the concert, but I probably shouldn’t have made you walk. I’m sorry.”

I squeeze him a little more tightly and love how our bodies fit together, his so much longer than mine but each curve on my body fitting with the planes of his, as if we are two pieces of a puzzle. As if we are meant to go together.

“I’m going to be fine, Tyler. I’m tougher than I look.” The words are truer than he could know. “Just because I’m short doesn’t mean I’m fragile.”

“Short-
ish
.” He chuckles and I remember our conversation from his loft. “You just prove good things come in small packages.”

Tyler thinks I’m good? When I left his loft two days ago he implied I was a bad friend and a back-stabbing reporter.

I’m afraid he’s only being nice because of what’s happened tonight and I frown. I can’t blame him if he thinks bad things about me. I
did
stab my friend in the back. I deserve it.

No amount of apology can erase my record. Only goodness, like Beryl said. Only right choices, from now forward.

A crackle close to my ear rattles me and I look up to see an enormous firework rain down on us. The proximity scares me and my body’s on high alert as each sizzling point of light falls, twinkles, and burns out.

Tyler looks down at me and our eyes lock, my neck craned back and my mouth inches from his. I want to explore his face, his soft lips, his smooth jaw, but instead I let his eyes hold me as tightly as his arms are around me. We reestablish the connection that took my breath away when he was onstage. When he looked at me then, I felt like an audience of one.