CHAPTER SIXTEEN
This time, I feel like I’m cheating when I Google Gavin, pulling up articles instead of images. I’m looking for Lulu.
I open Tattoo Thief’s website but find no mention of Lulu. Strike one.
I scan news articles on music industry websites and blogs. Strike two.
Then, inspired, I switch back to the image search.
There she is, the raven-haired beauty I saw him pose with. I open each picture, scanning the captions, and learn her full name: Lulu Stirling.
She’s stunning, reminiscent of a curvy, war-era pinup girl. I see her in a jet-black bob, false eyelashes, and peep-toe heels. I see her in a burgundy silk dress at a red carpet event. In another photo, she’s much thinner, tucked under Gavin’s arm at a premiere, staring at the camera with a look that is both haunting and haunted.
Captions offer plenty of nudge-and-wink innuendo, but none of them say she’s his girlfriend.
Who is she to him?
I have another inspiration, this time thinking of Gavin’s albums on Stella’s phone. Albums come with liner notes. Maybe I’ll find something there?
I think about getting dressed and taking Jasper to a music store. But I’m here at the center of Gavin’s universe. All of his life is bared to me. I only need to figure out where to look.
Feeling like a trespasser in his home—and my temporary home—I prowl for the CDs Feast and Beast. I look through the living room, pick through the case by the stereo, and check out the music room with its acoustic foam walls. No dice.
His office is disheveled but enticing. Surely he has copies here?
I shove aside a few piles of paper but soon give up.
Maybe that’s the answer to my riddle? Maybe the sheer fact that this rock star doesn’t keep a single copy of his own album says something about his state of mind?
I don’t remember picking up bits of CD cases when I hauled out Gavin’s trash, but maybe he pitched them off the terrace? Anything is possible, and I decide to take Jasper to the music store after all.
I slide my feet into sneakers, ready for a trip to Columbus Circle. Jasper senses my urgency and doesn’t dawdle.
The city feels different. It’s nearly dark on a weeknight and the city vibrates with energy of a different kind—less tension, more intrigue.
There are still tons of people out and that’s different; in Eugene, it wasn’t uncommon to be the only person out on a street this late. It felt comfortable there, but here it would be downright scary.
I ask a clerk for Tattoo Thief’s two albums and she directs me to the rock CDs. But she also runs a quick search and I hit the jackpot—the record store has a magazine section with a back issue of Spin from a few months ago.
Tattoo Thief is featured on the cover with a purportedly juicy interview inside. Gavin looks thoroughly delicious and tough, arms folded, ice-blue eyes fiercely defying the camera.
There’s enough heat in his expression that it’s hard to look away. I shake my head and pull thick curls off the back of my neck, trying to cool my lust by thinking of something else.
Anything else. I’m annoyed that his looks fire me up when I know what a slob he is.
I grab two decorating magazines from the periodicals section and throw them on top of the copy of Spin and shirtless Gavin.
Think about picking out a new couch.
That Gavin and I could get busy on.
No!
My brain screams in protest against my libido, which imagines running my tongue up his washboard abs just to count the ridges.
I exhale as I wait for the clerk to ring up my purchases, mentally ticking off the ways Gavin abused, befouled, or otherwise damaged his penthouse.
I grab Jasper from his hitching post outside the music store and trot back to the apartment, two CDs and three magazines bumping in a bag against my thigh. We high-five Charles on the way in.
“So how’s it going with your new buddy Jasper?” he asks.
“I love this little freak,” I say. Jasper takes a piece of cheese from Charles and then shakes his head hard, rattling his ears back and forth. “And I think he likes me too. He baroos when I come home.”
“They’re called barkless dogs,” Charles nods. “Most of them don’t bark, but they yodel. How’s is going with Mr. Slater and his apartment?”
I stutter, steamy thoughts still fresh in my mind, realizing that Charles doesn’t know what he’s asking. As far as he knows, I’m just the house sitter. The hired help, just like him.
And that’s really all I am—not Gavin’s girlfriend. Not even his friend.
I’m staff.
That fact makes me a little sad.
“I’m redecorating for him,” I say, forcing my tone to be chipper. “New living room furniture, for starters. New linens and drapes. When he comes home, he won’t recognize the place, and according to him, that will be a good thing.”
Charles nods, searching my face. “We can all use a change of scenery,” he confirms. “And I know Gavin was ready for one.”
“Do you know him very well?” I ask. I know I’m on thin ice here, probing for information, but I hope Charles picks up on my just-between-us-staff vibe and spills.
“A bit. He moved in when his first album went platinum. It was crazy around here; fans dressed up like delivery personnel just to get a crack at knocking on his door. All that attention nearly got him kicked out of the co-op.”
I raise my eyebrows but stay silent, hoping for more.
“Now things have calmed down,” Charles says. “He wrapped up his tour a few months ago. I thought the band was going back into the studio to record their next album, but then Gavin just took off. Somewhere in Europe or Asia, I think.”
“Africa,” I tell him, “Kenya.” The news takes him by surprise.
“That’s where I was born. Nairobi.”
“He’s there now. Maybe you inspired him?” I take another tack: “Charles, did you know any of Gavin’s friends? Anyone other than the band?”
His brow furrows.
“Lulu?”
He looks surprised. “How do you know about her?”
“Gavin told me,” I say, and it’s not a lie, though I’m not sure what to ask next since all the information I can get on Lulu is in the record store bag dangling at my side.
“She was a sweet girl. A sweet, troubled girl,” he murmurs. “It was like she floated when she walked; she moved with such grace. But she had troubles of her own.”
“And Gavin couldn’t save her,” I supply.
“That’s right. You can’t save an addict. You can only give them the tools to save themselves. Mr. Slater didn’t have those tools to give.”
“I see that. He’s still an irresponsible boy.”
Charles straightens and hustles to the door where he welcomes a resident home for the night. “You’d better head up now,” he says, signaling the end of our conversation. “Have a good night and take care of our friends.” He nods to indicate both the dog and the rock star are in my care.
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”