CHAPTER 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 bandmates, 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 over-scheduled 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.”
“Meredith Willson. I know every word,” I confess, and then shut my trap when Tyler looks at me keenly.
“Really?”
I nod and whisper my admission. “I did shows, too. That’s what I wanted to be. That’s why all those lessons.”
Tyler pushes his chair back and his baritone carries over the crowd in a dramatic barbershop quartet-style warble, a familiar tune that asks how there can be any sin in sincere, or good in goodbye.
I can’t help but grin ear-to-ear.
Tyler trails off and he mock-bows to our audience. Jayce hoots with laughter and a few others clap.
“You’d better watch out, Tyler,” Beryl pipes up from across the table. “Stella’s good at that game. Knows every song. Don’t bet her or she’ll beat your ass.”
Tyler chuckles and leans closer to me. “I just heard a challenge, didn’t you, Miss Stella? You ready to go head-to-head with me?”
My eyes widen but I know I can take him. “What are we playing for?”
Tyler thinks for a moment and then settles on the prize. “If you win, I’ll take you to see our practice space. For your story.”
Oh, hell yes. If I make this my next story, I won’t have to drag Beryl and Gavin into it. I feel my shoulders relax for the first time since arriving at the restaurant. “Done.”
Tyler laughs. “That confident, are we? What will you give me if I win?”
I’m stumped for a moment. There’s nothing I can give a ridiculously famous rock star who probably has more cash in his wallet right now than I have in my whole bank account. “If you win, I’ll take you to my favorite place in New York.”
“Where’s that?”
“I guess you’ll just have to win to find out, won’t you?” I sass.
The game is on and we take turns quoting lyrics in an attempt to stump each other. We go six rounds and I see his Andrew Lloyd Webber and raise him a Stephen Sondheim. He squeezes me with a Rodgers and Hammerstein but easily guesses my Jonathan Larson.
I think it’s hilarious that I’m quoting show tunes with a guy known for his hard-rocking edge, but up close Tyler seems more like a normal guy than a rock god.
Until he touches my hand. The nearness of him raises every hair on my arm, alerts every nerve ending, and fries my brain. He nearly stumps me with the line, “What do you do with a B.A. in English?” but then I remember it’s from Avenue Q.
Is he trying to distract me? The gleam in his eye tells me he is, so I fight dirty, drawing from a musical that’s rarely performed in the United States.
“Tell me it’s not true. Say it’s just a story, something on the news.” I speak the line with the syncopation of the song.
Tyler’s face is blank. He knows I’ve caught him and it’s just a matter of time before he admits it.
“Um, it was that one show, you know which one I mean. The one with the guy and the girl and the dancing and the music?” He cracks a hopeful smile and runs his hands through dark hair that’s long on top, pushing it out of his face.
“You’re wrong. There were two guys. Brothers.”
“Right!” Tyler exclaims, as if he’s picked up on my broad hint. “And one guy had a nose, right in the middle his face?”
I laugh. “You give up?”
Tyler hangs is head. “Under duress.”
“Blood Brothers,” I say. “Willy Russell.” I stab my fork into the point of a thin slice of chocolate ganache cake and chuckle. I love to win.
Tyler’s hand darts across the table, scoops up a gob of whipped cream from the side of my plate and dots it on my nose. “Clever. I should have known better than to underestimate you. I hereby declare you the winner.”
I grab my napkin and wipe my face while Tyler licks his finger. The move brings another flush to my face and I gulp more water to stay cool.
Stay cool, my ass. He’s promised me a story and I’m playing a stupid lyrics game with him rather than reporting my next story.
But maybe this incongruity could be the hook?
I know this about writing about stars: readers want to see the most fantastic, otherworldly elements of stars’ lives, but they also want the nitty-gritty details to be reassured that stars are just like us.
This thought sobers me for my mission and I have to ask. “When do I collect my prize?”