Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) by Heidi Joy Tretheway Read Free Book Online

forgotten in my lap, but Tyler touches my wrist lightly. “Can we keep that part off the record?”
    I know this bargain: either he’ll tell me more and I can’t write about it, or he won’t tell me. My insides are at war—I love this detail, but I have plenty of other stuff for my story. My curiosity wins.
    “OK. So what did you do?”
    “My mom came home, and I was freaking out she’d be angry. But she said, ‘Tattoo Thief? That’s a cool name for a band.’ And it stuck.”
    I hoot with laughter. “What? Your mom wasn’t pissed about the spray paint?”
    “She was at first, but she told me later she wanted me to repaint the garage doors anyway. Gavin begged her to let it stay, like advertising, so she did for almost a year.”
    “Your mom is cool.”
    “Seriously.”
     
    ***
     
    I want to ask Tyler more questions but my bladder won’t allow it, so I excuse myself to the bathroom. My jaw drops when I enter—twin basin sinks rest above a poured-concrete counter and the glass-walled shower enclosure is bigger than Neil’s whole bathroom. There’s even a heated towel bar. This is sweet.
    I finish in the bathroom and do another quick shot in the kitchen. I cross what feels like miles of wood floor to join Tyler on the couches. It only takes me a moment to decide to sit on the same couch he’s on.
    “What’s with the bathroom?” I ask.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s, um, ridiculously nice.”
    Tyler chuckles. “I know I went overboard. We’d just got our first big royalties and I really had no business spending that kind of money.”
    “What pushed you over the edge?”
    “I got sick of short showers. Seriously. I grew up in a house where the showerhead barely reached my shoulder blades and I had to duck my head every time I washed my hair. And the apartment in Brooklyn was worse, because it had practically no water pressure.”
    I giggle and stretch out my feet, wincing because I can still feel the abuse I put them through today. “How tall are you?”
    Tyler sees my grimace and grabs my feet before I can stop him, pulling them into his lap and easing off my shoes. This is horrifying. My feet probably reek and most of my bright orange toenail polish has chipped off.
    Tyler’s looking too closely at my toes and I want to recoil. “Six-three-ish,” he says absently. “You?”
    “Me what?”
    “How tall are you?”
    “That doesn’t matter. I’m not famous.”
    “It’s still a question. How tall are you without these shoes?” Tyler presses his thumb against the ball of my foot and I’m in ecstasy.
    “Five-two-ish.”
    “That sounds like it’s maybe not quite the whole truth.”
    I duck my head. “I’m allowed an ish if you are. Does that mean you’re a little taller than six-three?”
    “Maybe. Maybe closer to six-four. But I’ll never admit it. It sounds too freakish. In high school, I looked like a flagpole, because I grew really fast but I was only a hundred and twenty pounds. I was scrawny .”
    “I find that hard to imagine,” I say, appreciating his lean, muscular body as I relax into the arm of the couch.
    Tyler’s long, magical fingers stroke my gross feet. I can’t believe I’m letting him do this. I should straighten up and grill him about something else important for my story, but the motivation has left me.
    “It’s true. My body only caught up to my frame in the last year or so.”
    “Is that why you have all the weights?” I watch his tattoos dance on strong arms as he kneads my feet.
    “Dave makes us work out after band practice to blow off steam. Most bands just drink or get high.”
    “Working out doesn’t hurt your record sales, either. All that muscle on display.”
    “Mmmn, no. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a motivator.” Tyler pushes back the dark brown hair that’s flopped forward on his face. “So why orange?”
    “Huh?” The non sequitur snaps me out of the drowsy place I was sinking into, courtesy of the squishy couch and the