I scuttle to Neil’s kitchen and hear a snorty snore filter through his open bedroom door. I yank open the freezer and pour myself two fingers of vodka, knock it back, and then another couple fingers for good measure.

Sober feels like shit. I need to smooth down my rough edges. I take the glass and vodka bottle back to my room.

Beryl doesn’t know I forwarded that video to myself. It’s possible she’ll never even realize. And I could stop now, delete my story, and no one would be the wiser. My editor isn’t even expecting this piece.

I pour another generous shot—fuck it, two—and let vodka burn a happy trail down my throat.

The problem is that my editor is expecting something, and I don’t have an alternate story. I didn’t write about the crappy band I heard wailing in the bar because it wasn’t worth writing about.

But this is. Gavin’s video is authentic, a true musician showing raw emotion. It’s stunning, and I believe it’s something the world needs to see.

Fans will love it. I’m a fan of Tattoo Thief and seeing this video made me love Gavin that much more. It gives me hope that the band’s next album won’t be the over-processed noise that haunted some tracks on Beast.

I try to reread my story to see if it’s on the mark, but the vodka makes the letters soft and melty, as if their ink is bleeding on my laptop’s screen.

I’m convinced that if I make this video public, people will appreciate Tattoo Thief more, not less. They’ll clamber for the real stuff. It will propel the band into their next album release.

And it will help me, too. It will finally put me on the map as a serious music journalist.

Win-win. I down another shot.

I click SEND and there’s no turning back. My heart races, alive with fear. I’m afraid of what Beryl will say to me when she finds out. If she ever talks to me again.

Win-win-lose.

God. What have I done?

TWO

My story is published online Sunday evening and by Monday morning, dozens of media outlets are picking it up, from BuzzFeed to E! to Entertainment Weekly.

This should be the best day of my career.

Variety is doing a piece on the video and left three messages on my office voicemail asking for more details. They’re fifth on my list to call back, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone.

Each time a television presenter says, “In an exclusive video released by The Indie Voice, Gavin Slater sings…” I’m crying inside, terrified of the fact that this story is going viral.

It’s a boulder rolling downhill, picking up momentum and threatening to crush whatever’s in its path.

Friendship.

A thousand times today, I wish I’d waited. I wish I’d thought it through and realized how utterly stupid it was to steal the video and write about it.

But I did think it through. I rationalized the fuck out of it.

I hate myself for what I’ve done to sweet, gentle Beryl and I sink lower in my chair as colleagues stop by my cubicle with congratulations. This is the biggest story The Indie Voice has released in ages, especially because we have the exclusive.

When my boss, Heath Rhodes, stops by my cubicle, he doesn’t offer congrats. “Stella? A word?” He jerks his head toward his office and I follow him, taking a seat opposite his broad, messy desk.

“Well, that was some story,” Heath says, resting his chin on steepled fingers as his eyes linger on my cleavage. “It’s been lighting up our phones all morning. You wanna tell me where you got that video?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

“Just between us, sweetheart.” His tone softens but I can still hear the edge in it. “The lawyers will be asking me some tough questions. I want to have good answers for them.”

“I didn’t steal it.” The words spill out of my mouth in a rush.

“I never said you did.” Heath narrows his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s—it’s personal. I mean, the video was made for personal reasons, not for fans. Gavin sent it to his, uh, girlfriend?” I don’t know how to describe Beryl and Gavin’s relationship.

“Gavin Slater’s having a romantic relationship with someone, and you know her?”

I nod.

Heath’s lip curls in a ruthless smile. “You can use this access. Readers will want to know if the playboy is finally settling down. Because if he is, that’s your next story. Now, what’s your connection?”

I buy time before I answer by pushing one angled edge of my cherry-brown bob behind my ear. “I don’t know for sure if she’s his girlfriend, but she showed me the video. He sent it to her.”

Heath nods, his dead eyes cold, like a shark’s. “You know her well?”

“Yeah.” Heath scowls at my minimum-information answer and I’m forced to elaborate. “We were in college together. In the journalism program at the University of Oregon.”

“And how does a girl from Oregon catch the eye of a rock star? Does this have something to do with the fact that he fell off the map a couple of months ago?”

Heath’s getting far too much out of me and I balk. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “I guess I’ll have to see what else I can find out.”

“Wednesday. I want a follow-up story by Wednesday with more on the band. More behind-the-scenes crap, whatever you can get. More real-life stuff, because that’s what fans are eating up right now. Tattoo Thief’s a trending topic on Twitter today.”

I suppress a groan. This story has taken on a life of its own. “I’ll try.”

“No. You’ll do it, sweetheart. This story is flipping our advertisers’ buttons and that makes our publisher happy. And when our publisher’s happy…”

I finish Heath’s sentence: “Everyone’s happy. I get it. I’ll do my best.”

“Bullshit. Don’t do your best. Just do it.”

I twist my hands in my lap, waiting to be dismissed, but Heath pulls a laminated pass on a lanyard out of his desk drawer and flips it over to me.

“Don’t look so grim. I’ve also got a reward for you—you’re covering the Indie Day concert.” Heath’s tobacco-stained grin says he’s proud of giving me this.

“Thanks,” I choke out, accepting the pass to one of the biggest outdoor indie rock concerts of the summer. It’s on Independence Day, of course, so I mentally scratch my Fourth of July plans.

“Get me a story on that by noon Friday,” Heath says. “And close the door behind you.”

I’m dismissed.

* * *

I know I should call Beryl but I can’t bring myself to dial all ten numbers. The weight of my betrayal threatens to crush me and I leave work early on the pretense of digging up more information on Tattoo Thief.

Instead, I walk aimlessly on the High Line, an elevated park on an old rail track.

On Tuesday, I’m no closer to a story about Tattoo Thief and I spend the morning at my desk trolling old articles about the band, looking for some nugget that could spark a fresh story without involving Gavin or Beryl again.

I feel like a prisoner waiting for her execution.

Neil’s on the other side of the newsroom telling a loud, animated story about his latest one-star restaurant review, and several reporters gather around him.

I hate this side of the business, being a critic, tearing down what other people create. I write honest reviews, but I always try to find something redeeming about a performance a band’s spent years honing.

When my desk phone rings I want to let it go to voicemail, but considering that I hate being on the other end, a reporter leaving a voicemail for a source, I relent to its beeping and pick it up.

“Indie Voice. This is Stella Ramsey.”

“Stella. You’re Beryl’s … friend?” The voice is a growl, pouring ice in my veins. This is not a friendly chat.

My mouth drops open and I struggle to remember what to do with it: breathe, move my lips, push air through my throat. Now speak.

“Stella? Are you there?” I scramble to place the familiar rasp. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve fielded calls from publications and reporters whose names are every bit as famous as Tattoo Thief’s.

“Urg, sorry. How may I help you?” I pride myself on composure, but now I’m fumbling for easy words.

“You know what this is about. The video. Tell me what happened.” The growl is lower and so commanding that I stutter out the same comments I gave a dozen media outlets.

“Uh, I wrote a story about the video Gavin Slater made. For Beryl. It was such a good song that I thought the world needed to see it. I thought—”

I keep talking, defending the very thing I’ve beaten myself up over ever since I hit SEND. My thoughts snag on a critical fact: no one should know that Beryl is my friend.

When reporters badgered me about getting in touch with Beryl, I told them I didn’t know her last name or contact details. The only reason her first name is mentioned in my story at all is because the video begins with Gavin’s sweet, heartfelt statement: “Hey, Beryl. This is for you.”

Realization hits me. That voice. I feel like I’ve tripped on the bumpy yellow warning strip in the subway and I’m falling toward the tracks.

“Stop it, Stella.” Gavin Slater’s sharp tone cuts off my babble. “You stole it from Beryl. That was a private video between us and I don’t know how you got in the middle of it, but you had no right to take it.”

I hear his barely contained rage and I gasp for air and grasp for words. I stick with the one phrase that’s burned in my brain. “Gavin, I’m sorry. I’m so sor—” My voice breaks as I try to apologize, and I choke back a sob.