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 girl. 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?”

FIVE

I stay quiet as desserts are finished, trying to blend into the background as I overhear bits and pieces of conversation. The sharpest and most quarrelsome come from Dave, and I finally learn why Tattoo Thief’s own record label threatened to sue the band for breach of contract.

The band can’t release songs without the label’s approval. Worse, Gavin’s song was nothing like their usual material, contradicting the brand the label is working to build. Music press speculation about a solo album for Gavin is making everyone tense, especially after his two-month hiatus.

Tyler leans close to my ear. “Do you really want to come see where we practice?” His brown eyes crinkle at the corners. He stands and I’m even more aware of how he towers over me.

“What—now?” I balk. It’s after eleven, not exactly an hour most stars give interviews. Is this a booty call?

Tyler shrugs. “Why not? Life’s short. If you don’t seize the moment, you could miss it entirely.” He plunges his long arms in the sleeves of a slim leather jacket and pushes his chair under the table. With or without me, he’s going.

“I’m in.” I can’t afford to miss this opportunity for another story about Tattoo Thief and I’m thankful I have a notebook in my purse. “Let me go say goodbye to Beryl.”

I tell Beryl I’m leaving and we make plans to meet up for lunch tomorrow to talk it out. It’s hard to look at her, quiet and kind, and to feel the depth of my betrayal reflected in her eyes. I can tell she’s still wary of me.

Gavin stands behind her with his arms wrapped protectively around her waist and I meet his ice-blue eyes. I mouth the words “thank you” and he nods slightly.

Tyler waits for me by the door. “Time to talk to the press!” he calls to his other band mates with a laugh. “I’m going to tell her all your dirty secrets, Jayce.”

Jayce scowls. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Then quit hassling me about the gig on Thursday.”

Dave’s head snaps up. “What gig?” I know he was their business manager for years and I imagine he’s still protective of their time.

“Just a guest spot.” Tyler shakes it off as if it’s nothing. “Felix asked me to play before Gavin got back.”

“Fine,” Dave mutters. “But don’t do anything that gets us blowback like ‘Wilderness’.”

I wince and feel even smaller.

“Scout’s honor,” Tyler promises. He holds up a snappy three-fingered Boy Scout salute. I mentally add it to the list of things I’ve observed tonight that are so out of character compared to what most people think of Tattoo Thief.

They’re bad boys. Rough, hard-partying, tattooed, and smoking hot. That’s the persona I’ve always seen, which is why the sensitive good-boy vibe of “Wilderness” made such waves.

Tyler pops a pair of aviator shades over his eyes and pulls me out of the restaurant to the curb, looking quickly in both directions. Is he checking for fans? For paparazzi?

He jumps into the street, raises one arm and forces a shrill whistle from his mouth. Huh. He’s hailing a cab. How—ordinary. I assumed he’d have a limo outside, but Tyler lacks the affectation of some stars who’ve made it.

Not that I get to talk to those folks much. As the second-string music reporter for The Indie Voice, I’m stuck with the un-famous scraps.

What’s the opposite of a rock star? A black hole? A pebble? Whatever it is, most musicians I interview haven’t made it, and many are so shamelessly self-promotional it makes me ill. They suck up to me hoping I’ll write the world’s most flattering piece about them.

I won’t. I’ve been at this for a year and I want to write an article that actually makes a band, but I’ll lose my credibility if I write puff pieces instead of real reviews.

A taxi screeches to a halt by Tyler and he pulls open the door, looking back at me frozen on the sidewalk. I give myself a mental prod and trip forward in my super-tall shoes, ducking into the cab and wondering if Tyler’s eyes are on my ass.

I slide over and Tyler jumps in behind me. “Tenth and West Twenty-Ninth Street,” Tyler tells the driver. I’m shoulder to shoulder with him, feeling his lean, muscled thigh against mine and smelling his leather jacket and a woodsy, spicy scent.

It makes me lightheaded.

I turn to look at him, brushing my hair out of my eyes. His aviator shades are still on and his expression gives nothing away.

“Ty—”

“Shh.” Tyler presses his index finger on my lips. “Wait ’til we get home.”

Holy smokes. His light touch shoots a current deep inside me. I’m not used to this. Bad boys, in my experience, don’t show this kind of restraint.

If this trip to the band’s practice space is a booty call, why isn’t he groping me? Why isn’t he shoving his tongue down my throat?

These questions swirl in my brain and mix with the kind of questions I’m supposed to ask for an interview, such as, “How is your sound evolving?” and “Which album do you consider your best work?” and “Tell me about your creative process.”

Tyler flips a twenty through the little window behind the cab driver and we exit on a quiet industrial street a few blocks removed from the main street bustle.

We walk west beneath yellowish streetlights. My heels are killing me and I try not to limp as I keep pace with his long-legged strides.

“Why not have the cab drop us off closer to your place?” I ask after a block.

“Because I don’t have a doorman.”

I quirk my eyebrows at Tyler and he explains: “I don’t want to take the chance that the driver recognizes me and tells someone—it would be pretty hard to keep fans away from my building. When they found Gavin’s place they were all over it and it drove him crazy. It almost got him kicked out of his co-op. That’s why I didn’t want you to say my name in the cab.”