“Oh.” I stumble and then right myself, keeping my head down, concentrating on not tripping over the uneven sidewalk in the dim light.

“Hold on,” Tyler says and extends his right elbow. I wrap my left hand around his leather-clad forearm gratefully. He rests his hand lightly on mine as we walk in silence for a few hundred feet.

“I need you to promise me you won’t say where this is in your article, Stella. Not even the neighborhood.”

Behind the aviator glasses, Tyler’s face is pinched with worry. Even though I need to keep this story real, I can give him this much.

“I’ll carry the secret to my grave.” I put my right hand over my heart.

Tyler hesitates and then nods. “I believe you will.”

At the next corner, Tyler turns down a side street but stops abruptly, fishing for keys in his pocket. We face a dingy metal door with a peeling sign that says DO NOT BLOCK. A few yards away, a Dumpster is shoved against the squat, square building’s brick walls. Beyond that, cars are parked along the building.

I don’t feel unsafe since I’m standing next to Tyler, but I’m disappointed that we’re not going to the über-hip practice studio I imagined.

Tyler twists keys in a series of three locks to open the industrial door, then follows me inside a stairwell with worn timbers for stairs. The walls are covered with vibrant layers of paint, some of it graffiti, and round white globe lights the size of soccer balls hang at various levels.

Tyler secures each lock behind us and the space smells of old wood, paint and newspapers. I’m afraid I already know what’s coming next.

“It’s on the top floor.”

Damn. I debate taking off my shoes but I’m sure I’d skewer a foot on a splinter or stray nail.

Tyler must have seen my face fall. He pulls off his aviator glasses and tucks them inside his jacket’s chest pocket. “Hey, don’t look so worried. I won’t make you walk all the way up. We have a freight elevator, but it’s so old that it takes forever.” He turns his back to me. “Hop on,” he says over his shoulder.

Is he for real? I’m small, but do I really want him carrying me up five flights of stairs? My face heats.

“Come on,” he coaxes. I push my purse behind me with its strap across my body, hike up my stretchy black jersey dress and put my hands on his broad shoulders.

Tyler squats and bounces me up against his back so effortlessly that I squeak with surprise.

“Hold on.” He climbs the steps fast, his broad hands wrapped under my bare legs just behind my knees. I can’t help but feel how my legs are spread, my panties pressed against the small of his back and his leather jacket.

Each bounce against his back makes my nerves more raw, my body more traitorous with desire. Did I come here for a booty call, or to write a story? Gah, I don’t know. I want them both. But I can only choose one.

I need to keep him at arm’s length. He’s a story. A subject. And as a journalist, I can’t get involved.

But as I’m riding him, I know I’m already involved. His touch to my lips in the cab. His hand pulling me through the restaurant. Tyler’s got bad boy inked all over him in each tattoo and he’s got the attention of every cell in my body.

Bad boys are just my style.

My face is flushed by the time we reach the top stair landing and Tyler’s not even breathing hard. He lets me slide off his back and I pull my dress back into place and gather my wits.

Tyler unlocks two more deadbolts in another wide metal door and ushers me inside, hitting an industrial light switch panel to illuminate the old warehouse.

I gasp as I hear the locks click behind me. This was not what I expected at all. The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high, crisscrossed by massive timbers. The floor is wood, worn smooth and shiny in some places. Multi-paned warehouse windows run from waist high to the ceiling and bare Edison bulbs hang down on long cords.

I follow Tyler from the front door to the kitchen in the opposite corner of the wide-open warehouse, trying to look everywhere at once. Along the only wall without windows, an open set of stairs leads up to a loft. I can’t see what’s up there, but a storage area underneath holds a couple of old bikes, random sound equipment, and a speaker missing its cover.

“Want a drink?” he asks. He gestures for me to sit on a stool behind the kitchen island’s tall bar.

“Sure. Vodka, if you have it.”

Tyler opens and closes cupboards and I glimpse a few liquor bottles. They’re not what I want, though they’ll do in a pinch. He looks in the freezer. “Lucky you. Someone left this behind.” He puts a glass on the concrete counter and pours a stingy shot.

I shoot the ice-cold vodka and put my glass back in the same spot, gesturing to him to fill it up again. The first drink warms me and the second shot revives the buzz I’d been working on at the restaurant.

If I’m not getting laid tonight, at least I can get tipsy.

“Aren’t you going to join me?”

Tyler shakes his head. “I’ll stick to beer.” He pulls a low-carb light beer out of his refrigerator and I can’t help snickering.

“Seriously? You drink that? Or is that all that’s left after your last party?” I slip my notebook out of my purse and open it on the bar. These details are what fans crave and I scribble a few notes about what I’ve seen so far.

“On the record or off, Stella?” The way he says my name snaps my head up and his eyes blaze with intensity.

“On the record. I mean, you said you’d show me your practice space for the story. Right?” I’m uncertain what he wants off the record, other than the location of this warehouse.

“Yes. I promised you that. And I’ll tell you the truth when you ask me a question. But maybe not the whole truth, not if it’s for a story.”

I frown. “Fans want to know the little things. They want to know what kind of beer you drink and what your practice space looks like. That’s what makes the story real.”

Tyler walks around the counter and eyes my scribbled notes. I fight my instinct to cover them up, letting him look so he’ll trust that I’m not going to hurt him with another story.

I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—betray them again. But I also have to push him, make the story vivid so it doesn’t look like a sanitized press release.

I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and goosebumps rise on my arms.

“Facts are real, Stella,” Tyler says, and I swivel on the stool to face him. His eyes travel across my bare shoulder, down the curve of my waist and land on my crossed legs, one knee on top of the other.

He brushes one finger across my kneecap, close to where his hands held me when he climbed the stairs. I hold my breath to see what’s next.

“Facts are real,” he repeats, “but stories are whatever you make of the facts. Stories are what we tell ourselves and each other.”

I hear his breath hitch as he touches my knee, trailing his finger across the top of my thigh where it meets the hem of my dress.

“A story might be true. It might not. You can have the same set of facts but two totally different stories. And stories can point to truth, or to lies. Don’t forget that.”

Tyler’s fingertip lights a fire in the path it traces on my leg. I drag my eyes from watching the progress of his one long finger to meet his molten brown eyes.

His pupils are dilated and I feel like he could devour me at any moment. I raise my hand, touching his chest through his thin T-shirt. I want to strengthen our connection and find out what his touch means.

But my touch breaks the spell.

SIX

Tyler turns from me and takes a long pull on his beer, coughing slightly. “So, uh, I’m going to show you the practice space now. OK?”

I swivel my stool back to the bar in disappointment, feeling cold without his presence. I down another vodka shot and it helps numb my throbbing feet. I’m growing to hate these shoes.

I grab my notebook and pen, trying to shake off the awkwardness and get on with the interview. Even if this isn’t going where I thought it might, it’s still an amazing opportunity to have this kind of access. I’m going to make the most of it.

Tyler puts plenty of distance between us and I follow him around for the tour. The space is about twice as long as it is wide, and Tyler explains that the hundred-year-old warehouse is basically cut in half, with two tenants on each floor.

“How long have you lived here?” I ask.

“A couple of years.” He shrugs. “The band needed a space to practice, somewhere neighbors wouldn’t complain about noise. Most of the other tenants don’t live in the building; they’re artists or fashion designers who want lots of space and light.”

“It’s really nice.” I mean it. On the long wall with windows, three slouchy couches cluster around a big-screen TV. There’s a distressed boardroom-style table past that with ten mismatched chairs.

We pass an elaborate setup of weightlifting equipment and move toward the largest area, which overflows with musical instruments. Cords snake across the floor between monitors, a soundboard, a drum set, and other expensive equipment. That probably explains all the locks.

“The loft didn’t always look like this. It was full of pigeon droppings and trash when I found it. Some of the windows were broken when I moved in,” Tyler said. “But once I cleaned that shit up and put in a bathroom, I started liking it here more than the band’s old place in Brooklyn. Plus, it’s quicker to get home after a gig in the city.”

“What’s up there?” I point to the loft along the back wall.