Heidi Tretheway - Tyler & Stella

Ive never hated myself as much as I do right now.

My best friend Beryl just ran to the bathroom in tears and Im left holding her phone as a video plays. Its just a guy in a hotel room, playing his guitar and singing.

If you cant/ I can

If you wont/ I will

If you vow, I might break

But Ill try for your sake

It takes two

It takes two

To say I do.

God, its stunning. Gavin Slaters sandy hair flops forward on his face as he concentrates on a chord progression and a pang of envy churns in my gut.

Not that Beryl shouldnt have this. She should. I want her to have a sweet, beautiful, impossibly famous rocker writing her love songs and remembering her birthday.

But I also want that for me.

Even just the remembering my birthday part. Even if he isnt famous or beautiful.

And while Im making a birthday wish (even though it isnt my birthday), forget the boys. Id be happy with a decent place to live and a boss who doesnt send me to shitty gigs like this one, to write stories about bands that arent famous and dont deserve to be.

I try to tune out the band on stage now. Playing louder doesnt help their cause and the lead singers screeching makes me more uncomfortable than watching Miley Cyrus twerk.

I tune out everything except this one perfect video on Beryls phone that would rock the world of rock. Its an entirely different side of Tattoo Thiefs lead singer that fans have never seen, and its heart-stoppingly perfect.

It isnt fair. Im the music journalist and somehow Beryl gained access to a band thats been at the top of the charts for more than a year. Ive been to two hundred and ninety-two shows since I moved to New York a year ago, and Ive never gotten a true insiders look at a band even half as famous as Tattoo Thief.

I glance around and Beryls still in the bathroom. I tap her phones screen a couple of times and see my last text, telling her the address of this club and to wear something saucy.

Before I can overthink it, I e-mail the video to myself. I need a closer look.

The journalist in me rationalizes this. Im not stealing the video. Beryl showed it to me. And this could be a great storythe best of my career (what little there is of it).

I need another drink.

A bartender with fuchsia hair breezes by and I avoid her gaze. I wait a few minutes, then straighten to my full five-foot-not-quite-two when Grady walks by.

Hes the other bartender. And unlike Miss Fuchsia, hell slip me free drinks all night long. Im still in his little black book, I think, unless hes got a regular girlfriend now.

I clasp my arms in front of me to display maximum cleavage (not much I can make of a B-cup, unfortunately) and wink at Grady. He nods, accepting my telepathic order of a couple more shots.

Its Beryls birthday and were doing tequila. I knocked back a few before Beryl showed up and weve done two together, but I barely feel buzzed. She weaves unsteadily between the tables on her way back from the bathroom.

Is alcohol or emotion getting the better of her? Her face is blotchy and tendrils of damp, curly hair hang around her face.

I motion to the shots. Drink up, girlfriend. Looks like you got a pretty killer birthday present.

I slip the phone back in her purse and do my shot quick, then press the other shot glass into her hand, trying to tease real joy from her weak smile.

Beryl follows my leadlick, shoot, bite. That was a shock.

No kidding. A rock star writes you a song? Id be a basket case. Lie. Id be on cloud nine.

I am.

So lets go. Im going to blow off this show for a different story. And youve got to be home when loverboy calls.

Its nearly midnight when I exit the subway on the Lower East Side near Neils apartment. I walk the last couple of blocks at a fast clip while trying not to look over my shoulder.

Its not the greatest neighborhood and Im small, my skirt is short, and I dont need any extra attention.

Not to mention I feel like a thief. Which I am.

Pretty lady, you got some change?

I yelp when a panhandler steps out of a doorway into my path. I thought Id lived in New York long enough to become inured to them, but this one scares me.

I shake my head, avoid eye contact, and give the shaggy-faced man in a drab olive jacket a wide berth. I listen for a sound besides my heels tapping on the sidewalk to make sure he isnt following me.

Another half-block and Im home. Well, the only home Ive had for a month. When my ex-boyfriend Blayde and I split up in early June, he took off. Thats when I invited Beryl to live with me when she moved to New York, figuring we could share the rent.

Then Blayde came back and kicked me out because his name was on the sublease. Beryl got a house-sitting gig through her uncles company, and I convinced one of the other writers for The Indie Voice to let me stay with him while his roommate is traveling.

I should be more grateful to Neil for this temporary room, but he is by far the grossest gay boy Ive ever met. His entire apartment is one sloppy pile after another and Im sure hes never cleaned a bathroom in his life.

I walk up three flights, knock, and unlock the apartment when I get no answer. Thats one of Neils rules, even though I live here, too. I have to knock.

I turn on the light before I step into the apartment. Once, I failed to do this and tripped over two ripe takeout boxes in the front hallway.

The living room isnt too bad and Im relieved. My internal debate over whether to write first or clean first is solveddefinitely the cleaningand I do the dishes, Swiffer the wood floor, wipe down the bathroom and straighten a bunch of Neils piles.

Im paying my dues for the free room this month, and I suspect Neil is being even grosser than usual.

I flop on my borrowed bed in my borrowed room. Neils roommate, Violet, covered her walls with black-and-white photographs, many of them nudes. Theyre goodsome are even greatbut together they seem kind of menacing.

I pull out my laptop and my phone, concentrating on my next taskwriting the best freaking story of my career. The kind of story with memorable lines that other music critics will quote. The kind of story that doesnt just describe a superstar like Gavin Slater, it defines him.

I sift through my memory for the few details Beryl learned about Gavin while house-sitting for him. I wish Id asked her more questions, but she struggled for answers herself. She let me see inside his penthouse, which was amazing, but she was always guarded about the guy.

I rearrange the pillows behind me, pick at a hangnail and again survey the rows of nude portraits. Im stuck. How do I write about the real Gavin?

I replay Beryls video, the one Gavin made for her birthday. This is the real Gavin, Im sure. Hes vulnerable, exposed, and screams sex appeal. I close my eyes and listen to the rasp in his voice, hear the way his mouth forms the words, feel the music as his voice rises to carry a note before he lets it fall.

I play the video twice more until I know what to write. I start by describing how Tattoo Thiefs music has a driving, predatory nature to it, especially on their last album, Beast.

But this song is a retreat, a recovery from loss, and a promise of renewal. Its the most honest thing Ive heard from Tattoo Thief since their tracks became over-engineered. On