Free Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) by Heidi Joy Tretheway Page A

you very mad?)
    Gavin: No. It actually made me LOL, and I don’t remember the last time that happened.
    Me: I’m sorry. My brain is always two steps behind my mouth. Fingers. Whatever.
    Gavin: Stop apologizing. And stop calling me Mr. Slater. I’m twenty-five. Mister makes me sound like a geezer.
    Me: Yes, sir.
    Gavin: Sir sounds like I’m a drill sergeant. Just Gavin, OK?
    Me: OK. May I ask you about handling your apartment? Do I have your approval to proceed?
    Gavin: Yes. Now you sound like a drill sergeant. How old are you?
    Me: I don’t think that’s relevant.
    Gavin: Do I need to play my asshole card?
    Me: Twenty-three. Almost. My birthday’s in a few weeks.
    Gavin: See? That wasn’t so hard. I’m pretty good at interrogation. Do you think I could make it as a spy?
    Me: You’d probably need to live a little more … subtly. Ugly yourself up. Put on a shirt.
    Gavin: ROFL. How would you know?
    Me: A mysterious invention called the Internet.
    Gavin: You’re feisty. I like that. Don’t worry, Beryl, I won’t tell on you about the asshole thing. And for the record, I’m not an asshole all the time.
    Me: I guess I don’t have much to go on. You *were* kind of an asshole to leave your apartment such a dump.
    Gavin: I have my reasons.
    Me: Name one good one.
    Gavin: No.
    Me: OK. When are you coming back?
    Gavin: Wondering when I’ll kick you out?
    Me: There is some planning needed, yes.
    Gavin: Not anytime soon. I’m in Kenya now. It’s hot as hell, and I’m drinking coffee at an Internet café in Nairobi. Hot coffee. I must be crazy.
    Me: That thought has crossed my mind. What are you doing in Kenya?
    Gavin: Looking for something. I’m not sure.
    Me: Well, look for Beryl Markham. She died a long time ago, but she grew up in Njoro in the Rift Valley and she’s who I’m named after. She trained racehorses and flew elephant-scouting missions and all sorts of amazing stuff.
    Gavin: Why’d you get named after her? Family connection?
    Me: My dad was a pilot.
    Gavin: You fly with him a lot?
    Me: No. He died in a plane crash.

    I blink hard to push back tears. I’ve been “handling” my dad’s death fine for nearly a decade, but every once in a while something unexpected shocks a round of fresh tears out of me.

    Gavin: I’m sorry.
    Gavin: Beryl? I’m sorry. I didn’t know.
    Gavin: I lost someone close to me, too.
    Me: I’m here.
    Gavin: I thought I lost you.
    Me: No. I just needed a breath.
    Gavin: That’s what I need. That’s why I’m out here.
    Me: For a breath?
    Gavin: Yeah, a breather. From the life and the music and the band and everyone.
    Me: What are you looking for, exactly?
    Gavin: I can’t tell you that.
    Me: Do you want me to do all that stuff I said I could do in the email?
    Gavin: Yeah, whatever.
    Me: You don’t sound too thrilled.
    Gavin: It’s complicated.
    Me: Try me.
    Gavin: It’s better if you don’t know.
    Me: Tell me anyway.
    Gavin: You’re a complete stranger.
    Me: So are you. And anyway, I’m bonded and I signed a zillion-page non-disclosure form, so I can’t tell the tabloids, if that’s what you’re worried about.
    Gavin: Actually, that’s not it.
    Me: What are you worried about?
    Gavin: You wouldn’t understand.
    Me: I told you. Try me. What was so fucking awful that you wrecked your apartment and ran away from your life?

    My fingers are flying faster than my internal filter.

    Me: Because from where I sit, that life is pretty fucking charmed.
    Gavin: Fucked up, is what it is.
    Me: So tell me.
    Gavin: No. Just throw out the stuff like I told you.
    Me: And then what?
    Gavin: I don’t now. Maybe it’ll come to me.
    Me: Gavin?
    Me: Gavin?

    Still no answer. Google chat still shows his green button active, though.

    Me: Don’t be an asshole.
    Me: OK, I’m sorry I called you an asshole. Again.
    Me: I’m going to go now. Take care of yourself.

    ***

    I go home—check that, I go to Gavin’s home—replaying our conversation in my head. I know I crossed a line,