Free Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief) by Heidi Joy Tretheway Page A

only by strips of glow-in-the-dark tape. I’m still blind from the stage lights and thankful for his closeness as I stumble once and then regain my footing at the bottom.
    “Follow me.” Tyler weaves through the backstage labyrinth among hulking sound equipment and black-clad techs. Few people notice us and nobody makes a move to stop us. My press pass bangs against my chest and my reporter’s notebook is lying somewhere under the toppled fence, but at least my purse is still on my hip, secured by its cross-body strap.
    Tyler is in and out of a trailer in seconds, a soft nylon guitar case and a backpack in hand. He zips his guitar into the case and slings the strap over his head, shouldering the backpack after it. He takes my hand and I wince—it hurts, but I need this connection. I follow Tyler as the roar of the crowd and an encore song drown out everything else.
    We’re released from the mess by a security guard at a back exit and Tyler buttons his shirt with one hand while never letting go of mine. He puts his aviator glasses on and guides me toward the bridge, climbing steep stairs that take us to the pedestrian deck elevated above traffic.
    “Are you still OK walking?” Tyler asks and looks at my knees and face. I’m sure I’m a mess and I can smell the metallic tang of blood that’s congealing on my face, but I nod, still clinging to his hand. I just want to get away.

 
    TEN
     
     
    My body chills as it comes down from the adrenaline high. We walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with the city lights blazing on either side of the East River. Tyler is intense and focused, forcing me to hustle to keep up with his long paces.
    I glance at his face but his expression is closed behind his glasses, his jaw tight. He grips my hand and I try not to wince because I don’t want him to let go.
    I sniffle and wipe desperately at tears that leak down my face as we walk, aware that my face is a disaster. But this is Tyler, the boy who rejected me. He doesn’t care. I’m sure of it.
    It’s also Tyler, the boy who saved me. And that thought cracks my heart open a little to the possibility that he does care.
    I wrap my free arm around my middle and shudder, feeling the breeze off the water as it cools the humid night. We’re halfway across the bridge and my shivering finally alerts Tyler, who stops so abruptly I almost lose my hold on him.
    “You’re shaking. Hang on.” Tyler pulls his backpack to the front of his body and unzips the main compartment, withdrawing a light gray cotton bundle. He holds the zippered hoodie sweatshirt open for me and I stuff my arms inside.
    He turns me to face him and zips the sweatshirt all the way up to my chin. It’s far too large, the hem hanging almost to my knees and the arms at least six inches longer than my fingertips. I look like a child dressed in her daddy’s jacket.
    But that’s what I need to feel right now—protected and safe, cared for and warm, the way I never felt whenmy life slid sideways under Dixon’s control and then my parents’ smothering.
    Tyler pushes the sleeves up until the cuffs reach my wrists and the extra fabric bunches on my forearms. He pulls the hood up over my hair and tucks stray auburn strands behind my ears.
    It’s such an intimate gesture that I am frozen in place. I can’t read his expression behind those reflective glasses and it’s maddening, so I slowly pull them from his face.
    His dark lashes are wet and his brown eyes are lined with worry. He’s looking at me as if I might fall to pieces at any moment. I want to reassure him. To comfort him, as crazy as that sounds.
    “I’m OK, Tyler. No permanent damage.”
    “It looks bad.” His voice is hoarse; he was probably every bit as scared as I was.
    “I’ll heal. Maybe there won’t even be scars.”
    I look down at my kneecaps and I doubt it. They’re a pulp from the rough, gravel-strewn asphalt where I fell. My palms aren’t quite so bad but my chin took a definite beating. I’m