Friday, October 25, 2013


22-year-old Beryl doesn't know why Gavin Slater trashed his penthouse, abandoned his dog and fled the country. But as his house sitter, she must pick up the pieces for the front man of the white-hot rock band Tattoo Thief.

When ultra-responsible Beryl confronts the reckless rock star, she wants to know more than just what to do with his mess. Why is he running? What’s he searching for? And is he responsible for the death of his muse?

New York newbie Beryl must find her footing in Gavin’s crazy world of the ultra-wealthy to discover her own direction and what can bring him back.

Steamy, sassy and tender, Tattoo Thief is a story of breaking from a comfort zone to find a second chance.

In Tattoo Thief, Beryl leaves her sleepy hometown to become a house sitter for New York’s elite, including Gavin Slater, front man for the rock band Tattoo Thief. He’s trashed his apartment, abandoned his dog and fled the country—leaving Beryl to clean up the wreckage and unravel the mystery of why he fled and what can bring him back.

In this scene, Beryl’s best friend Stella is bent on a wild night out at a club to get over their recent breakups. Beryl finds herself ill-prepared for a night out until she considers the clothes Gavin told her to throw out of his apartment—clothes that once belonged to a woman named Lulu.

Purchase Tattoo Thief:

“I won’t take no for an answer. You get the most badass little black dress you can find and fuck-me shoes, and be ready by nine.”
Stella’s on a mission. Blayde is history and she firmly believes that the best way to get over one man is to get under another. She says I’ll feel a million times better about my breakup with Jeff once I see who else is on the market.
“You’re freaking me out,” I say. “Who owns fuck-me shoes? Other than strippers and prostitutes?”
“Every woman needs a pair, honey,” she drawls. “They’re like a giant neon sign for guys that says, ‘Hey cowboy, tonight’s your lucky night!’”
“I think I might have something to wear,” I say, fingering Lulu’s short black dress with a silver chain detail in the front. “But we’d better put comfortable fuck-me shoes on my shopping list for next time. I’ve got to be able to dance in them.”
“Once you’ve had a few drinks, you won’t be able to feel your feet,” Stella says. “That’s my secret.”
I suppress a snort. In college, Stella’s drinking wasn’t a secret—it was more like a public address. The frat boys loved her antics and sometimes I tagged along.
“So how are we going to get there? On the subway?”
“The train. New Yorkers call it the train.”
“Sorry.” I’m still learning the lingo, but at least I know Houston Street isn’t pronounced like the city in Texas. “The train. Or do you want to take a cab?”
“Tell you what. I’ll bring my stuff over and we’ll get ready at your place. I’ll do your hair.”


I’m in cutoff sweats and my green-and-yellow University of Oregon T-shirt when Stella arrives, looking chic in painted-on skinny jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that bares her shoulders. A fat bag on her hip signals that she’s brought supplies.
They’re not just for my hair. She pulls out a half-empty fifth of vodka and we each do a couple of shots in between her cooing over the views, the palatial kitchen and the rest of Gavin’s ohmygawdcanyoubelieveit apartment.
I give her the full tour with the exception of Gavin’s office, which is still littered with papers. I show her how to give Jasper a high five and she giggles, transformed into the less-worldly version of herself that I remember meeting in our sophomore year newswriting class.
“Show me what you’re wearing, and then I’ll do your hair.”
I hold up the black dress and she approaches it reverently. “Where in the hell did you get this, Beryl? This is some expensive shit.” The label is a name I’ve never heard of.
“Good thing it has built-in bra cups,” I say, changing the subject from the dress’s provenance. “There’s no way I can wear a bra with this.”
“In that dress, nobody will be looking at your shoes,” she confirms, eyeing the slim pickings in my closet. We head to the bathroom and under her skillful hands my hair is transformed.
I close my eyes as she brushes, irons and sprays. I haven’t heard from Gavin since he admitted what happened to Lulu last night, and I’m still reeling from his admission. His bubble is gray and I don’t want to email him. I don’t even know what I’d say, or if I want to say anything at all.
“Jeff doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
I start. “Huh?”
“Remember Jeff, you goof? Or have you already forgotten him?”
I blush as she irons out the final sections of my hair, admitting as much.
“Awesome, Beryl! Way to rebound. There’s hope for you yet. Repeat after me: A bad boy can’t break your heart.
I think for a moment, but I’m stumped. “What song’s that from?”
“Nothing. It’s just a good rule to live by.” Stella smiles wickedly and I can tell bad boys are on her personal menu tonight.
Maybe that’s not a bad idea. Forget rock star Gavin. Forget good boy Jeff. Bring on the bad boys.
We stand side-by-side in the bathroom mirror to apply our makeup—she draws on dramatic cat eyes with liquid liner, and I dust smoky gray powder on my lids.
“More,” she commands. I follow her lead.
I wiggle into Lulu’s dress and I’m surprised by my own curves. When I first saw photos of Lulu, I thought my body was chunky by comparison. But in this dress I realize it’s all about packaging and proportion. With my rounded hips and decent boobs, I could be that curvy pinup I envied.
I present myself to Stella for inspection. The dress is sleeveless, above the knee, and shaped carefully with darts to hug every curve. A stark vee neckline runs more than halfway to my navel, and strands of delicate silver chain close the vee from mid-boob down to its point, revealing far more cleavage than I think I’ve ever displayed, even in a bathing suit.
Stella gives me a wolf whistle and I offer a naughty wink in return. She’s changed into a short red halter dress that shows off her slim, toned arms and shoulders.
And no bra.
“Stella, I can see your—”
“Nipples? Yeah. They’re the new butt crack.”
I step into my boring black pumps as she explains that the trend used to be wearing ultra-low-rise jeans, which gave a peek-a-boo view of your butt crack.
“That trend’s over,” she says authoritatively. “The new sexy is going braless to show the outlines of your nipples.”
I roll my eyes. Those are two trend trains I never want to get on board.
“Got enough pre-func?” I ask. Our pre-function vodka shots have warmed a nice little trail down my throat and I’m feeling more relaxed than anxious.
“Got my buzz on. But of course we need one for the road.” Stella pours us each another shot.

I knew she’d say that.

Heidi Joy Tretheway  Bio:
Heidi Joy lives in Happy Valley off Sunnyside Road. She swears she did not make that up.

Heidi’s obsessed with storytelling. Her career includes marketing, journalism, and a delicious few years as a food columnist. Media passes took her backstage with several rock bands, where she learned that sometimes a wardrobe malfunction is exactlywhat the rock star intends.

You’ll most often find Heidi Joy with her husband and two small kids cooking, fishing, exploring the Northwest, and building epic forts in their living room.

She loves to hear from readers via messages at


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