Heidi Tretheway - Tyler & Stella

But this song is a retreat, a recovery from loss, and a promise of renewal. It’s the most honest thing I’ve heard from Tattoo Thief since their tracks became over-engineered. On Beast , you don’t even hear a unified performance, just stitched-together vocals based on the producer’s taste.

Did you know Adele sings off-key? It’s a musical embellishment called appoggiatura , an Italian term that means to lean. What Adele did with “Someone Like You” is what Gavin is doing with “Wilderness,” hitting a note on-beat but slightly off-key at first, then leaning into the melody to resolve the dissonance and reach the harmonious note.

If producers Auto-Tuned Adele, she wouldn’t sound like herself. Her song would be flat. The discord is what makes her music feel more alive. That’s how I feel when I listen to Gavin Slater perform “Wilderness.”

I read over my story, tweaking a few typos here and there, and rewriting some awkward sentences. I make the lead sentence snappier and more provocative. I wrap up the story with a song-lyric kicker.

Seven hundred and twenty-four words. That’s sharp work in a little over two hours and I’m ready to file my story.

I drop the text and video files in my email and put my bastard editor’s name in the SEND-TO field, with the subject line: Tattoo Thief’s next hit single? Exclusive video , just to be sure he opens it tomorrow.

I mean today. It’s three a.m. on Sunday and I’m unfortunately sober, but I’m high from the rush of writing. This story could go big if it’s picked up on the wire by other publishers. It could go national in a matter of hours.

My mouse hovers over the SEND key and I stop. I should close my laptop and walk away to give myself breathing room. Can I do this do to Beryl? To Gavin?

I scuttle to Neil’s kitchen and hear a snorty snore filter through his open bedroom door. I yank open the freezer and pour myself two fingers of vodka, knock it back, and then another couple fingers for good measure.

Sober feels like shit. I need to smooth down my rough edges. I take the glass and vodka bottle back to my room.

Beryl doesn’t know I forwarded that video to myself. It’s possible she’ll never even realize. And I could stop now, delete my story, and no one would be the wiser. My editor isn’t even expecting this piece.

I pour another generous shot—fuck it, two—and let vodka burn a happy trail down my throat.

The problem is that my editor is expecting something , and I don’t have an alternate story. I didn’t write about the crappy band I heard wailing in the bar because it wasn’t worth writing about.

But this is. Gavin’s video is authentic, a true musician showing raw emotion. It’s stunning, and I believe it’s something the world needs to see.

Fans will love it. I’m a fan of Tattoo Thief and seeing this video made me love Gavin that much more. It gives me hope that the band’s next album won’t be the over-processed noise that haunted some tracks on Beast .

I try to reread my story to see if it’s on the mark, but the vodka makes the letters soft and melty, as if their ink is bleeding on my laptop’s screen.

I’m convinced that if I make this video public, people will appreciate Tattoo Thief more, not less. They’ll clamber for the real stuff. It will propel the band into their next album release.

And it will help me, too. It will finally put me on the map as a serious music journalist.

Win-win. I down another shot.

I click SEND and there’s no turning back. My heart races, alive with fear. I’m afraid of what Beryl will say to me when she finds out. If she ever talks to me again.

Win-win-lose.

God. What have I done?

My story is published online Sunday evening and by Monday morning, dozens of media outlets are picking it up, from BuzzFeed to E! to Entertainment Weekly .

This should be the best day of my career.

Variety is doing a piece on the video and left three messages on my office voicemail asking for more details. They’re fifth on my list to call back, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone.

Each time a television presenter says, “In an exclusive video released by The Indie Voice, Gavin Slater sings…” I’m crying inside, terrified of the fact that this story is going viral.

It’s a boulder rolling downhill, picking up momentum and threatening to crush whatever’s in its path.

Friendship.

A thousand times today, I wish I’d waited. I wish I’d thought it through and realized how utterly stupid it was to steal the video and write about it.

But I did think it through. I rationalized the fuck out of it.

I hate myself for what I’ve done to sweet, gentle Beryl and I sink lower in my chair as colleagues stop by my cubicle with congratulations. This is the biggest story The Indie Voice has released in ages, especially because we have the exclusive.

When my boss, Heath Rhodes, stops by my cubicle, he doesn’t offer congrats. “Stella? A word?” He jerks his head toward his office and I follow him, taking a seat opposite his broad, messy desk.

“Well, that was some story,” Heath says, resting his chin on steepled fingers as his eyes linger on my cleavage. “It’s been lighting up our phones all morning. You wanna tell me where you got that video?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

“Just between us, sweetheart.” His tone softens but I can still hear the edge in it. “The lawyers will be asking me some tough questions. I want to have good answers for them.”

“I didn’t steal it.” The words spill out of my mouth in a rush.

“I never said you did.” Heath narrows his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s—it’s personal. I mean, the video was made for personal reasons, not for fans. Gavin sent it to his, uh, girlfriend?” I don’t know how to describe Beryl and Gavin’s relationship.

“Gavin Slater’s having a romantic relationship with someone, and you know her?”

I nod.

Heath’s lip curls in a ruthless smile. “You can use this access. Readers will want to know if the playboy is finally settling down. Because if he is, that’s your next story. Now, what’s your connection?”

I buy time before I answer by pushing one angled edge of my cherry-brown bob behind my ear. “I don’t know for sure if she’s his girlfriend, but she showed me the video. He sent it to her.”

Heath nods, his dead eyes cold, like a shark’s. “You know her well?”

“Yeah.” Heath scowls at my minimum-information answer and I’m forced to elaborate. “We were in college together. In the journalism program at the University of Oregon.”

“And how does a girl from Oregon catch the eye of a rock star? Does this have something to do with the fact that he fell off the map a couple of months ago?”

Heath’s getting far too much out of me and I balk. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “I guess I’ll have to see what else I can find out.”

“Wednesday. I want a follow-up story by Wednesday with more on the band. More behind-the-scenes crap, whatever you can get. More real-life stuff, because that’s what fans are eating up right now. Tattoo Thief’s a trending topic on Twitter today.”

I suppress a groan. This story has taken on a life of its own. “I’ll try.”

“No. You’ll do it, sweetheart. This story is flipping our advertisers’ buttons and that makes our publisher happy. And when our publisher’s happy…”

I finish Heath’s sentence: “Everyone’s happy. I get it. I’ll do my best.”

“Bullshit. Don’t do your best. Just do it.”