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 love, redemption and escaping your comfort zone to find a second chance.
TATTOO THIEF: PROLOGUE
It’s no wonder rich people are always going on about their shrinks. I’m pretty sure they have split personalities.
I’m talking rich, not just the platinum card and Mercedes crowd. Think bigger than my-kid’s-in-private-school, I-have-a-full-time-maid, come-visit-our-beach-house wealthy.
No, I’m talking private-jet rich. British-butler rich. Buy-your-own-island rich. These are the people I’ve gotten to know in intimate detail.
I know they eat Cheetos on their ten-thousand-dollar couches. I know they have Jersey Shore and some really crappy porn on their DVRs. I know who wears granny panties and who leaves their toenail clippings everywhere.
It’s disgusting. C’mon, people.
See what I mean? Split personalities. You’d think the rich would live better than this, yet some of them keep enough junk around to embarrass half of those poor folks on Hoarders.
They just have more room for storage.
You’d assume rich people live pristine lives, perfectly groomed, homes immaculately cleaned, not a gross habit to be found.
I know. I’m the one they hire to take care of the mess when they’re gone, taking their private jets to their private islands, British-butlers in tow.
I’m their house sitter.
I’m the ghost, the house-elf, the dog-walker, delivery-receiver, fridge-stocker, unseen errand-girl who keeps everything running until they come home.
Lucky for me, I’m on their payroll.
Lucky for them, too—I keep their secrets.