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growing to hate these shoes.
    I grab my notebook and pen, trying to shake off the awkwardness and get on with the interview. Even if this isn’t going where I thought it might, it’s still an amazing opportunity to have this kind of access. I’m going to make the most of it.
    Tyler puts plenty of distance between us and I follow him around for the tour. The space is about twice as long as it is wide, and Tyler explains that the hundred-year-old warehouse is basically cut in half, with two tenants on each floor.
    “How long have you lived here?” I ask.
    “A couple of years.” He shrugs. “The band needed a space to practice, somewhere neighbors wouldn’t complain about noise. Most of the other tenants don’t live in the building; they’re artists or fashion designers who want lots of space and light.”
    “It’s really nice.” I mean it. On the long wall with windows, three slouchy couches cluster around a big-screen TV. There’s a distressed boardroom-style table past that with ten mismatched chairs.
    We pass an elaborate setup of weightlifting equipment and move toward the largest area, which overflows with musical instruments. Cords snake across the floor between monitors, a soundboard, a drum set, and other expensive equipment. That probably explains all the locks.
    “The loft didn’t always look like this. It was full of pigeon droppings and trash when I found it. Some of the windows were broken when I moved in,” Tyler said. “But once I cleaned that shit up and put in a bathroom, I started liking it here more than the band’s old place in Brooklyn. Plus, it’s quicker to get home after a gig in the city.”
    “What’s up there?” I point to the loft along the back wall.
    “Just my bed and my clothes. I built it when Jayce lived here for a couple of months. I was upstairs and he was downstairs.” Tyler points to the storage area beneath the loft. “Let me tell you about the practice space.”
    I follow him, feeling the shots work their magic in my body, unraveling the tension from our awkward moment. I’m a little pissed that Tyler didn’t follow through with his teasing finger’s promise, but I try to focus on building a story.
    Tyler points to various instruments and describes who plays what, but I know all of this. I take notes half-heartedly, pressing him for details, looking for something juicy that I can use. It’s got to drive fans wild without undermining Tattoo Thief, but I’m at a loss for how to do that.
    “Tell me about your songwriting process.” That starts Tyler on a more productive path. He acknowledges the influence of Lulu Stirling, Gavin’s late muse, but now that Gavin’s given an interview about her death it’s no longer news. The fans want something fresh—they want a taste of what’s next.
    I sit on the stool by the drum set and take page after page of notes while Tyler talks about how he found Gavin busking on a street corner and convinced him to join the band, and how they signed their first record deal after four years of playing together.
    Now the band’s been together more than seven years and Tyler says they’re like brothers.
    “Brothers fight sometimes. Do you guys ever fight?”
    “All the time.” Tyler laughs.
    “About what?”
    “You know—band stuff. The direction of a song. Set lists. What shows we’re playing. But that’s cool. We handle it with majority rule.”
    “What if you’re deadlocked two to two?”
    “Eh, flip a coin.” Tyler shrugs, unwilling to dish me drama.
    I frown. Another dead end.
    Tyler picks up his electric bass, plucks a few bluesy chords, and explains that a lot of his solo practice involves anchoring his hand behind the fretboard and making his fingers stretch for the right chords.
    “If your hand’s not sliding around, you make fewer mistakes,” he says. He lays several tricky chords down on top of each other and they’re glorious.
    “It’s not a song yet.” Tyler shrugs. “But I have an idea for where