by MV Ellis
I get out of the tub and call room service, ordering a deluxe hot chocolate with whipped cream, drizzled with chocolate sauce and topped with chopped nuts, marshmallows, and chocolate sprinkles. When I finish, I feel a little sick, but I’m definitely in better spirits.
Although it’s kind of late when I’m done, and I should really get to bed, I decide to FaceTime with Marko or Nic instead. A chat with one of them is the perfect tonic after such an eventful day. I hunt for my iPad Pro for a few minutes before remembering that the last time I saw it was in Arlo’s suite, while I was shooting the guys doing press interviews earlier. I must have left it there. Weird for me to be without it for so long and not even notice—clearly I was preoccupied prepping for the first gig.
I’m in just a cut-off sleeve Rolling Stones T-shirt, with no bra or panties for bed, so I quickly pull on a pair of shorts and pad barefoot down the hall to Arlo’s suite. It’s only as I knock on the door that I realize how stupid I’m being. Who the hell am I kidding? I’ve just knocked on the hotel suite of one of the music industry’s most prolific Casanovas. Am I expecting to find him in there playing solitaire or reading War and Peace?
I probably should have gotten properly dressed before heading to Arlo’s room in the middle of the night, too. What the fuck was I thinking? I guess the stress and confusion of the first show have clouded my judgment more than a little. This whole thing was a bad idea. I hear what sounds like a party in full swing coming from inside, so I decide to abort mission before it’s too late.
I turn on my heel, hoping to tiptoe away unnoticed. Nobody would have heard me knocking above the din, and I can just as easily collect my iPad in the morning. I make it a couple of steps back toward my own room before the door swings open, the noise from the party suddenly spilling out into the hall. Crap. I stop in my tracks and turn around
Twelve
Of course it’s Arlo at the door in all his bare-chested glory. Because another scene with him is exactly what I need right now. He has his arm up, leaning against the doorframe, affording me a full view of his artfully tattooed abs. It’s a sight I realize I’m never going to get bored of. My pussy clearly agrees—she’s primed and ready for action within seconds—clearly she hasn’t read our contract. As ever, I’m way more turned on by him than I should be, and definitely more than I want to be. I’m frozen to the spot, but eventually manage to stop staring at his body and meet his eyes. We stand there lost in each other’s gaze for a while.
He’s still standing in the doorway, a small smile playing on his lips, as my thoughts come back to earth. There’s an extended pause before I realize that as the person doing the knocking, I owe him an explanation for my late-night, barefoot and scantily clad presence at his door. As I open my mouth to explain, Arlo is joined on the threshold by a bottle blonde wearing even less than me. She looks toward Arlo.
“Are you coming back to the party, baby? We miss you,” she pouts, putting on a baby voice in her heavily accented English. Polish? Swedish? Dutch? Hard to tell.
Christ, what a cliché, but I guess they exist for a reason. Ugh. I inwardly roll my eyes, pretending I haven’t seen her, and fix Arlo with a confident and steady stare once more.
“I think I left my iPad here earlier. I just came by to pick it up.” I try to sound as lighthearted and unfazed by the scene unfolding in front of me, offering Arlo a small, tight smile.
“Tog, this isn’t what it looks like…,” Arlo begins.
“It doesn't look like anything, Arlo, and even if it did, it’s none of my business. No drama, I’ll grab it tomorrow before we head out, if that’s okay?” I deliberately maintain a neutral tone. I don’t want him to think this is a thing. It’s not. As I said earlier, he’s a free agent, and even if he wasn’t, I’d be stupid to be surprised by his antics.
“No, it’s not okay. I don’t even know what everyone is doing here. Well actually, I do know. My suite has always been party central, so everyone just did what they’ve always done—bundled back here at the end of the gig. I didn’t invite them. I’m not even partying.”
“Seriously, you don’t have to explain. Let me get out of your hair, and I’ll catch you in the morning.”
I must have said the wrong thing, somehow, because his face clouds over. Dealing with his erratic moods is wearing thin fast.
“No. I want everybody out of my room!” He yells this last bit over his shoulder into the suite behind him, banging on the door jamb at the same time, startling the blonde. Arlo ignores her, except to usher her back inside dismissively, as he beckons me in. I follow him. The din subsides a little, but the party continues regardless. Arlo barges into the suite, shouting as he goes.
“I said the party’s over, folks. Everybody out. Now!” People scuttle around retrieving their possessions, clothing, and shoes. The music stops abruptly as someone rips their cell phone from the docking station. As they file out, Luke and Ryan wear matching pissed-off expressions, while Jake manages to keep his neutral. Stevie is notably and sensibly absent. I’m mega-embarrassed to be at the center of another scene with Arlo, just hours after assuring the boys that there would be no more drama
When everyone has left, I turn to Arlo, who is reclining in one of the easy chairs in the lounge area of the suite.
“You didn’t need to end the party for me. I came to get my iPad, not to piss on everyone’s parade.” I scan the room, searching for the missing device.
“I might not have needed to, but I wanted to. I didn’t want them all here in the first place, so I’m happy to see them gone.”
I sigh. “I don’t want people thinking I’m a cock blocker.”
He chuckles. “You can’t block what’s not there, Tog.”
“What do you mean? Your cock is definitely there, I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” I glance down to his crotch. Yep, his cock is definitely still with us, 110 percent.
He outright laughs now. “I know I’ve got a cock, and for the record, you’ve done more than see it, sweetheart.” He grins, teasing me. “What I mean is there’s nothing to block because I haven’t slept with anyone except you since our first time together.”
What? I don’t know what to make of this revelation. My first instinct is disbelief. It’s only been a few weeks, but from what I’ve been led to believe by press reports, Luke’s comments, the things I’ve seen around the house, and even Arlo himself, if it’s true, it would be some kind of record. It doesn’t make any sense.
“Honestly, Arlo, I don’t know what game you’re playing here, or why, but I’m tired of telling you that you don’t have to explain anything to me, and you definitely don’t need to lie.” Actually, I’m tired. Period.
“Why would I lie? I know you know my reputation all too well, and I’ve been honest with you from day one about all that stuff, so trying to fool you now would be pointless. I’m not telling you this to blow smoke up your ass, I just wanted you to know that you being here right now isn’t cramping my style. Quite the opposite, in fact—I’ve barely fucking looked at another woman, let alone wanted to be with anyone except you.”
Hmmm…he definitely seems genuine, but I still don’t know what to make of the revelation. I’ve already told him that I understand the rules of the game he plays, so I’m really not sure what he wants from me at this point.
“Except Marnie—you’ve done a lot more than look at her.” His expression is inscrutable. Damn that poker face. I wish I knew what he was thinking right now.
I sigh heavily. “Listen, I’m exhausted. Can we not do this right now please?” I sound whiny, but I don’t care. I think I’ve earned the right to feel a little jaded after the day I’ve had.
“Do what?” He quirks that famous eyebrow.
I sigh. “Whatever drama you have in mind for the Arlo and London Show right now. I’m over it.”
“No drama, I’m just talking the truth. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been horny as fuck! I swear to God, I haven’t jerked off this much since I was in high school, but as far
as actual sex with another human being goes... Nada. Zip. Zilch. You know I can get it whenever and wherever I want, but I haven’t been, and that’s down to you.”
“Gosh darn it! I guess I should be flattered, right?” I put on my best Pollyanna voice.
“While we’re being so open and honest, you might as well know that I’ve been going to bed with Bob most nights since we met. He’s been getting a real workout too; I’ve been riding him hard.” I grin lasciviously.
Arlo looks cut. His face flushes, and the vein in his temple throbs.
“You’ve been seeing someone else? Who the fuck is Bob?” He looks as though he’d happily end poor Bob with his bare hands.
I can’t help but laugh as I lower myself onto a chaise, strategically choosing a seat on the opposite side of the room from Arlo’s. It’s so comfortable, I could curl up and go to sleep right here. There’s definitely something to be said for penthouse-level luxury.
“The look on your face right now is priceless! Haven’t you heard of B-O-B?" I spell the word out, lolling my head against the back of the chair. “Battery Operated Boyfriend. Otherwise known as a vibrator.”
“Bob is your dildo?” He’s chuckling again now too.
“He sure is. Best boyfriend ever. So diligent and compliant, and always hits the spot. Plus, he’s drama free and doesn’t talk back, which is a huge bonus. Actually, he’s a huge bonus.” As I say the word huge, I move my hands a foot apart, and smile widely like the pussy that got the cream.
Arlo is all-out laughing now. Head back, mouth open, eye-watering laughter. Watching him laugh never gets old. His whole face comes alive, and his demeanor relaxes. Before long, I’m joining in, belly laughing until my sides ache, and tears stream down my cheeks.
After a few minutes, Arlo regains his composure enough to speak again.
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Tog, you really are. You’re this petite, delicate little ballerina, all sweet and innocent looking, with those high cheekbones, and huge doe eyes. Then you open your mouth, swear like a sailor, kick my ass 24/7, and proceed to tell me all about how you love getting yourself off with your massive vibrator, which has a name. I fucking love it.”
“I don’t see what’s so strange about that. We all have needs, and you’ve just told me you’ve been slapping the meat day and night like an adolescent. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me, right? Besides, you know I’m no nun.” I level him with a steady gaze.
Seemingly out of nowhere, the heat level between us has ratcheted. One minute we’re laughing ourselves stupid over our dumbass jokes, the next I’m staring into those vast jade eyes, getting the best eye-fucking of my life. As hot as it is, this is not what I came here for, and I have no idea where to go from here, except out the door. I feel like if I don’t leave now, I’ll do or say something I regret. Again.
In a few swift and sleek moves, Arlo is out of his chair and stalking closer to me. He stops just short of touching, instead leaning toward me with one hand on each side of the chaise, lowering himself until his lips hover just above mine. He quirks his eyebrow, the question unspoken but obvious. In answer, I give him a small shove backward.
“It’s getting late, and I’m exhausted. I should get my iPad and split.” I try in vain to look around Arlo. I can’t see the iPad. I shove him a little harder, and this time he yields to me, allowing me to rise to my feet. I have a better view of the room now, but still can’t see it. Where the fuck is it? Arlo reaches down, slips his hands around my waist and pulls me into him, resting his chin on the top of my head. Instinctively I mirror the gesture, looping my arms around his waist, and turning my head sideways, to rest my cheek against his chest.
“I really should g—” I start to pull back, but Arlo tightens his grip around me.
“Don’t go yet. Please. I’m still wired after the gig, I won’t be able to sleep for hours, I need company.” That makes one of us. I’m asleep on my feet and really want my bed.
“Besides, after our last talk, there’s still so much I want to know about you.” This guy.
“Like what?” I sigh
“I wanna hear the backstory.”
“Backstory? I’m not a made for TV movie, Arlo. There’s no backstory.”
Thirteen
I know Arlo well enough by now to know I’m not going to get any sleep until I tell him what he wants to hear. Once he sets his mind on something, he’s like a dog with a bone. The sooner I spill the beans, the sooner I can get back to my room for some much-needed rest, so I may as well cut to the chase. I lift my chin and tilt my head back to look at his face. I’m hoping there will come a time when I can look into his eyes without feeling like I’ve been sucker punched.
“Okay, so shoot—what do you want to know?” Telling myself that the sooner we get this done, the sooner I can start knocking out some z’s, I allow him to walk me to the chair he was sitting on before, and pull me down onto it with him.
“All right, well let’s start with your family—I’ve told you a little about mine, and you know Douchey Lukey of course, but apart from the fact that your aunt owns a cleaning firm, so I’ve got her and your fear of spiders to thank for meeting you, I know nothing about yours. Tell me about your parents. Have you got siblings? Where did you grow up? What were you like as a kid?”
Really? He wants to do this now? I sigh heavily, hoping he’ll take the hint. He doesn’t—just looks at me expectantly. Because… Arlo.
“I’m pretty boring, so there’s really not much to tell. I’m an only child. I had a very happy and pretty average early childhood in the ’burbs, Long Island, to be exact. The only slightly unusual aspects were ballet and the fact that unlike pretty much all of my friends, my parents were still together when I was growing up. They still are, in fact.
“I was a straighty-180 kind of a kid—well behaved, great student, always toed the party line. Then by the time I was a teenager, ballet was my life. I was training full time, like 30 hours a week, so I had no time for anything other than ballet and school. No teenage rebellion, no drugs, drink, or underage sex. Not even cigarettes. Nothing, except ballet 24/7. In fact, I didn’t even have a boyfriend until late into my teens.”
I’m beyond mortified that I just said that. I still can’t seem to get the brain-to-mouth filter happening when I’m around Arlo.
“I find that very hard to believe. Surely the boys must have been losing their shit for you. You’d be every young punk’s wet dream—total spank bank material.”
“Umm… no. I don’t think so. Actually, I don’t know. Given that I spent all my time in the studio with about twenty other girls, I didn’t exactly have many opportunities to even meet boys. Plus, I was pretty shy in those days, too, so I don’t think that helped.”
“You, shy? Now, that I find hard to believe. Definitely no sign of that these days, You’re almost more upfront than me, especially when it comes to putting me in my place.” He chuckles, good-naturedly, which I take as a sign that he’s not too fazed by my forthright approach.
“Did you always know you were going to be a professional dancer?”
I scrunch my nose up in thought. Not because I don’t know the answer, but because I’m wondering why he’s asking. It’s as though he’s peeling away the layers of the onion to find out what’s in the middle, but why? He’s staring at me in that way that makes me feel stripped bare—in fact, I think I’d feel less exposed if I was naked.
“I started dancing when I was two, and my parents tell me that even then, I had a real talent for it. I don’t remember what age I decided that ballet was it, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I feel like maybe at some point the decision was inadvertently made for me. Like I was great at it. Therefore it only seemed natural that it was something that I’d pursue, so that’s the way everyone steered me. Don’t get me wrong, it was all I knew, and I loved it, but I do sometimes wonder if I chose ballet, or ballet chose me.”
I continue—I’ve told him so much now, I might
as well go the whole hog and tell him everything.
“I do remember that at some stage when I was really tiny, I wanted to be a deep-sea diver, which is strange, because these days I get claustrophobic just thinking about diving. Then I wanted to be an ice-skating cellist. Who knows why! But one thing I’ve always secretly dreamed of was being a trapeze artist. I’ve never even been on a trapeze, but it’s definitely on my bucket list. I just find it mesmerizing, and so graceful and beautiful. I think I secretly thought that running off and joining the circus would be really glamorous.”
Arlo chuckles.
“That’s all kinds of cute—I can just imagine you on the trapeze, all lithe, strong, and sexy. Though now you’ve got me thinking about you on a sex swing too….”
“OMG, Arlo, you’re incorrigible!” I nudge him gently in the ribs, and he takes the hint, changing tack.
“So where does photography fit in to all this?”
“Well, that came along later. I started taking photos backstage, of other people rehearsing, even performance photos, and I realized that not only did I really enjoy it, but I was also pretty good at it. I started finding more opportunities to shoot, and working on the craft in any spare moments I got.” I feel uncomfortable just rambling on about myself.
“What about you? What did little boy Arlo want to be when he was a big boy?”
“Me? All sorts of shit. Typical boy stuff—Spider-Man, Evil Knievel, a frog. I did think I might want to be a graphic designer for a while there when I was a bit older, as I was pretty good with a pencil, but then music came along, and that was it for me. I just knew, and as I told you before, music saved me.
“Tell me about your parents.” He presses on, clearly not about to be duped into talking about himself.