Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  I need to get my house in order in other ways too. For the first time in a long time, I decide not to go out and not to drink. It’s an odd feeling, and not in a good way. I start getting twitchy after a few short hours, but the thought of seeing London in a few days carries me through. In fact, when I’m not itching to go out and get fucked up, I feel like I’m walking on air. Cliché as a motherfucker, but there it is. On Sunday night, I cross paths with Luke for the first time in a while as I stroll into the kitchen.

  “Hey.” I tip my chin toward him in greeting.

  “Hey yourself.” He doesn’t return the nod. Okay.

  “What you doing?” He has his head in the refrigerator, clearly looking for something.

  “Just making a sub. Want me to fix you something too?” He pulls his attention from the contents of the refrigerator, turning to face me.

  “Whoa!” He looks like he’s just seen a UFO land right here on the dinner table.

  “What?”

  “You.”

  “What about me?” This guy and his cryptic BS.

  “You look like you’ve finally figured out how to suck your own dick.”

  Ha! “Now that would be good, but unfortunately not. Just looking forward to the week ahead, that’s all.”

  “Who are you, and what have you done with my asshole of a brother?” He feigns seriousness, eyeing me with mock suspicion.

  “Screw you. London starts back working here on Monday, and I’m just trying to get my shit together beforehand.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting to the heart of the matter, and the reason I’m being graced with a visit from the happy Arlo fairy. Wait, what are you even doing here? Aren’t we approaching the Arlo Jones witching hour? Surely there’s a bottle of obscenely overpriced vodka in a VIP lounge somewhere with your name on it?” Cue smug face.

  “Nah, man, I’m taking the weekend off. Just regrouping and doing a little writing is all.”

  “Excuse me?” He looks shocked.

  “What?”

  “What did you just say?”

  I won’t deny that Luke is the more… reserved of the two of us, any fool can see that. But I hate the way he acts like some kind of superior being, and as though he has life all figured out. Sure, he parties less than me, but that wouldn’t be hard since most people do. But he’s not exactly a monk, so why he acts like he’s fucking perfect, I will never know. At least I know who and what I am, whereas he, on the other hand, seems to be in denial. It’s almost like he lives one life in his head and another in real life.

  “I’m pretty sure you heard me just fine, or are your ears failing you in your old age? I said I’m taking care of some business and writing some songs. What’s the big deal?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “I don’t know, is it?” Two can play at that game, asshole, and I always play to win.

  Luke sighs. “The big deal is you writing songs without a looming deadline and without someone having to sue your ass, or kidnap you and lock you in a studio in the middle of nowhere with no access to devices or social media of any kind for it to happen.” He has a point.

  I can’t remember the last time I had this much creative energy. Even before I knew London was coming back, I’d hardly been able to keep up with the ideas as they have spewed out of me. It’s a mystery to me, not the least because I’ve been hitting it so hard so much of the time, I wouldn’t have thought there would be enough oxygen left flowing to my brain to power the creative juices.

  Luke assesses me slowly, like he thinks he’s some kind of sage.

  “Oh motherfucking hell.” He’s speaking really slowly and backing toward the door with his hands up in front of him in a gesture of mock surrender.

  “What, man?” I’m beginning to wonder if Luke isn’t high himself right now.

  “You. Staying home. Suddenly struck with long-lost creative inspiration. You’re in deep with this girl.”

  Jesus.

  “Don’t get all melodramatic, Douchey, you’re starting to sound like Gramps,” I snap.

  “Wait. You went to see Gramps about this already?”

  Looks like neither of us are about to become detectives anytime soon.

  “No, I went to check in on Gramps, and London happened to be mentioned.”

  “Yeah, she ‘happened’ to be mentioned.” He air quotes. “And what did Gramps say, in his infinite wisdom?” He’s grinning like a lunatic.

  “Pretty much the same as you, and that if I want her, I need to approach it like a hostile takeover and do everything I can to get her, just like he did with Grandma.”

  “Oh shit, did he tell you about his fifty-year hard-on again?”

  “Yeah, much to my disgust. Will there ever be a day when the thought of my grandfather humping my grandmother doesn’t make me want to spew in my mouth?”

  “Unlikely.” Right answer.

  “Yeah, I figured. Anyway, apart from that, I think his advice was solid, and I’m on it.”

  “Did he also tell you to square things with Marnie?”

  I roll my eyes heavenward, and crack my neck from side to side, sighing heavily. Why is everyone so obsessed with Marnie? This is so not a thing.

  “He did, as a matter of fact, but you’re both way off base. There’s nothing to square, because there’s nothing between us except raw, dirty fuckery.”

  Luke winces and walks out of the room abruptly.

  I know he’s wrong, but the combined pressure of him and Gramps both busting my balls about it starts to get to me. As Luke makes a hasty retreat, I reach for my cell phone.

  Me: Hey babe, where are you at?

  Marnie: Hey Boo. Milan. Back in a few weeks. Why, you wanna hang?

  Me: Sure thing. Hit me up when you’re back.

  Marnie: K, sounds good. xxx

  Me: K

  Job done.

  Nine

  I can’t lie, I love having London around, not the least of reasons being that she’s fucking stunning. I can’t get enough of looking at her. When I stalked researched her online, I also found some YouTube videos of her dancing in various shows over the years. Often she was part of the ensemble, so not singled out as a solo dancer, but I could pick her out of a stadium full of thousands of people. It’s her gaze, her gait, and her grace. The whole package. She’s just one of those people—even when she’s supposed to be blending in, she stands out.

  There are a few videos of her and the same male dancer, the one from the photos on her website—Marko something. Jesus wept! It’s hotter than any porn I’ve ever seen. Watching the two of them dance, it’s so easy to imagine them backstage, all sweaty and emotional, fucking like rabbits. The thought makes me both hard as hell and furious as fuck. I don’t know what I’d do, if faced with the choice, whether I’d prefer to join them or take that dude the fuck out. And I don’t mean to dinner.

  On a whole different level, having London in the house seems to be breathing new life into the place and for the first time, it feels less like simply bricks and mortar and more like a home. I bought the place years ago, but have never really lived in it. After having it decorated throughout by New York’s top interior stylist, I pretty much instantaneously decided to move to LA, so it has always just been a pied-à-terre—somewhere for Luke and me and whoever else we’re with to crash when we’re on this side of the country. Now, with fresh-cut flowers and a refrigerator full of food, I have visions of living here full-time.

  I snap when I emerge from the gym one day, and as is the way most mornings, find London and Luke in the kitchen chatting together. The difference is that today they’re even more friendly with each other than normal as they sit huddled together over London’s laptop, laughing and giggling like a pair of lovebirds. Even after they explain what they’re doing—booking tickets for some pretentious bullshit French arthouse movie crap—and invite me to third wheel, I’m fuming. More so at Luke than London. If nothing else, that whole arthouse movie obsession is an affectation he adopted w
hen he was briefly screwing his film school tutor. The affair lasted about three minutes, but the movie thing hung around.

  As soon as London leaves the room to get on with her work, I turn to Luke.

  “What the fuck, man?”

  “What the fuck what?” Luke feigns disinterest, but I know he’s wary of my approach. At least, if he has any sense, he would be.

  “You know what I mean. What’s all this cozy shit with London?”

  “Really, Arlo? Are we going there a-fucking-gain?”

  He should know better by now than to poke this particular bear.

  “Going where exactly?”

  “You and the jealous boyfriend routine. Except you’re not her boyfriend and she seems pretty determined to keep it that way. Never mind that I have no interest in London. None. At. All.”

  “Why not?” Why does this woman make me so fucking crazy?

  Luke’s right. I’ve never felt it about a woman before, but I’m not too dense to realize that what I’m experiencing with London is the green-eyed monster, pure and simple. As identical twins, we’re no strangers to bitter sibling rivalry. Hell, it was so bad at one point that we couldn’t live in the same house together without tearing each other and the place apart. We alternated between living at our mom’s or dad’s—while the other lived with the other parent—for a couple of years, for the safety and sanity of the whole family.

  This is different though. The jealousy I’m feeling right now isn’t toward Luke, per se but about his easy and carefree friendship with London. I feel like I’m alternating between tiptoeing on eggshells, arguing with her over bullshit, and fighting the overpowering urge to throw her onto the nearest flat surface and fuck her into the following week. Whereas Luke seems to be able to hang out, laugh, and joke with her as though it is the most natural thing in the world. I guess for him it is. I don’t do friendships with chicks. I do fucking and moving on. Even with Marnie, it was never about the postcoital chitchat or any kind of chitchat, for that matter.

  “Really, Arlo? Really? Do you have to be so relentlessly psychotic? I mean, first you’re raging because you think I want to get with ‘your girl,’ and now, if I understand the situation correctly, you’re pissed because I told you quite categorically that I don’t. How is a person supposed to win with you, or even just exist in the same space as you without losing their fucking mind? You’re impossible.” He falters, and I glare at him silently until he’s compelled to continue.

  “Don’t get me wrong, she’s hot as fuck, I’m just…. Look, this is not about me, or even her. You’re twisting things to make it about what goes on in your screwy mind, as always. What you walked in on today was exactly what it looked like and exactly what we told you it was. Two friends planning to spend a little time together enjoying a shared interest. Everything else is totally in your head.”

  Sometimes I really just feel like punching him in the dick. This is definitely one of those times.

  “You get that guys and girls can hang out without fucking, right? I have female friends, London is one, Marnie is another. It really is that simple. You should try it sometime.”

  Not a fucking chance.

  With London, I put phase two of Operation: Hostile Takeover into place. This is the part where I show her that I’m not a complete knuckle-dragger. Well, where I attempt to show her. In reality, it’s a hard and bumpy road, and so often I feel like I’m taking one step forward, two steps backward. Then another two. And another two. Then occasionally we share a passing moment that makes me think that maybe it’s not a lost cause after all.

  One morning, I wake up unusually early, but for some reason, can’t face going down to the gym to work out. Instead, I trudge to the kitchen in a sleepy fog, figuring I’ll raid the fridge for whatever goodies London has left—these days it’s always full of protein balls, leftover pancakes, sometimes overnight oatmeal—and then head right back to bed. I reach the kitchen doorway and am treated to the sight of my life. London is standing on the countertop with her back to me, singing completely tunelessly to God knows what music playing in her headphones, poking around in the overhead cupboards. She’s lifting things, looking at them, tutting, then putting them back down, only to do the same with some other item. And repeat.

  I love to just observe her. Sometimes she’s aware of my presence but chooses not to acknowledge it. Sometimes I catch her unawares and watch her undetected. These are my favorite times. London in her pure uncensored form is nothing short of miraculous to see. I can’t get enough. Today I linger for at least five minutes, not solely for the entertainment value, but also because with her up on the countertop in her short shorts, I’m afforded a spectacular view of her fantastic ass. As much as I’m enjoying it, after just five minutes, I’m sporting wood so hard I have to do something about it for fear it’s going to snap in half, straining against my boxers. Plus I can’t stand any more of the “singing.” Cute as it is, she sounds like a bagful of drowning kittens.

  I enter the kitchen and walk to London, tapping her on the leg. I guess I didn’t think the move through properly, though. She screams at the top of her voice, flailing her arms wildly. When standing on a slim elevated platform with a handful of pots and pans, this is a bad move. A terrible move, in fact. She wobbles precariously, trying, and almost succeeding several times, to keep herself upright, but it’s to no avail. She comes tumbling down from the counter amid the crash and clatter of falling pots and pans.

  Luckily I’m there to catch her. I reach out, and she lands neatly in my arms. The same cannot be said for the contents of the cupboard, which rain down noisily around us. Note to self: make your presence known before accosting London from behind.

  “Shit! Arlo, what the hell? I almost shat my fucking pants! Worse than that, I could have broken a bone falling off of here. My God, that was….”

  So I guess she’s a little pissed.

  “Good morning to you too, London. And you know, you’re so welcome for me catching your clumsy ass. My pleasure, in fact.” I’m chuckling. I know it will piss her off, but the whole situation is so absurd that I can’t help it. Plus, pissing her off is kind of a sport for me. If nothing else, she looks so cute when she’s indignant and pouty, it does unnatural things to me.

  As if on cue, she turns toward me in my arms, pouting heavily. I think she’s trying to be stern, but it has the exact opposite effect. If only she knew that her attempts at scolding do nothing but make me more desperate to stick my dick in her. At the very least, I want to bite her lush bottom lip.

  “Thank you. I guess. Although if you hadn’t pulled such a dangerous stunt in the first place, I wouldn’t need to thank you.”

  “Semantics. I think you’ll find that as the one standing on the countertop, you’re the one pulling the dangerous stunt, not me. What were you even doing up there?”

  “What did it look like?”

  Apart from affording me an excellent view of your magnificent butt and damaging my hearing with your atrocious “singing”?

  “It looked like you were turning the cupboards inside out, looking for something. Let me guess, your secret coke stash? Blood money from your mafia dealings? Porn?”

  “OMG, really? I was looking for a loaf tin. I wanted to make this banana protein bread I saw a recipe for and thought you guys might like. I got here a little earlier than usual today as I have to take off early for an appointment. I was going to leave the freshly baked loaf for when you both woke up, but I guess you beat me to it. Why are you up so early anyway? Troub—” She halts midsentence, as though realizing she’s said the wrong thing.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.” She looks horrified.

  “Not at all. I don’t know what woke me up at this ungodly hour. Maybe it was the noise of a cat burglar rustling around in my kitchen cupboards singing at the top of her lungs.” It’s bullshit, of course; there’s no way you can hear what’s going on in the kitchen from the bedrooms. Besides, even if you could, I probably wouldn’t. I sleep li
ke the dead.

  She slaps my arm playfully, smiling. “That didn’t happen.”

  “You’re right, it didn’t, but it makes a good story.”

  “Whatever. By the way, Arlo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can put me down now, I’m pretty sure I’m no longer in danger of falling.” I beg to differ, but not in the way she means.

  “I can, but I don’t want to. I like having you right here.” I really like it.

  “Arlo!” There’s a warning note in her voice.

  “Okay, Miss Killjoy, if you insist.”

  “I do.”

  I lower her to the ground slowly, relishing the feel of her body brushing against mine, especially when she grazes against my hard-on. Her eyes widen in surprise. Yeah, baby, that’s all for you. I turn us, trapping her between my body and the edge of the countertop. She says nothing, but the tension in the air between us ratchets to supercharged. Her pupils are dilated, consuming the amber of her irises. I’m sure my gaze, fixed steadfastly on hers, is the same. We both want this, but I resist the urge to lower my lips to hers, or to grind my erection against her like I want to.

  Instead, I wait a beat… two… three. The ball is firmly in her court. I want the next move to be hers. She hesitates, and I can almost see her brain ticking over, weighing up her options. I hold my breath… four… five… six…. I see the shutters come down in her mind, and I know it’s over. Damn. Maybe I played my hand wrong and I should have just impaled her on my aching dick like I wanted. Not being an asshole is harder than it looks.

  “Umm… I’d better get on with what I was doing. I didn’t find the pan I was looking for, so I guess there will be no banana bread, but I can make pancakes, or anything, really. Bacon? What do you want?”