Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  I call my attorney’s office and fill them in on what has been going on. They inform me that I have good grounds to sue on the basis that the footage was obtained without my knowledge or consent, and then worse still it was distributed far and wide, again without my permission. Revenge porn is a thing. This stunt is going to get Marnie into a lot of trouble. I tell them I want them to find her and throw the book at her. Whoever thinks they can fuck with me and mine, “friend” or not, has another think coming, and the results won’t be pretty.

  I head downstairs in search of Luke, figuring that he’s my best option for tracking Marnie down. They’ve always been close, the two of them, which is ironic, given that she and I were the ones fucking. Not for the first time, I envy the easy connection he has with people. As well as being good friends with Marnie, he established a comfortable vibe with London way before I could even be in the same room as her without saying or doing something to disgrace myself and anger or embarrass her.

  I find him sitting at the kitchen table, looking at something on his phone. He turns toward me when he hears me enter the room.

  “Well, this is a clusterfuck.” His mouth is set in a grim line.

  “That’s putting it mildly. How did you find out?”

  “Paul sent us all a text at the crack of dawn explaining what had happened and telling us not to speak to any journalists or anyone else about it. Haven’t any of the boys messaged you? My phone’s been pinging off the hook all morning.” As if to illustrate his point, his handset chimes, and I see a message pop onto the screen. My phone has been blowing up like a cheap firework also, but I’ve ignored anything from anyone other than London or Marnie—meaning everything, as there has been nothing from either woman. Normally in circumstances like this I’d just change the number again, to avoid the harassment, but this time I need to keep it in case either one calls.

  “Nope, I’ve had zip from the others. I guess they figure it’s better to get secondhand information from you than risk poking the bear by speaking to me.” Smart guys.

  Luke nods, looking down at his screen again.

  “It’s Stevie. He’s asking if he needs to reschedule today’s studio time. Shit. I completely forgot about that. Obviously it’s not going to happen. It’s funny, now that he’s sober he’s actually a useful, functioning member of the band. Not that he wasn’t before, musically speaking, but obviously he couldn’t be relied on for anything else. Now he’s remembering shit that we’re forgetting. It’s weird.” He starts typing his response.

  It’s not just weird for us. That unreliable guy was the old Stevie, pre-rehab. New Stevie is still finding his way when it comes to his role in the group now that he’s sober, and he struggles with that every day. Even more so when we were on tour. He was uncomfortable a lot of the time, and I’m not surprised about that—there are so many temptations. It’s hard to stay straight in that environment even for those of us without problems—I can’t imagine what it must have been like for a guy fresh out of rehab.

  “No, we don’t need to cancel it.”

  Luke’s head bobs up in surprise. “What?”

  “I said don’t cancel it. I need something to take my mind off wanting to incessantly call and message both London and Marnie until they answer. Plus, I’ve got ideas bursting out of my brain. I’ve gotta do something useful with them. The way things are going, we’re gonna have enough material for a double album. Who knew that being punched in the gut by love could be so rewarding creatively?”

  “Just about everyone who’s ever been in love,” retorts Luke. He pauses, frowning. “Wait. London’s not here?” He looks shocked.

  “No. Paul called before dawn to tell us, and while he was updating me, a text came through to her with the video. She watched it and lost her shit. Couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Didn’t want to talk to me or hear what I had to say, just wanted to be as far away from me as possible.” I wince at the memory of London’s face after she watched the video and every other time she looked at me before Marko arrived to rescue her. It cut me to the quick.

  “The timing couldn’t be worse. She just agreed to move in with me, and we didn’t even make it through one full night before it turned to shit. The most fucked-up thing about all of this is that I have absolutely no idea when or how that video was shot, but I’m certain Marnie shot it and sent it to London and the press. She even had it edited like some kind of highlights reel. I could kill her.” I don’t miss Luke’s almost imperceptible flinch at my words, though he’s quick to school his expression back to neutral. Interesting.

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t fucking know. She’s hardly going to tell me, is she? In fact, that’s what I came to ask you.” I’m trying to keep cool, but if anyone’s likely to push me over the edge, it’s Luke.

  He looks confused again. “Why would I know where she is? I only just found out she wasn’t here. You were the one who was with her.”

  “Not London. I know exactly where she is. I’m talking about Marnie. I came down to ask you if you’ve heard from her or know where she might be, or how I can contact her. She won’t answer my calls or messages, and I need to talk to her urgently.”

  “Oh. I was talking about London.”

  “Yeah. I got that now. Has she contacted you?”

  “Nope.” He won’t meet my eyes.

  “Luke?”

  “What?”

  I don’t miss the sharpness of his tone. “You will tell me if or when she contacts you, won’t you?” I can’t believe I’m even having to ask the question.

  “Of course. I haven’t heard from her since I dropped her off at her apartment last night. She wasn’t in a good way, as you know. I had to put her to bed, and she was basically out of it when I left. Maybe I should go back and see if she’s there? Maybe she’s asleep, not AWOL, which is why she hasn’t answered your calls.”

  “Yeah, please, man. I don’t think I should be face-to-face with her right now.”

  He says nothing, just nods solemnly. He’s right to be somber; this is a massive fuckup, but even so, something seems a little off with him. I can’t quite pinpoint what.

  “Wait. Did I hear you straight before? Did you say you asked London to move in with you, or am I tripping?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. Today should have been the start of our new life together, and instead, it’s a fucking shit show, thanks to our ‘friend’ Marnie.”

  “Oh, man, Arlo, that’s epic. I feel like congratulations are in order, even if it didn’t go so well in the end. I mean, that’s a huge step for you. Where is London anyway?” he questions again.

  “Where do you think? She ran to Marko. She had me call him, and he drove over like a knight in shining fucking armor to rescue her.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You got that right. The only saving grace is I know he loves her and he’ll look out for her. I have his number, and I’ll be calling him daily for an update on her. I guess it could be worse.”

  “True.”

  Things can always be worse, but there was a time when I had dared to hope they could be better.

  Seven

  The next few weeks pass in a blur. After beast mode, the only things that keep me sane are writing music and vodka, often at the same time. Okay, so maybe the vodka doesn’t keep me sane, but it keeps me medicated, and that’s the next best thing.

  I fight my way into the studio through the crowd of paparazzi bottom feeders. I wonder for the thousandth time when they’ll get bored of hounding me. It doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. It’s stupid, and I don’t know what they’re hoping to see. Clearly London isn’t with me—nor is Marnie, for that matter—and I’m determined not to give them anything else of note to photograph or write about. Every day I resist the urge to respond to any of their dumbfuck questions—not even to flip them off, which is my standard response when my patience is low, so pretty much all the time. I figure the less exciting I make it, the sooner th
ey’ll give up and fuck off to hassle the next poor schmuck to hit the headlines.

  Every day I have the brim of my cap pulled down and the collar of my leather jacket pulled up. Thankfully, my trademark shades obscure my bloodshot eyes. The most they might be able to say is that my stubble is longer than ever and I’m not as sharply dressed as normal. But even that isn’t altogether unusual in the downtime between tours or other major engagements. I honestly couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my appearance right now—it’s not like I need to impress the guys as we sit in a darkened studio for days straight.

  I enter the building to find the guys sitting in chill-out area in deafening silence, looking like kicked dogs. I’m immediately suspicious. There are many things this band could be accused of on any given day, but quiet and serious are not among them.

  “What’s going on? Did one of you find my vodka stash and replace it with lighter fluid or something? Or is it the porn? Don’t tell me one of you bozos deleted my legendary porn collection. Motherfuckers have been killed for less. A lot less.”

  I’m joking, but the guys don’t laugh. In fact, they don’t even crack a smile. Nobody says a word, but there must suddenly be something epically interesting about the floor, because that’s where everyone is looking. What the actual…?

  “Okay, someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on, right now, before I start losing my shit. Ten… nine… eight….”

  Luke clears his throat, still staring at the floor.

  “Yes, dear brother of mine, do you have something you’d like to say?” I rub my stubble. It may look like shit, but I love the feeling of it under my fingertips.

  The silence drags on.

  “For the love of God, grow a pair of fucking balls and spit it out!” I bellow so loud I’m pretty sure I can be heard in Jersey.

  Luke still can’t look me in the eye, so I know it’s bad.

  “I called Mom. About you.”

  What?

  “What? Why?” My fists clench involuntarily. “What am I now, some kind of pussy?” I actually can’t believe what I’m hearing. I’m hoping they’re pranking me, but the atmosphere in the room suggests otherwise. Still no laughter or smiles. I seriously want to kill one or all of them. What kind of loser runs to their mother because life gets a little ugly?

  Honestly, I’d rather eat a fucking shit sandwich than pull Mom into this. Sure, she’d have to be aware of the scandal—she has a TV and access to the internet. She also has a legion of “concerned”—read: nosey and judgmental as fuck—friends who don’t hesitate to fill her in on anything she might be in danger of missing. Knowing that she knows and openly discussing shit with her are two different things. Next they’ll be asking to sit in a circle, hold hands, and sing “Kumba-fucking-ya.”

  “We just thought that maybe—”

  “We who?”

  “All of us.” He gestures around the room at the entire band.

  “Oh. You all thought that… what? Maybe even though I’m a grown-ass man, I still need to run to Mommy when shit doesn’t go my way? What do you think she’s going to do, kiss my booboo better, give me a Spiderman Band-Aid, and magically make all the hurty go away? You’re truly more dense than I ever gave you credit for.”

  “It wasn’t my idea. The guys thought it might help.”

  Oh Lord.

  “So what exactly did you say to her, or am I better off not knowing?

  “We just thought it might help for her to call you and give you some advice from a chick’s perspective, you know? She’s met London, and really liked her, so we thought she could talk some sense into you or something.”

  Really?

  “Since when does this bunch of rat bastard motherfuckers know anything?” I motion to the other guys and laugh to myself about how much like Gramps I sound. Sometimes when you really want to get your point across, only old-fashioned cussing will do. This is most definitely one of those times. “Seriously, you’re gonna listen to them and expect to come up with anything other than idiocy?” I’m actually still in shock at the level of stupidity on display.

  “What the fuck is Mom gonna do or say? Sure she’s a chick, but she’s also my fucking mom, ergo, pretty much the last person on earth I want to talk to about this. You guys know this about me. I was the kid who at age eleven took myself to the ER on the subway with a broken arm instead of calling Mom and making her take time off work. What makes you think I’d want to call her now for a broken relationship?”

  Crickets. For a normally overly rowdy group of guys, everyone was suddenly uncharacteristically happy to embrace silence.

  I’d thought going to Gramps for advice about London a few months ago was chickenshit enough, but this is a whole other level of whipped. I sigh loudly.

  “What is this, an inter-fucking-vention? Who do you think I am, Stevie?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Luke winces. I shoot a look around the room and note that everyone, including Stevie, is now looking apologetic. Okay, that was low. I need to fix it. I look Stevie in the eye.

  “Sorry, man, that was out of line.”

  “Don’t sweat it. You’ve had my back enough times for me to know you didn’t mean anything by it. More than enough, actually. Besides, it’s true. You guys have all had to rescue my sorry ass more times than I could ever hope to remember. I did need an intervention, so what can I say?” He shrugs and flashes me his trademark grin. It takes a lot more than that to piss him off, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a dick move.

  He’s right. Because he’s funny, charming, affable Stevie, we’ve forgiven him fuckup after fuckup. No, that’s not right. Not only have we forgiven him, we’ve loved him for it. It’s the niche he had carved out for himself in the group dynamic, and if I’m honest, I think part of each of us has always been happy he was such a fuckup, as it made the rest of us look more like we had our shit together

  Still, true though it may be, throwing it in his face like that was a dog act. We saved his ass all those times because he’s our brother and we love him, which is the exact same reason we wanted him back in rehab when it became obvious he wasn’t coping. We’d do all of it again if we needed to, and the last thing I wanted was for him to feel bad about it. We have each other’s backs. It’s what we do.

  That said, I still can’t get past their epic stupidity. Why the fuck would they want to call my mom? I mean seriously, I’ve been hitting it hard in the weeks since this all started. So what? It’s not the first time I’ve looked for the solution to my problems at the bottom of a bottle or five of premium vodka, and the way things are going, I’m not convinced it will be the last. What’s different now? I mean, the fact is I’m functioning. More than that, I’m fucking writing more, and I think better, material than ever. What else do they want from me? Am I meant to be prancing around singing about sunshine and fucking lollipops? Fuck that, and fuck them. I fix Luke with one last death stare.

  “Okay, so here’s how it’s going to go. I wrote two more songs last night, and they’re good. Fucking outstanding, in fact. I’m gonna sing them for you, and then you dumbasses are going to use the two and a half brain cells you have between you to help me work out the arrangements for them, and we’re gonna pretend like this thing with Mom never happened. Okay?”

  Silence.

  “Okay?” I bellow the word this time.

  Mumbles and grunts from around the room are as good as it gets.

  “Good.” I launch into the first verse of “Hummingbird,” but I don’t get very far before my phone rings. Retrieving it from my pocket, I see Mom’s name and photo flash onto the screen. Speak of the devil. While I’m inclined to reject the call and send it to voice mail, I also feel that I may as well rip the Band-Aid off now and get this nonsense over with.

  “Mom?” I sigh heavily again as I answer the call and step out of the studio into the parking lot. It’s bad enough that I have to have this conversation; I don’t need every Tom, Dick, and Mary listening in.

&
nbsp; “Arlo?” She sounds apprehensive.

  “Yeah. So Luke told you that the guys think I need an intervention or some shit, right?”

  “Not in so many words, but he did mention that you might benefit from some advice from another woman.”

  “Nope. I just need every motherfucker to keep their nose out of my business.”

  “Arlo.”

  I know she’s my mom, and always will be, but I resent being busted for stupid shit like swearing at my age. I’m not fifteen anymore, and it’s not like she hasn’t heard me curse a billion times before.

  “No, Mom, it’s true. I don’t need advice right now. I just need to get on with my life.”

  “No, you need to go to her.” Her voice is gentle, placatory even.

  “I can’t go to her. She wants nothing to do with me. She told me so when this whole thing with Marnie first went down. We’re done. There’s nothing else I can do. I’m not going to fucking beg.”

  I alternate between repeatedly kicking the curb and pacing the small parking lot. I’m aware that I’m completely exposed to the glare of prying telephoto lenses, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I can just imagine the headlines now: “Arlo Jones paces anxiously while caught in love triangle scandal,” accompanied by a photo of me talking on the phone, a pained and impassioned look on my face, and a cigarette in hand. Yeah, so I started smoking again—no biggie.

  The paparazzi situation has been especially crazy since the Marnie video broke, with them going to extreme lengths to try to get photos of me, London, or better still, us. Exactly the shit she said she can’t deal with as part of being with me. The craziness of it all. The lack of privacy. The intense interest in everything you do, even the most mundane things. The speculation. The lies. The truth. I totally get where she’s coming from, but this has been my normal for so long, I almost can’t remember a time when it wasn’t this way.