Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  It couldn’t have happened to a better asshole.

  Speaking of my sexy man, I’ve saved the best till last, knowing that once we lock eyes, I won’t be able to tear mine away. I’m truly blown away every day by the depth of my love for him. Even more so since the birth of our daughters. To look back and think there was ever a day when I was considering shutting him out of my life, out of our lives, forever, I feel like I’m thinking of some other girl, in some other lifetime. One who surely needed some head shrinking.

  I kiss my dad as he moves to one side, his eyes brimming with tears. I look over at Arlo, and as suspected, he steals my breath. My blood rushes to my feet, my vision narrows to a pinpoint that just features him, and my thoughts sharpen to a clarity I’ve never experienced before. It’s him. It was always him. Even before I knew him, it was him. I drink him in. All of him. From his thick sexily disheveled hair to the bulge in his leather pants. Fuck. Me. Leather pants. Why? More to the point, how am I going to make it through the ceremony without throwing down and begging him to fuck me on the nearest flat surface in front of an assembled crowd of our nearest and dearest?

  I lick my lips slowly and gulp hard. The room feels hot all of a sudden. I slowly sweep my eyes up, taking in the fitted dress shirt open almost to the waist. He knows how to press all my buttons and then some. Finally bringing my eyes to his face, I note his Cheshire cat-like grin before meeting his eyes. Holy shit. The desire blazing in his amber gaze almost knocks me off my feet. I’ve never wanted him as much as I do right now, which hardly seems possible, but it’s true.

  As though reading my mind, he quirks his eyebrow in a look that says challenge accepted, and he winks, reminding me of where this all began. That wink will be the death of me one of these days, I swear. I know if I gave him the okay, I wouldn’t need to beg; he’d gladly screw me right here, without being asked twice, and not give a damn who saw. Exhibitionism must be a family trait— apparently up until Arlo’s grandma passed away, she and his gramps were very fond of PDA, much to everyone else’s disappointment. Luckily I have just enough fucks to give for both of us, and that won’t be happening.

  I shake my head almost imperceptibly but stretch out my hands toward him. He stalks the few paces needed to close the gap between us, pulling me by the hand, hard into his chest. It’s kind of his signature move, yet it still catches me off guard pretty much every time. As usual, I yelp in surprise, but most of the sound is stolen when his lips crash down to mine. This is no chaste peck; this is a kiss that intends to go all the way. Not that I would expect anything less from him. He’s an all-or-nothing kind of a guy, and when it comes to me, it’s always all.

  I briefly consider ending the kiss before it gets properly started, but realistically, I know that’s not an option—for either of us. Instead, I yield to him, melting into his body, parting my lips to give him entrance to my mouth. Almost two years since the first time we kissed, and this shit never gets old. In fact, like fine wine, it only seems to get better with time. As often happens when Arlo and I are together, everything else fades into the background. The moment is broken by our officiant clearing his throat rather loudly.

  When we come up for air, the room bursts into loud, spontaneous applause, cheers, and laughter—even a few wolf whistles. There are a number of good reasons we chose not to marry in a church, not the least being that neither of us has a religious bone in our body. Our general lack of decorum being another. I may not be religious, but that doesn’t mean I don’t draw the line at disrespectful behavior in a place of worship, of any faith. Besides, it would genuinely be disingenuous for us to get married in a church of any denomination, given that neither of us can remember the last time we set foot in one.

  Instead we’re gathered in the gallery, and the beautifully bright and airy space has been transformed into the perfect ceremony venue for us. Urban, intimate, and meaningful. This was the place we first officially became a couple, even if it was initially short-lived. As well as stunning floral accents dotted throughout the space, photos from the Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless book and exhibition adorn the wall. This time, however, I chose photos that have never been on public display—they’re even more intimate and special, even more us than the ones that made the final cut.

  “Well, that part is supposed to be at the end of the ceremony, but in my talks with the two of you, I know you like to do things your way, so there’s nothing to say we can’t start there instead.” He beams at us, not the least bit phased by our impromptu display of wedding porn. More laughter from our guests. I’m sure many of them are relieved that we’re just kissing, given that they heard worse within these very walls at the opening of the exhibition almost eighteen months ago.

  We chose James for exactly this reason. He’s casual, laid-back, and gets us. He’s not wrong about our unorthodox way of doing things. Driven largely by Arlo’s propensity to zig when everyone else zags, I’ve been slowly embracing the unpredictable nature of a life lived that way. A case in point is the fact that, unbeknown to many of our guests, Arlo and I have actually been officially married for a year already. After proposing to me in my hospital bed when I came to from being heavily sedated, Arlo literally couldn’t wait to be married.

  I’m still not sure of the exact details, but from what I can understand, the questions Arlo faced about being my next of kin when I was out cold were enough to push him over the edge, and he wasn’t prepared to wait another minute for me to be officially his. I’m not sure how he swung it, but he managed to arrange for the hospital officiant to marry us that afternoon, witnessed by Dr. Margolis, and a lovely nurse named Linda.

  I think the hospital marriage service is supposed to be reserved for patients who are unlikely to make it out of the hospital alive, but after two years, I’m learning to accept that when you’re as rich and as stubborn as Arlo, things happen the way you want them to more often than not.

  Not that I was in much of a position to say no in the face of my husband’s dogged determination, but I agreed to the quickie ceremony on the proviso that we would have a proper wedding later down the road when I wasn’t laid up in bed, heavily pregnant with twins, and looking like I’d just gone ten rounds with a heavyweight boxing champion.

  I wanted the dress, the flowers, the cake. Hell, I wanted the rock. Of course Arlo readily agreed, and in actual fact, I got that and so much more. With our two perfect daughters in tow, I wouldn’t have cared if we’d gotten married in our kitchen at home with just Luke and Nic as witnesses. Along with Arlo, the girls give me life in a way I never thought possible.

  As the ceremony progresses, we hear readings from our nearest and dearest—Arlo’s mom and mine, Nic, and Luke. Gramps gives a heartrending tribute to those we have loved and lost. James then dispenses with the legal aspects of the ceremony, and we move on to our vows. I go first.

  “Arlo, meeting you was literally life-changing. From the very first moment, you’ve been a source of excitement, inspiration, challenge, and frustration. I was then, and remain now, in awe of your vitality, your creativity, your passion, and your sheer single-mindedness. Nobody does hardheaded and stubborn like you, but now that I understand what makes you tick, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I pause to drink him in. The look of love in his eyes has intensified, although I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

  It makes me smile to think that to the world, Arlo Jones is the ultimate bad boy, complete with a womanizing rap sheet that could wind around this building and back again. Yet the reality, my reality with him is that he’s the most fiercely loyal, loving, and sweet husband and father anyone could hope for. I guess those clichés about taming the bad boys exist for a reason, although I wouldn’t say that’s exactly what’s happened with Arlo.

  He’s still every bit the wild, arrogant, impatient, and often inappropriate guy with swag for miles that I fell in love with. Nowhere more so than in the bedroom. He definitely still has the beast in him, and he’s a rock god for life. I guess he’s mello
wed a little, and really I think he’s simply showing elements of his personality to our daughters and me that he’d long suppressed after his dad’s death. The truth is that he has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.

  “You’ve opened my eyes, my world, and my heart in ways I could never have foreseen, and the fact that I could ever have been prepared to walk away from that still perplexes me now. You make me make sense. I want forever with you. I want to go to sleep in your arms every night, and wake up on your… side of the bed every morning.” Arlo flashes our guests a shit-eating grin and licks his lips lasciviously. More chuckles from everyone.

  “I’m so honored to be the mother of our two beautiful little girls, and to squirt number three, who will be with us next summer. You’re an amazing father, and we’re all so lucky to have you.”

  I look at Arlo for a moment. His eyebrows shoot up in question, and I nod my affirmation. His features contort with emotion, and tears hover at the corners of his eyes, threatening to brim over. It’s true—our crazy little family is going to get crazier. I’ve known for a few days but decided to save the information for just the right time, and what better time than this? Arlo looks at me as though I hung the moon after dipping it in platinum and encrusting it in diamonds. If there’s a person on earth who could love me more than he does, I defy anyone to find them.

  “I promise to be your lover, and your friend. Your partner in crime. Your comrade in adventure. Your ally against the world. Your greatest fan and a total pain in your ass. I promise to always tell you when you’re being a douche, but to love you regardless. I promise to always want you, anytime, anyplace, anywhere. I promise to always be me, and to love you for always being you.”

  I hear sniffs and shuffling from the room, but I dare not look around. I’m holding on so far, but by a thread. If I catch sight of someone crying, especially if it’s Mom or Nic, I’ll lose my ever-loving shit.

  Now it’s Arlo’s turn. I study his face again. One thing he’s always said is that he’s an open book to me, and it’s so true. Every day I look at this man, and the love he shows me when he looks back has me questioning what I ever did to deserve him in my life—apart from getting buck nekkid in his shower like a lunatic, of course.

  “Hummingbird, Tog, London. You’re the piece of the puzzle I never knew was missing, but now can’t live without. You challenge and frustrate me every fucking day, but in the best possible way. You make me want to be a better man, and I already am through being with you. You make shit make sense.

  “I never used to give a damn about spiders, one way or the other, but now I’m thankful for them every day. If it wasn’t for your arachnophobia, we might never have met, so long live arachnids!” Amen to that. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d come to be thankful for the eight-legged devil incarnates, but I am. Long live the spider!

  “You make me want things I never even thought were a possibility in my life, and with your love and support, I achieve them. You had me on the ropes from day one in this relationship, and I don’t see that changing any time soon.” He has always said this, but I beg to differ. Case in point: if it wasn’t for his dogged determination and relentless pursuit, there wouldn’t even be a relationship. But once my husband gets an idea in his head, good luck telling him otherwise.

  “Already I see Saint and Étienne following in your footsteps. If squirt number three is a girl, I may have to reconsider my life choices, but right now, you got me like stealing candy from a baby. You make me so horny I legit can’t see straight or think straight 95 percent of the time, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Who knew chronic blue balls could be so rewarding?” I think the tears in the room are of laughter now. Trust Arlo to lay it all out for all—including our parents—to hear.

  “I promise to love you, cherish you, worship you, see you, and fight for you and our beautiful squirts 24/7. By the way, I’m down for a football team if you are. Bring it.” Oh hell no! “I promise to give you every ounce of my heart every day, in every way I can. I promise to challenge and reward you. I promise to push and pull you. I promise to hold you and never let you go. You saved me from myself, and I promise to love you and thank you for that in a thousand different ways, today, tomorrow, and I don’t want to think about what comes after that.” Not a dry eye in the house.

  There’s no need for James to tell Arlo he can kiss the bride. He’s on me before the last words are properly out of his mouth, and I don’t hesitate to give him my all in return.

  I love this man. This clever, funny, brilliant, impulsive, strong, sexy man is my beginning, my middle, and my end.

  FINDING MARNIE

  One

  Marnie

  I didn’t know if everyone could pinpoint the exact moment their life changed forever, that one defining moment that sealed their fate and made them who they are. I could.

  It was a Tuesday in April, just after Easter. I was thirteen. I had woken up and gotten ready for school alone and in silence, as usual. I wasn’t sure if my parents were home. Silence meant they’d be out cold, sleeping off the effects of the night before, or they were still out, and as far as they were concerned, the new day hadn’t even started yet. It made no material difference to me either way, so I never concerned myself with their presence or, more likely, their absence.

  I’d been seconds away from leaving when I remembered I’d left my calculus book in the kitchen the previous evening, as I puzzled over my homework while I ate. Alone. And in silence.

  As I rushed into the living room on my way to the kitchen, right away I’d known something was wrong. There had been an eerie stillness, and the air felt thick or heavy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something definitely felt off. I edged cautiously into the room, and then I saw it. My mom’s skeletal arm resting on the side of the couch. I knew then that something was very badly wrong. On the rare occasions that my parents were home and functioning, if it could even be called that at this time of day, it was always chaos. Neither could keep still for a moment. There would be pacing, cursing, yelling, and general high drama. About money. About drugs. About money for drugs. About each other. I never knew the exact details—I tried to make myself as scarce as possible. The TV would often be blaring, along with music, adding to the confusion.

  Silence in this circumstance could only mean no good.

  “Mom?”

  No answer.

  “Mom?” I continued my slow, wary approach toward the couch, knowing I shouldn’t, that I wasn’t going to like what I saw when I got there. However, I found myself compelled to approach regardless. Stupid. It was like when I saw a quick movement on the other side of the room from the corner of my eye, and even while my brain told me not to look, my eyes automatically headed that way before I could stop them. It was always something gross like a roach or spider that I would much rather not have seen but then couldn’t ignore.

  I edged closer.

  “Mom?”

  I was now level with the couch, but I avoided turning toward it, fearing that what I saw would be far worse than an insect or arachnid. When I dared to look, my suspicions were confirmed. I gasped, closing my eyes, hoping that when I opened them, the vision before me would have disappeared as though it had all been just a terrible mirage. Sadly, when I dared to peek through half-closed eyelids, the horrific scene remained. I didn’t know it then, but it was to haunt my sleeping and waking dreams for the rest of my life.

  My mom and dad were dead. I knew it as sure as I knew my name was Marnie. My mom’s right arm gripped the side of the couch tightly—I guess that was the true meaning of a death grip. Her left arm was linked with my dad’s. Her spindly fingers were intertwined with his equally starved digits. Her head was tipped back, bloodshot eyes open and rolled back in her head. Her skin was a lifeless gray color, her lips were blue, and there was a thick, dark brown substance below her nose. Dried blood? My father was slumped forward, the hand not holding my mom’s resting on his knee, his head between his legs. Both arms
were ashen. I was glad to have been spared seeing the ravages that death had wrought his face, but I knew he was dead.

  From their linked arms protruded empty hypodermic syringes. My first conclusion was the most obvious one, and the risk for any junkie every time they shot up, snorted, or smoked: an overdose. A pace toward them brought me one step closer to the truth. A piece of paper lay on the floor between their bruised and bloated feet—a folded “final demand” from the electric company. One word was scrawled on the top in eyeliner in my mom’s scratchy handwriting. ENOUGH. Realization hit me like a hundred-pound weight.

  I sucked in a huge gulp of air—I seemed to have forgotten to breathe—and kicked into survival mode. I rushed past them and into the kitchen, grabbing my calculus book from the table where I’d left it. Instead of heading out of the front of the house as normal, I took off through the back door, slamming it shut behind me.

  If I sprinted, I’d still make it in time for the school bus. I ran like the devil was on my back, then slowed to a normal pace on the corner of the block where the bus stopped. I reached the pickup point at the same time as the bus, breathing back to normal, nothing but red cheeks to signify anything was different about this Tuesday to any other. I took my normal seat in the back corner, hoping to be left alone, as I mostly always was.

  I moved through the school day on autopilot. I was there but not there, just going through the motions—not that anybody seemed to notice. I was thankful to fly under the radar. Every second, minute, and hour that passed took me further away from the terrible scene I’d witnessed earlier, and made me believe that maybe the whole thing had been nothing more than a bizarre dream.

  Maybe I’d wake up any moment at home in bed, tangled in my sheets, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Or maybe the whole thing had been a waking hallucination. After school, I’d return to a deserted house as normal. I’d eat, do my homework, and go to bed, before starting the whole routine again the following day.