by MV Ellis
When I recover my breath and my heart feels a little less like someone rode over it on a dirt bike, I laugh aloud to myself like the crazy fucker I’m obviously becoming. These photos scream “Sorry, ladies, Arlo Jones is officially off the market once and for all. Back the fuck up and get your hands off. He’s mine.” The irony of the fact that I’m about to give an exclusive interview to Rolling Stone where I spill my guts about London in words to the same effect isn’t wasted on me.
As though reading my mind, just then there’s a small tap on the door. It’s the columnist who will be conducting the interview, and her accompanying photographer. A photographer to shoot the exhibition—and me, of course. They enter the space, and we quickly dispense with the introductions. I note the journalist—Jen Wharton seems vaguely familiar. In such circumstances, I generally assume that means we’ve fucked at some point, and judging by the deep flush spreading across her face, neck, and chest as we shake hands, I think it’s safe to say my assumption is correct.
I feel for her. I’m long past the point of being embarrassed about running into conquests, whether I recall the event or not. When you spread yourself around as much as I do—or did—you learn pretty quickly that it’s a very small world, and accept it as an occupational hazard.
She looks around the room, eyes boggling, jaw dropping in amazement as she turns around several times.
“Wow.”
Rolling Stone Interview
Arlo Jones, Fallen Star
Jen Wharton talks love, loss, and redemption with coldhearted rocker Arlo Jones, the one that got away.
I walk into the Chelsea warehouse where in a few hours’ time, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless, an exhibition of photos taken from a coffee-table book of the same name, will be launched to the press and a select group of invited guests before its public launch tomorrow. The exhibition and the book feature photographs taken on tour with the Heartless Few. The band, with Jones at the helm as front man, has reached stratospheric levels of success since it formed fifteen years ago.
The images were captured over the course of thirteen weeks at the tail end of the band’s almost ill-fated Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour—back on the road after being postponed due to the band’s drummer, Stevie Knox, being admitted to a facility to be treated for exhaustion. The work represents a high-profile debut for fledgling photographer London Llwellyn, who has little commercial work in her portfolio, and for whom photographing rock stars represents completely unchartered territory.
From my initial look around the room at the photographs, I know I’m witnessing something special. History-in-the-making special. I can also suddenly see why Jones, who is notoriously wary of the press, sought out Rolling Stone in order to give this interview. A cursory glance is all it takes for me to know that this is a pivotal moment in music history, and indeed in Arlo Jones’s life. I sum up my thoughts and feelings in one simple word.
“Wow.”
“Yeah, that pretty much covers it” is Jones’s understated response.
Though possibly on the margins of professionalism, I’m going to say it anyway. Everything about Arlo Jones screams sex at ten thousand decibels. I’m not the only woman to say so. He’s been routinely voted “sexiest male” on the planet more times than most people have had hot meals. Fifteen years into his career, and there are no signs of his popularity waning. Today, as every day, he’s dressed in all black everything—stylishly ripped and form-fitting T-shirt perfectly showing off his toned and taut arms, chest, and abs; equally ripped ultratight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination; and pointed, laced dress shoes.
His thick glossy hair lies in artful waves that hover between shabby chic and outright messy, the long tendrils being kept out of his eyes by a pair of sunglasses on top of his head, which most likely cost more than my car. His broody good looks are a thing of legend, and in real life, they don’t disappoint—the chiseled jaw, the blazing green eyes, and intense artist stare could disarm even the most hardened of hearts.
Speaking of hearts, the shoes and the Le Smoking jacket slung across the arm of a nearby sofa are a definite departure from his normal relaxed rock star uniform, but then tonight is a big night. As well as the launch for his new book, it will also be the official public confirmation of his previously rumored relationship with Llwellyn. Put another way, if the world was wondering and speculating about the nature of their relationship before now—spoiler alert, it was—that speculation will be over at the sight of these photographs. They seem to document not only the tour, but also the couple’s trajectory as lovers.
This isn’t my first rodeo with Jones. I met him for the first time a number of years ago at an awards ceremony, and although the air of sex simmering just under the surface and his smoldering good looks are the same, a lot seems different. Albeit the ceremony was a nighttime affair and everyone involved was very “merry,” Jones’s vibe was completely different—darker, and not in a good way. He had the haunted look behind the eyes of a man who had yet to find his place in the world and was battling demons while trying.
I don’t want to put words into his mouth, but I get the distinct feeling that Jones has some major news to share, and that maybe he’s found his place. Though I have a list of prepared questions I’d like to cover as part of the interview, something tells me that Jones will be leading this conversation; though it’s not the way I tend to work as a journalist, today it seems like the right way to go.
He stalks toward me with intent before throwing himself onto the charcoal couch. Patting the space next to me, he invites me to do the same. I sit, and we start the interview.
Looking around the gallery, I can see now why you wanted do this interview. Looks like a lot has changed in your life recently?
Yeah, I guess you could say that, and although I normally hate speaking to the press, I decided that this time around, I want to control the story for once, or at least input into it. I want to set the story straight and put the truth out there in my own words.
And what is that truth?
For a long time, I thought I could prevent myself from ever loving anyone. Like I was literally no longer physically capable of it. I figured I’d somehow managed to turn that function off. Romantic love, I mean—I loved my family, but obviously that’s platonic. I vowed never to allow myself to fall in love. Ever. As far as I was concerned, that part of me was broken and couldn’t be fixed.
Why not?
My dad died of cancer when I was fifteen. Losing a parent at that age fucks you up beyond belief. At least it did me. I was heartbroken, shattered, in pieces. I decided then that I was never going to willingly open myself up to feeling like that again. I just shut that part of myself down—closed it off to the rest of the world, and to me. My reputation is heartless by name, heartless by nature, and it was true. I went out of my way to ensure it. Despite being with countless women, love was never on my radar, and as far as I was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay.
You’re speaking in the past tense. Am I right in assuming that this is no longer the case?
Basically, yeah. I thought my plan was working, and that I was in control of every aspect of my life. But it turns out that wasn’t true. Now I look back and think… I don’t know… like the past, all of that time, I was just in a holding pattern, like a TV on standby—never fully switched off, just waiting for someone to press the button and bring me to life again.
Has someone pressed your button?
Pressed the button? She’s activated the whole home cinema system, complete with 3-D imaging and surround sound. Shit, this thing even has smellavision.
You’re in love?
I guess that’s how most people would describe it.
How would you describe it?
I’m… saved.
Saved from what?
From myself. I feel like I’ve lived the past fifteen years under a thick black blanket of volcanic dust. It was gritty and suffocating. It smothered everything, dulling my thoughts
and feelings, snuffing out life and hope. More and more dust piled on over the years, making it impossible to see the light above my head, or all around. Making it impossible to think, feel, or even breathe without it getting at me, getting into me, choking me. It was pervasive and destructive, but it was all I knew. Then London came along and just fucking blew the dust away, literally in one puff.
I used to say that music saved me. And it did. If it hadn’t been for the band, and music in general after my dad died, who knows where I’d be right now. Probably dead myself. What I didn’t realize was that although I wasn’t dead, I wasn’t really living. London saved me again, and showed me what I had been missing.
You’re talking about London Llwellyn, the photographer responsible for your new photography exhibition and coffee-table book, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless?
One and the same.
Interesting. How did the two of you meet and get together?
It’s kind of a long story, some of the details of which we’d like to keep private, but what I can say is that London came into my life when I was least expecting it, but needed it the most. She was… no, she is like no woman I’ve ever met. She challenges me in ways I never thought possible, but I can’t get enough of.
She sounds perfect for you.
She is, but don’t get me wrong—she kicks my ass every day. Sometimes literally.
Really?
No, but she did famously slap my face once. I can’t tell you any more about it though, or she may do it again.
He laughs for an extended time, before looking into the distance, an uncharacteristically goofy smile gracing his cheeks. He really has got it bad.
Okay, so tell me about the photographs.
London came on tour with us to shoot for the book and the exhibition. It had been a tough time—Stevie was receiving treatment, we had canceled dates, pissed-off fans, promoters, venues, and whoever else baying for blood, and I had this contract to fulfill with a publisher, which, to be honest, was the last thing I wanted to do. I don’t believe in fate or the planets, or anything I can’t see with my own eyes, and touch with my own hands, but for whatever reason, London appeared on the scene at just the right time to make this happen. As much as I hated the idea of being shadowed by somebody 24/7, I’m glad it happened, and I’m glad it was her.
I think the images speak for themselves to a large extent, and for that reason, I’m a little nervous. They’re very personal and… intimate….They turned out so differently from my expectation. What was supposed to be a simple “behind the scenes on the road with the rocker” has ended up as much more of a photo essay detailing my path to redemption. It’s our love story, and we’re about to share it with the world. It goes against the grain of everything I normally allow in my dealings with the press—it’s no secret that I’m not a fan. No offense.
None taken. You sound happy—what’s next for you?
Maybe for the first time ever, I’m full of inspiration. More than I can handle, even. I’m harnessing it as best I can and turning it into music. Our next studio album, Fight[or]Flight, is currently in the making, and I’m already prouder of it than anything I’ve ever made, or in any way put my name to. Beyond that, I honestly don’t know, but as long as it involves London, I really don’t fucking care.
You heard it here first, ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary humans: against all the odds, Arlo Jones is officially blissed-out and off the market. Despite his own misgivings and best/worst intentions, rock’s coldest heart has thawed, and fallen in love. Hard.
Chapter Two
I rack my brain trying to remember a time when I’ve been happier and draw a blank. Even signing our first record deal or getting our first platinum discs didn’t come close. Yeah, they were amazing in the moment, but nowhere near as good as knowing for sure that I’ve won London’s heart. I mean, I knew before today, but nothing beats hearing those words coming from her lips: “I love you, and I want to be with you. That is all.” She has made me the happiest man alive. I’m willing to bet that my grin is so wide, it’s one of the few things on Earth visible from space.
As we approach the top of the stairs in the studio hand in hand, about to face the room full of family, friends, press, and other music and photography industry people, I stop dead in my tracks suddenly, pulling London to my chest, catching her unaware. Startled, she slams into me with an “Ooof!” and turns to me in mock anger.
“Arlo, if this ‘thing’ between us is going to go the distance, you’re going to have to stop pulling me around like a rag doll. I’m not your toy.” I know she’s got a point, and it’s not that I do it on purpose, it just kind of happens. Besides, despite her effort to sound stern, she really doesn’t. I love when she does the mock indignation thing; it’s crazy cute. Hell, everything about her is cute.
“I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t think. I was too focused on needing to do this.” I pull her sideways toward the wall of the mezzanine area and out of sight of the guests below, walking her backward until she’s leaning against the smooth white surface.
“But—” I know she’s going to protest that we just finished fucking each other senseless over her new desk, just fixed her messed-up hair, clothes, and makeup, and just told ourselves we need to go downstairs and face the room of people who more than likely heard the whole thing through the paper-thin ceiling of her office. She’s right, but I don’t care. I give zero fucks what other people think at the best of times, but when it comes to this woman, it’s even less than that. I lay one palm flat on the wall above her head and pull the hand that I’m holding behind her back.
I dip my head, dropping my impatient lips to her expectant ones. Moments later she’s kissing me as hungrily as I am her. That’s one thing about us—no matter how tumultuous things have been, and boy, have they been rocky, the sexual chemistry has been off the charts from day one. Moment one, really, and every day ever since. Even when she made it clear that she didn’t like me as a person, there was never any hiding the fact that she was as wildly attracted to me as I have always been to her. If there’s anything hotter than a man knowing his woman wants him more than she wants her next breath, I don’t know what it is.
My woman. I love the way that sounds. My. Woman. I’ve thought of her that way for a long time, way before I had any right to, but today I’m totally justified in thinking of her in those terms. Today and always. London Llwellyn loves me, and she’s happy for the world to know it. I might just be the luckiest bastard alive. The thought has me pressing my lips down even harder and using my tongue to request entrance to her mouth. Despite her earlier protests, she opens to me without hesitation.
I release the hand behind her back and slip mine into the deep V of her shirt. I love that her small, pert breasts are unrestrained. I use the fact that she is braless to my advantage, running my forefinger in circles over her nipple, knowing it drives her wild. As predicted, her nipple pebbles at my touch. London groans, pulling me closer to her. My dick goes from the semi I was still sporting as we left her office to diamond hard in the space of a few seconds. I want to fuck her again so bad, but I know it’s not an option right now. It takes all my willpower to resist kissing her again, this time rubbing my rock-hard cock against her clit instead. Pulling back a little, I look at her long and hard.
The advice given to me by my grandfather months earlier plays over and over in my head. "If you want this girl, you’re going to have to work for it; it’s not going to come easy. Treat it like a hostile takeover. Find out what she wants most in the world, and then give it to her. Finally I say the words that have been playing on my mind since London admitted she loves me
“Move in with me.” It’s a statement, not a question.
London looks momentarily startled, but quickly schools her features, regaining her composure. “Umm… you live in LA. I live in New York. You’ve just bought me this studio, and honestly, even if you hadn’t, there’s no way in hell I’d be relocating. No offense.”
“None ta
ken. This has always been home, in the true sense of the word. The guys are here, my mom and Gramps are here, Brad and Justin too, not that they’re a consideration—but LA was only ever a means to an end. I needed out of the scene for a while, so I split. Home is where the heart is, right? There’s nothing keeping me there now, but there’s sure as shit something drawing me back here. Big-time. You could tell me you’re relocating to one of Saturn’s rings, and I’d be right there with you, babe.” Fucking understatement of the year.
I followed Gramps’s advice to the letter, and then some. I knew she wanted to establish her photography career, so I offered her an opportunity to do that. It’s not every day a dude buys a chick an entire fucking building. Even still, I know it’s not enough. London is no easy nut to crack, by any means, and if there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that she’s not impressed by material bullshit. Although she’s admitted she loves me, I know her confidence in me and in us is fragile. Buying her a whole city block isn’t going to fix that. Not that I’m trying to buy her affections, but if I was, I’d go bankrupt before my plan worked.
When we met, she’d all but given up on the idea of finding love again after losing her fiancé. Now that we have each other, I need to instill confidence in her that although she was unlucky once, lightning isn’t going to strike twice. She needs stability and security, and despite my crazy lifestyle, I know I can offer her that. I want to offer her that, and for the first time in my life, I want it too. With her.
“Yes.” She stares me down. Wait. What? Surely I’ve misunderstood, or she has, or we both have.