by MV Ellis
“Yes what?” I have to be sure.
“Yes, I will move in with you, Arlo. It’s fucking crazy, but for once, I’m prepared to embrace the madness. Yes, I will be your live-in lover, or significant other, or de facto spouse, or ‘life partner,’ or whatever other descriptor you can think of. Yes.” She seems pretty clear, and with that response, so am I.
“Ahh… okay. Yeah!” I don’t really know what to say. I had no hope that she would actually agree. Fuck me dead.
“Well, now you don’t sound too sure. Did you really mean it? It’s okay if not, I won’t be offended. We can just pretend this whole conversation never happened.” The look in her gorgeous Bambi eyes tells me otherwise.
“Of course I meant it. I mean it. I was just kinda expecting you to say no. Hoping you wouldn’t, but anticipating you would. I had a game plan for that outcome, but not for you saying yes.” I figure that at this point, honesty’s the best policy.
“You don’t need a game plan, my love, you just need to keep that hard-on on ice until we get home tonight and can put it to good use. I’m so horny right now, you’d better be ready to ride me all night.” Hell yeah, I love this woman. I don’t answer, just bend down again and plant a feathery kiss on her forehead. Anything more, and we’ll never make it downstairs.
As we descend the stairs to rejoin the guests at the launch, a hush ripples through the room. Great. Without looking, I know London will be mortified, a deep blush just visible on her latte-colored skin. I squeeze her hand, silently conveying my strength and support. After so many years in the limelight, I’m used to being scrutinized and endlessly speculated about, but London’s new to this and already she hates being in the public eye. It’s weird given that in her previous career she was a dancer and often under the spotlight. I guess a lot has changed in her life since then, and she’s no longer comfortable taking center stage.
As we reach the bottom step, I perform an exaggerated bow, causing our guests to chuckle but also take that as their cue that the Arlo and London Show is officially over. Hint taken, everyone returns to their conversations. Beside me, London relaxes instantly. I squeeze her hand a little tighter and whisper down to her, “Just breathe. You got this.”
She nods mutely, relaxing a little more. She’s got this.
I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of anyone than I am of her right now. When I came up with the idea of asking her to come on tour with me, my reasons were twofold. Sure, I wanted to get into her pants. Actually, more accurately, I wanted to continue to get in her pants, more than I wanted to draw breath, and the prospect of three months on the road without being able to was like hell on earth. On the other hand, I genuinely believed she would deliver the goods, thus killing two very worthy birds with one stone. As it is, the end result has surpassed my wildest expectations—and everyone else’s.
I had known she was ridiculously talented, and had been sure she’d nail this gig, but even so, when I saw the photos, I was shocked by her creative genius. I was present when each and every shot was taken, yet I had no idea what magic she was weaving. As front man of one of the most popular bands on the planet, I’ve seen tens of thousands of photos of myself over the years, but as I hoped she would, with these shots London brought something completely different and unexpected. The images are everything you wouldn’t associate with someone with a job and reputation like mine—they’re light, tender, intimate, raw, loving, and hauntingly beautiful.
Yeah, the shots expose a lot more of the real me than I would have expected, or wanted, but I’m okay with that. The same can’t be said of London. Luckily for her, she has me to guide her. I’ve been doing this for almost as long as I can remember. It’s pretty much second nature to me at this point.
I scan the room, watching the attendees as they look at the photos in rapt silence, or chat animatedly about their favorites. I’m looking for three people in particular. When I spot them, I pull London gently in their direction.
“C’mon, you need to meet my folks.”
Having already had the pleasure of her parents’ company for the first time just before we went upstairs to scratch our itch, I figure it’s only right and fair to return the favor and introduce her to my family also. As we approach, the tension returns to her body. Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all. Too late. I’ve already caught Gramps’s eye, so we have to go over or appear extremely rude. Gramps already thinks that of me, but I don’t want him to hold a similarly low opinion of London. He’s an ornery old bastard at the best of times without adding an imagined snub to his list of complaints.
It’s now or never. I stop, pulling London close to my side and giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Mom, Pete, Gramps, this is London. London, this is Mom, Pete, and Gramps.”
Gramps responds with a sarcastic snort. Not exactly the response I was hoping for.
“What is it, Gramps?” I narrow my eyes in his direction.
“We’re not stupid, young man. It’s obvious who she is, unless you’ve been upstairs for the past half hour banging a woman other than the one who has been making you miserable for the past six months.”
Oh. God. I squeeze London’s hand again, not daring to look at her. I’m already regretting the decision to introduce her to my peeps so soon after asking her to move in with me—this is going to shit real quick. What the fuck was I thinking?
“Dad!” hisses Mom in a voice far louder than a whisper and more like a whisper-yell, causing the people nearest to us to stop their conversations and look on in interest. Just fucking great. Way to turn a shit storm into a shit blizzard.
“What?” asks Gramps with a nonchalant shrug, his innocent expression totally downplaying the razor-sharp mind he wields like a knife.
“Don’t be rude, is what.” She turns to London, apologetic on Gramps’s behalf. “I’m sorry about my father. He doesn’t get out much these days, and he clearly left his manners back in Brooklyn at the bottom of a bottle of beer. So nice to meet you, London. I’m Rebecca.” She smiles broadly. London returns the gesture and reaches out her hand.
“Hi, Rebecca, so nice to meet you. Arlo has told me so much about you.”
Mom beams, ignoring the outstretched hand and moving in for a hug instead. London looks a little like a deer in the headlights, but she plays along, allowing herself to be swept into the tight embrace. Mom turns to me and stage-whispers, “She’s stunning. Look at her beautiful skin. She’s positively glowing.” It’s true. Having worked herself almost to the bone to get the book and launch together, London suddenly looks radiant—probably with the relief of everything going according to plan.
“She’s also standing right here, Mom, and not at all deaf, so….” Fuck my family.
Gramps speaks up again. “Let’s get this over with. I’m not getting any younger over here. He’s Peter, the stepfather”—he motions to Pete with his thumb—“but everyone calls him Pete. I’m Jack, but if you don’t want me to kick your ass into next Tuesday, you’ll call me Gramps just like everyone else.” Speaking of ass kickings, if Gramps carries on this way, he’ll be in line for one himself. He ignores my frustrated glare.
“I’m glad to finally meet you. I mean, who wouldn’t want to meet the woman who almost broke this dipshit?” He elbows me in the ribs, and I wince. He’s on a roll tonight, and not in a good way. London smirks, in a vain attempt to keep a straight face. I’m glad she’s enjoying the show. That makes exactly one of us.
“This kid of all of them was the toughest from the get-go. Always the first one to step up to a fight and the last to back down. Never cried. Ever. Never apologized. Ever. Heck, I was beginning to think he was a sociopath or something and would never love anyone even half as much as he loves himself—he’s always been so big headed. Then you came along and blew the lid right off that theory, young lady—he’s been moping around like a dog with his balls cut off ever since he met you.”
Kill. Me. Now.
“Can’t say I blame him. You might
have been a tough nut to crack, but you’re even more beautiful than he let on. If I were fifty years younger, I’d—” Oh. Hell. No! If he were fifty years younger, he’d be even more likely than me to be the recipient of a well-deserved slap in the face from her. If not that, I would have decked him for sure.
“Gramps!” This time all three of us yell at him, causing everyone in the room to look our way yet again. Poor London.
“What? What did I say? I only spoke the truth.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. I wonder idly what the word is for murdering a grandparent. I know the words for killing your parents or siblings, but draw a blank on how to describe strangling your grandfather with his own ugly-ass tie.
Pete steps forward, offering London his hand. She takes it, clearly grateful not to have to deal with Gramps any longer.
“Hi, London, pleased to meet you. Listen, a word of advice, if I may. I know they seem a little crazy.”
She beams his way, clearly still suppressing her laughter.
“Well okay, they seem a lot crazy right now, but take it from one who’s been where you are right now and lived to tell the tale: these are good people. Mouths like sewers, but hearts of gold.”
“Hi, Pete. Thanks for the advice.”
I think she’s going to need it, but I keep that gem to myself, all the while silently praising myself for convincing her to move in with me before she met these crazies. There’s no way in hell she would have agreed to after this train wreck.
Chapter Three
Just as I am about to whisk London away in an attempt to avoid further mortification, we’re all distracted by a commotion, and the sound of glass shattering in the opposite corner of the room. I look over, dismayed to see that Marnie and Luke are at the center of the unfolding scene. Shit. This is going from bad to worse. I bend down and kiss London just above her ear, telling her to stay where she is while I go deal with the drama. As I walk away, I mouth, “Look out for her,” to Mom over the top of London’s head.
I catch Gramps giving me a knowing glare and shoot him a warning one in return. Careful, old man, I convey silently. My patience has just about run out with him tonight.
Speaking of dwindling patience… I snake my way through the crowd to the other side of the room, quickly assessing the situation.
“What the fuck is going on?” I hiss at Luke.
“Well, Marnie—” Marnie is unsteady on her feet, clearly having had too many glasses of complimentary champagne.
“Wait,” I interrupt, raising my hand traffic cop-style right in front of Luke’s face. The vein in his temple throbs. He’s pissed. Feeling the rage building in me, rising from my toes and making its way to the top of my head like hot water in a pan about to boil over, I silently dare him to say or do something in retaliation. Go on, buddy. Make my fucking day. Luke takes one look at my face and thinks better of saying whatever is on his mind. I speak instead.
“First of all, what is she even doing here? I sure as shit didn’t invite her.” This has been bugging me all evening, but for the sake of not ruining London’s night of nights, I decided to ignore her in the hope she’d take the hint and go the fuck home. So much for that plan. “In fact, how did she even know about it, unless she’s fucking stalking me?” Is she?
“I may have mentioned it to her in passing,” Luke fills me in. Fratricide pops into my head once again.
“What? Fuck, Luke. Inviting her here when you know what’s gone down between the two of us is a special kind of stupid. Are you really that dumb? ’Cause you always claim to be the smart one.”
It’s true. In the band, as well as playing rhythm guitar to my lead guitar, Luke’s the elder statesman, not necessarily in years, but definitely in attitude, much to my deep irritation. He’s the sage, always on hand to give advice, solicited or otherwise, and offer a listening ear. Not an offer I’ve ever wanted or needed to take up, but the other guys trust and respect his opinions. I guess if I tried to look past the whole twin-brother-conflict thing we have going on, I could see the value he brings from that perspective. Back in the real world, I’d rather eat pubes on a graham cracker than ask him shit about shit.
As I speak, I note Luke’s eyes darting back and forth to Marnie. He’s listening to me, sure, but the lion’s share of his attention is on her. I’m glad he’s at least trying to ensure she doesn’t turn the whole event into the train wreck it could be if she continues to make a spectacle of herself. On the other hand, something tells me that isn’t the only reason for his concern. There’s a vibe I can’t quite pin down. As twins, even ones as diametrically different in personality as the two of us, we’re pretty good at reading each other, but tonight it’s almost like Luke has closed the book. No, slammed it shut in my face. What’s going on? Suspicion niggles at the edge of my consciousness.
“Unless you knew that shit would get ugly, and that’s what you wanted. Is that it? Are you jealous of what me and London have, so you thought you’d take this opportunity to fuck it up? Is that what’s going on here?”
Luke rolls his eyes and glares at me menacingly. “For fuck’s sake, Arlo, will you listen to yourself for just a minute? You sound like a paranoid, self-absorbed asshole. When are you going to grow up, get your head out of your ass, and realize that you’re not the center of the universe? We all have lives. We all have shit going on, and newsflash: every fucking thing that happens around us isn’t about you. Right?”
Right. Yet here we are at my woman’s gallery opening of photos solely of me, arguing about the presence of my ex-fuck buddy. This is most definitely about me.
“So you told her about it, that’s one thing. But her name wasn’t on the guest list. I know, because I double- and triple-checked it myself. How the fuck did she get in here?”
“She was at the door carrying on and making a fuss. I didn’t want to leave her out there causing a scene in front of the paparazzi, so—”
“So your stupid ass thought it was better to let her in to make a scene in front of the invited journalists and all of London’s closest friends and relatives? Are you an actual moron? Not to mention a selfish dick. You claim to be London’s friend, but clearly you don’t have her back at all. Why didn’t you put her in a cab and send her on her fucking way like any sane person would? Remind me never to leave you in charge of anything of any importance, you fucking halfwit.” I see the rage building in Luke’s eyes.
As we face off, we have almost forgotten about Marnie, until she’s kind enough to remind us of her presence by hiccupping loudly and stage-whispering, “Who, or whommmmm doessss a girl need to screw to get a drrrrrrink around here?” She stumbles around on her colossally high heels. Oh hell no. I jab Luke in the chest. Hard. All the while wondering what the word is for murdering your entire family.
“You. Need. To. Get. Her. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.” I punctuate every word with another poke. Luke grabs my finger and squeezes it hard. I leave it where it is, and he lets go in defeat. He knows how I operate: no retreat, no surrender, especially where he’s concerned.
“Take her home.” I’m about to walk away, but say almost as an afterthought, “To her house.” I add this last part to ensure that my intentions aren’t lost in translation. I want to avoid further scenes, and keep Marnie away from prying press eyes. Although she’s well known as a model, she’s not at the level where the press would be routinely stationed outside her house. The same can’t be said for us, of course, and the last thing I want is press reports of her retreating to my place after causing a ruckus here.
The mention of the word “home” triggers Marnie into concentrating on what’s being discussed around her. She grasps the hand that’s still firmly planted on Luke’s chest and kisses it. Jesus.
“Buuuuut the night is young, Arlo. Letsssss spend schome time together….” She fixes me with a cross-eyed stare I’m sure she imagines is alluring, and grabs on to my arm with her other hand. I glance over and see that London is watching all of this pan out. A swift look around the room
tells me she’s not the only one. Though Luke and I have been speaking quietly enough that nobody except Marnie would have heard the details of the exchange, watching our body language and reading our lips and facial expressions would make it fairly obvious to onlookers what is going on. Shit. Shit. Fuck. I need to shut this shit down now, before it becomes front page news.
I shrug out of Marnie’s clutches and speak to Luke again. “Fix it. Now.”
As I turn on my heel and walk away, I hear the click-clack of Marnie’s stilettos on the polished concrete floor and her cry of “You can’t treat me thissss way. Arlo. Arlo… Arlo…?” fading toward the door, thank fuck.
God, I need a drink. I accost a server as she attempts to pass me, and down two glasses of champagne in quick succession. I would have gone for a third glass, but I look up and catch Gramps glaring at me again. He needs to get off my back about Marnie. What is it with him and Luke? Why don’t they just mind their own fucking business when it comes to her? Actually, why don’t they mind their own business, period?
The rest of the night passes in a blur of white-hot internal rage. On a normal day, I’d get the fuck out of here, but it’s not a normal day—it’s my girl’s big night, and I’m here to support her. Luke was right about one thing. This is not about me. Or at least it shouldn’t be. For once, I know I need to put someone else’s needs before my own. I just have to get through the rest of the event with the anger heating the blood coursing through my veins. I can do that. Just.
I’m raging at Marnie, at Luke, at Gramps, but most of all, I’m raging at myself. London and I don’t even live together yet, and already my crazy is leaking all over her, marring what should be the most beautiful night of her life. She hasn’t had much to celebrate for the past few years, and now even this is tainted by my bullshit. Between the dumb-as-fuck brother, the crazy ex-pound pal, and the loose-tongued grandfather, I wouldn’t be surprised or blame her if she backed out of the whole moving-in thing. I would probably do the same in her situation.