by MV Ellis
“So I’m not fired?”
“Nope.”
“Just working on a new project?” I can see that he wants to relax, wants to believe that everything is okay—his features are in limbo, hanging somewhere between confusion and relief. He’s sitting poker straight in his seat, not daring to let his guard down until he has confirmation of the situation. His smarts have smarts.
“Yep. That’s about the strength of it.”
“Okay. So where is the new club?”
I’m loving this a little too much. I rest my elbows on the edge of my desk, leaning forward and lowering my voice conspiratorially as though delivering the world’s best-kept secret.
“LA.”
Hunter chokes on his coffee, spraying it halfway across the desk. That’s been happening a lot lately. I guess I need to work on my timing if I don’t want to be constantly wearing other people’s drinks. I make a mental note not to drop any more bombshells if the person I’m talking to is midswig.
He starts grabbing papers from my desk and shaking them in a futile attempt to remove the dark brown liquid. He’s as uncool and flustered as I’ve ever seen him.
“You’re sending me to LA to set up your second club. Is that what you just said?”
“Got it in one. That’s the package I was talking about. It’s a relocation payment. There will also be a big bonus for the work you’ve done here, and an increased salary for the LA gig, as this is basically a promotion.”
He finally allows the relief to bloom on his face, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Man, I hate you. You’re a bastard, you know that, right?” He’s laughing heartily now.
It’s a melodious, velvety smooth sound. Women eat that shit right up. When you look up “smooth” in the dictionary, there’s a picture of this cat, flashing his dimple and breaking hearts all over the world. Under “smoother” there’s a photo of his brother Hendrix. Then there’s the third Campbell brother, Harley. Throw him into the mix, and you’ve got the trifecta of panty-melting goodness. Third time’s the charm, as they say.
“Well, I’ve been told so once or twice. A day.”
“So…?” Hunter is hesitant, looking at me uncertainly.
What?
“Oh. So how the fuck am I going to run this place without you, is that what you’re trying to say?”
He nods in agreement. “Not in so many words, but pretty much, yeah.”
“Well, I’m going to up my game, and don’t worry, I’ve been learning from the master even when you didn’t realize you were teaching me. Why do you think I’ve been hanging around you like a bad smell lately? You won’t need to go right away, and in the next eight or so weeks, you’ll be training me fully, and also Hendrix.”
“Hendrix?”
“Yeah, the bar manager. You know the guy, about your height, your build, your complexion. Actually, he looks a lot like you. Some say you could even pass for brothers. Oh wait, that’s right… you are brothers.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But Hendrix can be a bit of a loose cannon, and you’re not sure if he’s up to the gig?” I finish for him again. He nods.
“Well that’s a risk we’re going to have to take, but something tells me that he’s ready to rise to the challenge, if only to prove his big brother wrong. I think between the two of us and the new bookkeeper we’ll take on to deal with all the numbers shit you currently handle, we should be okay. Let me put it another way. We’re going to have to be okay, ’cause I sure as shit am not about to employ an unknown quantity to look after the new place. So…”
“It is what it is?” he finishes for me this time.
“That’s right. Better than that, I actually think it’s gonna be great. I’m pumped.”
“Me too, I guess. It’s gonna be an interesting few weeks, that’s for sure.” He reaches over to shake my hand, a proper business handshake this time, to seal the deal.
What I said is true. I’m confident in Hunter’s ability to set up the new club, and despite the less-than-ideal circumstances in the rest of my life, I’m also energized about this new role for me at 12AM Mass. I have the perfect idea to get my tenure as manager started memorably.
That’s me, the big ideas guy.
Chapter Seventeen
Dear Squirt,
I guess Daddy’s on his own trying to figure out how to make Mommy trust him again so the three of us can be a family.
Busting balls for London is definitely nothing new to me. I worked so hard to get her touring the world with me as my official photographer. I knew that not only would she nail the gig, as she’s exceptionally talented, but it would also give me a chance to spend quality time with her, and as Jake had suggested, show her the real me. I figured I had three months where we were in each other’s pockets 24/7 to pull out all the stops. If she didn’t want me after that, she probably never would.
Pushing for what I wanted, namely London, paid off for me when she and I first met. My dogged perseverance got us both what we needed in the end, so why can’t it be equally successful now? I worked it like a boss that time, although the honeymoon period was ridiculously short-lived before all this Marnie shit kicked off. At least now I know that handling my cards right and playing the waiting game with her can and does yield results. I just need to keep my head down and hold my nerve. Easier said than done for someone who was never blessed with patience, but if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get my girl and my baby back where they belong—right here with me. I’m chasing my happy ever after, and if I’m breathing, I’m gonna catch it.
Even though all I have is one solitary ultrasound scan, I feel close to Squirt already, and I want to build on that, so I start speaking to him/her. Aloud sometimes if I’m alone, or in my head if there are others around. Just kind of narrating the things I’m doing. I don’t know why; I guess I have no other real way of connecting with him or her, so for now, this will have to be it.
On a whim one day, I decide to take it one step further and send London a message for Squirt via Facebook, and then it becomes a regular thing every few days. She never replies, but I can see she reads the messages, and she hasn’t blocked me or asked me to stop. That’s enough of a response for me, and it gives me hope that if I continue to work toward my goals, I have a solid shot at convincing her to give us—the three of us—a second chance.
Over the next few weeks, I put my plan into action, and I feel strangely optimistic. About some things anyway. Not everything. Definitely not about the whole Luke and Marnie situation. In fact, every time I think about that, I want to punch someone. Half the time that someone is Luke, the other half it’s me. I busy myself to keep from focusing on the betrayals—Luke, Marnie, me—and their impact on London and Squirt. There’s a real chance that I may lose them both. Dwelling on that is a fool’s game though, and I refuse to be a fool anymore. I need my mental energy for all of the plans I have if they’re going to become a reality.
As well as my mental state of my mind, I also start paying more attention to my physical condition. As a family, we’re pretty blessed in that we all tend toward the leaner, more muscular physique without even really trying or having to be superstrict with our diet or anything, thank Christ. Even so, the pity parties I threw myself when this shit kicked off had started to take their toll—but not anymore.
I hit the gym every day and work out like my life depends on it. The results are pretty much instant. I look and feel a whole lot better than I did just a few weeks ago, which feeds into my state of mind. Like my mom said, I need to be the best version of me I can be if I’m going to convince London that life with me is anything other than the living nightmare she currently thinks it is.
I call Paul and fill him in on developments with the move back to the city and the fact that I’m taking on a larger role at the club—partly because he needs to know our whereabouts on any given day for bookings, personal appearances, interviews, and corporate gigs, but also because I have an idea that involves and affects
the band, and I need his help to make it a reality.
“Hey, Arlo. How are you holding up?”
“Hey. Okay, I guess. I mean, I’m stuck in a fucking shit storm, but I’m managing to keep my head above it all. Just. I think that’s the best I can hope for at this point.”
“I guess you’re right. So to what do I owe the pleasure? I hope everything’s okay. Apart from the obvious, of course.”
“Yeah, all good. Listen, I need you to do something for me. Well for us, really, the whole band.”
“Sure, okay. Shoot.”
“I want to put on a Heartless Few gig at the club to preview the new album.”
“What? When you say ‘the club,’ you mean 12AM Mass?”
“Yeah, I want to debut the album there. Kind of like the usual listening party bullshit, but with real people in the audience, like fans and shit, instead of a bunch of clueless industry monkeys in hipster designer suits. One of those intimate and exclusive ‘secret’ gigs, only I don’t want it to be too secret. In fact, quite the opposite. I want it live-streamed globally, and that’s where you come in.”
“Okaaaaay?”
I guess he’s right to be confused.
“Yeah. I need you to hook up a TV station to get behind it and broadcast it live, both on TV and online. I don’t think it will be a very hard sell, since as you keep telling me, we’re hot shit right now. From what I can see, the interest in me particularly and this whole Marnie/London thing isn’t going to slow down anytime soon.” In fact, if the hordes of paps outside the studio, house, and club are anything to go by, it’s actually ramping up.
“Add the fact that this is all new and exclusive material, and it’ll be the biggest scoop of the year. You’ll have networks biting your hand off for the broadcast rights. We could do it as exclusive tickets to competition winners and superfans, and maybe a few available for purchase with the proceeds going to charity. It’ll be the gig of the year.”
“No doubt you’re right, but I’m just not sure—”
“Why I want to do this?”
“Well yeah. I mean, like you say, the heat on you and therefore the rest of the band too is pretty intense at the moment. My thought would be that it’s a good time to lie low, not draw attention to yourself.”
“Yeah, well when have you known me to run in the opposite direction to controversy? I guess that’s why I’m the front man and you’re the suit, right?”
“I guess so.” His tone is clipped, and I can tell I’ve offended him. It’s not the first time and probably won’t be the last, but he’s a big boy and he can take it. Plus when we do well, he does well, so even if he doesn’t like it, I know he’ll shut up and deal if the price is right.
“I guess so too. Let’s just say that I have my reasons, but that’s not important. What’s important is that we make this happen.”
“So when do we need to get this show on the road, so to speak?”
“In two weeks.”
“What? No. I mean, the album isn’t even finished. There’s no way—”
“I don’t pay you to tell me no. The music is my concern. I’ll take care of that side of things. I haven’t discussed it with the guys yet, but I know we can make it happen. Do what you need to do, but know that no isn’t an option.”
“But—”
I hang up. I briefly wonder which part of “no isn’t an option” he didn’t understand. Patience is in short supply for me at the best of times, even more so now. I’m not about to waste time listening to his feeble excuses.
-FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE-
Global superstars the Heartless Few have announced their first ever “secret” live show to promote the launch of their forthcoming studio album, Fight[or]Flight. The gig will be held at a secret location in New York, only to be revealed a short time before it takes place on Friday of this week. Tickets to this intimate and exclusive event will be available to a select handful of dedicated fans, and those lucky enough to win tickets through promotions. An even smaller number will be available for sale, with all proceeds being multiplied by the band and donated to charities supporting families battling cancer.
The album comes hot on the heels of the band’s recent Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour, and the accompanying coffee-table book and photographic exhibition, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless. The tour sold out globally, seeing the band smash presales records in many territories. Fight[or]Flight follows the band’s smash-hit album Relentless, which according to independent data was the biggest-selling album of last year, with sales exceeding three million units. It also earned Grammys for Best Alternative Album and Best Alternative Song (“Can’t Make Me”), while dominating the global charts for more than sixteen weeks.
In a yet-to-be-aired interview with Ellen DeGeneres, lead vocalist and lead guitarist Arlo Jones expresses his pride in the new album and gives a sneak peek of what to expect.
“We’re so !@$#ing proud of this album. We came off the tour pumped and with our creative juices flowing. Although we were physically and mentally exhausted from all those weeks on the road, instead of taking a break we decided to harness that creative inspiration and go straight into the studio to work on it. Call us gluttons for punishment, but we don’t regret it for a minute. You can sleep when you’re dead, right? The result is some of our best work to date, and we’re pumped to be sharing it with the world.”
When asked about the meaning behind the album, Jones said the following:
“It’s about love and loss. It’s about struggle and hope. It’s about bleeding and healing. It’s about moving forward and slipping backward. It’s about people, and how we deal when the sh#t hits the fan. Some of us choose flight, others choose to stay and fight. Which one am I? Listen to the album and find out.”
Presale registration for the limited release tickets opens at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow, and the tickets are expected to sell out in moments. Further gig details will be released to ticket holders via text message and email on the day of the event.
Fight[or]Flight goes on sale August 1.
-ENDS-
Focusing on the imminent gig is the perfect distraction. The fact that it doesn’t involve pickling my internal organs in vodka is an added bonus. I have to channel so much of my energy into making sure this gig goes off without a hitch—which is easier said than done—that there’s no time for anything else.
The paparazzi have been camping outside the studio for days, waiting for any glimpse of the guys and me. Likewise outside my house. And it’s not just the press that has been going into overdrive. The fans are losing their shit too. Big-time. Crowds have been gathering since the announcement of the gig was made, and social media commentary has blown up. In fact, we’ve pretty much melted the internet with all the speculation about how and where to obtain tickets, and who will be lucky enough to snag one. There are tags, tweets, and tantrums, but most of all, there is a great sense of anticipation.
Perfect.
Chapter Eighteen
Dear Squirt,
I missed you a lot today. I wrote you a song, and that made me feel better. I can’t wait to sing it for you one day. I’ve written one for Mommy too, and I’m hoping she’ll get to hear it very soon.
Love you, Daddy.
The night of the gig rolls around, and after two weeks of frantic all-nighters, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. I’m also more on edge than I can ever remember being for any gig. Ever. Even our very first. More than for major events performing for presidents and some of the biggest stars in the world before we were major stars ourselves. Collecting our first Grammy was less of a big deal. Nothing beats this.
I’ve smoked so many cigarettes, I’m about 90 percent tobacco at this point. So much for my recent commitment to healthy living, but it was either smoking or something stronger. Nicotine coupled with copious amounts of caffeine is the lesser of the available evils, and doesn’t come with the ‘morning after’ feeling, so it won the stimulant roulette.
I feel like I’m abou
t to play for my life—figuratively and literally. Getting the album finished and in a performance-ready state in such a short time was a big ask, and definitely took its toll physically and mentally on all of us. I’m not sure the boys will thank me for it when it’s all over, but as far as I’m concerned, it had to be done, and once again, thankful or not, it shows their commitment to me, and to the band. We do whatever we need to do.
My chops—both hands and voice—are shot to pieces from overuse. Add excess smoking into the mix, and my voice is almost fried. Coming off the world tour and straight into the studio meant that both were a little shaky to start with, and going from that to cramming rehearsals for an album was asking a lot. My throat and fingers are in screaming agony now; I only hope that I have enough juice in the tank to carry off this show tonight. I have to, if it’s the last performance I ever give.
On a normal gig day, the guys know to give me a wide berth backstage; today they’re avoiding me like the plague, and with good reason. I can’t trust myself around anyone, the way I’m worked up right now. Especially not Luke, who has the good sense to stay well away until a few moments before we go on stage. We’ve been avoiding each other as much as possible when you’re in a band with someone and are working almost around the clock to get a show together. Still, outside of rehearsals, I’ve scarcely seen him. It’s for the best for both of us.
Preshow, my nerves are raw, and none of the usual cures are even slightly taking the edge off. After downing enough black Sambuca shots—my usual preshow loosener—to fell a horse, I’m still totally on edge. My entire body is a ball of nervous energy—even my cock is rock-hard and ready for action. I try jerking off several times in my office, but that provides no relief either. If anything, I’m harder afterward, if that’s even possible. I know a long, slow screw is the only thing that will take the edge off, but the only person I want to do that with may as well be a million miles away. Even if she were here, I doubt she’d be interested in fucking me right now, anyway.