Pushing Arlo: A Rock Star Romance (Heartless Few Book 3)

by MV Ellis

  “Oh man! I can only imagine the pain he’s been going through, the poor guy. You’re like a bear with a sore butthole on a good day, let alone over the past few months when you’re moody and moping over London. I mean, he’s pretty chill normally, right? For him to snap, you must have been real bad. You’re lucky it was him, not one of us. We probably would have pushed you into oncoming traffic by now.” I can just imagine his face right now as he laughs himself stupid.

  “What? Fuck you! I am not moody and moping, and no fucker would be shoving me under a bus.” Maybe I’ve been a little… off my game, but who could blame me with what’s gone down? I’d defy any of them to go through the same and come through it with a smile on their face.

  “Sure, you tell yourself that, bro. Meanwhile in the real world, we’re all over here having a party because you told us you were going to be more hands off on the final elements of the album, which incidentally was a false promise, because we then had to spend two weeks breaking balls to get it finished for the gig. I nearly cried when you told us you were back all hands on deck.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I kid you not. It had gotten to the point where we were drawing straws to see who would have to sit closest to you and deal with your sighing and huffing, and even worse, the side eye and death stares. We’ve nominated Hunter for a Nobel Peace Prize for dealing with you one-on-one every day. He’s a better man than me. I mean, there’s four of us, and we’ve been struggling. I can only imagine what he’s been going through with nobody else to take the pressure off. Poor bastard. Maybe we should all front up some cash to pay for counseling for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s suffering from PTSD.”

  “You’re actually serious right now?” He’s actually serious.

  “Never been more so, dude,” he deadpans.

  “You bunch of shit lickers.” I love-hate those numbskulls.

  “You know it, but who else would have you? If we were nice, normal, respectable guys, we’d have left you for dead years ago.”

  He’s got a point, but damned if I’m going to let him know that.

  It’s at times like this that I realize how lucky I am to have these dickwads in my life. I tell people that music saved me when I was that angry kid who had just lost his dad. It’s true, but having them around was another huge factor in keeping my ass out of jail, or worse. The reality is that knowing the boys have my back is one of the few things helping me stay somewhat sane right now. They might annoy the shit out of me on a daily basis, but even when I want to all-out kill them, I love them still. And Stevie’s right—I know for sure if they didn’t have me, no fucker else would.

  So often over the years, I’ve thought about the accident of us coming together as a group and how we just “worked” then and still do now. I don’t know exactly how or why, but I guess we’re united by our similarities and our differences. Fuck knows really, but it ain’t broke, so I ain’t looking to fix it.

  Even though I’m only related to one of them, music, not blood, is the tie that binds us. Whatever differences we may have, when we’re on stage together or even just jamming in a hotel room or green room somewhere, magic happens. You can see, feel, and hear the bond between us, and it’s the main reason we’re still at the top in this business after all these years, still cranking out music the world wants to hear. It’s our differences that keep us together as friends too. Everyone brings something different to the group, so each of us has his place.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dear Squirt,

  I hung out with Uncle Stevie today. He sends his love. Well, that’s not true. He sends a big fat raspberry and some words not suitable for little ears. He’s your funny uncle, but I’m sure you’ll work that out once you meet him.

  Love you, Daddy.

  “So I’m guessing you didn’t call just so I could tell you what a miserable sinner you’ve been lately, did you?” Sober Stevie is on point.

  “Nope. I called to see if you want to hang out.”

  There’s an audible gasp on the other end of the line.

  “Man, did I just hear you ask me to hang with you? I thought being drunk and/or high all the time fucked with a person’s mind, but now I’m dead sober and I think I’m having hallucinations. Can green tea do that?”

  “I don’t know anything about tea, man, but you heard me right. And after the number of times I’ve hauled your drunken ass out of this scrape or that over the years, you fucking owe me, so quit playing hard to get.”

  “Well, when you put it like that, I would love to voluntarily and not at all with a gun to my head spend an evening in your delightfully pleasant company. Why, thank you so much for the very kind and gracious invitation. What can I bring to this most prestigious event?” He’s funny as fuck.

  Stevie is the joker in the pack. It’s always party time when he’s around. Or at least it used to be. But even sober, he’s a prolific joke teller and prankster, never one to let a moment pass quietly, and one of the funniest idiots I’ve ever met. If he hadn’t made it as a drummer, I’m sure he could have had an equally successful career in comedy.

  “Just bring yourself. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  And by take care, I mean order takeout and bring out the video games, which is exactly what I do. We spend much of the evening battling it out on the console in amiable silence, until clearly fatigued from one too many ass whoopings from me, Stevie puts his controller down on the couch and turns to me.

  “So, come on, man, what’s going on?”

  I sigh. I knew this would come up at some point.

  “London is coming back this weekend. After not speaking to her for all these weeks, she messaged me to meet her at the airport. Well, she didn’t ask me, exactly, but she sent me the flight details, so I guess that’s kind of the same thing. I’ll be there regardless.”

  “That’s a good thing, right? So what’s the issue?” He shoots me a sidelong glance, clearly trying to read my vibe.

  “The issue is I don’t fucking know what to do or say to her. I mean, I know what I want to say. I know I want her and Squirt in my life. So goddamn bad. But I have no idea where her head is at. I want to believe that her sending me the flight details is a good thing. It’s the most contact I’ve had from her since she took off.”

  “She loves you. You know that, right, man?” He’s still looking at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on a point on the wall ahead.

  “Yeah. Well I thought so before all this, but now I don’t know what to think. If she does, how come she was so quick to take off when the whole Marnie situation kicked off? I’m no expert at this relationship business, you know that. In fact, I don’t think you could find a guy who knows less about this stuff than me. But still, I figure if you love someone, you stay and work it out. Even if that means fighting it out, right? Isn’t that just basic couple shit? How come as soon as she’s in any doubt, her first instinct is to push me as far away as possible and run? How come she rushes to that douche in tights and spills her guts, but won’t even take my calls? When do I get to be the guy she runs to, not the one she runs from?”

  “I can’t help you with any of that stuff, brother. Women are a mystery to me. A beautiful mystery, but a mystery just the same. Maybe you should be having this conversation with Jake? He’s the only one of all of us who’s managed to keep a chick in his life for longer than the time it takes to come.”

  “I know, but I think I cashed in all my chips with him the last time I needed help with London. Besides, when I think about it, I don’t really know how comfortable I feel taking advice from a dude who’s only ever had one woman wrapped around his dick. He doesn’t know about women, he knows about Kris. There’s a difference.”

  Jake, our man on keys, is the only married member of the band—or in fact, in any kind of steady relationship. He also has two kids. That’s a big part of the reason he has naturally fallen into the “tour father” role, but it’s also just his personality type. He has always been the most rese
rved and sensible of the group, unlike the rest of us who have been sowing our wild oats and whatever else for years.

  He and his high school sweetheart, Kris, have been together since the rest of us were still trying to work out how to suck our own dicks. They settled down into a life of wedded bliss not long after graduating. Not that things have always been easy for them. They’ve had their fair share of drama, like any couple, but they seem to have come through it all stronger than ever. Even still, I doubt he’d be much use in helping me undo a fuckup of this magnitude. He’s got no idea what real dating is like. I mean, he’s never even been on Tinder!

  On the other hand, he’s definitely our designated guy for “taking care of business.” Whatever that business may be. He’s the first person we all hit up if we need something done. Or fixed. Or undone. He’s also most likely to make sure everyone makes it onto the plane, or to interviews, or other commitments, and to pull us out of the many dipshit situations we seem to regularly find ourselves embroiled in.

  He’s what anyone would agree is a “nice guy,” and definitely the kind of guy you’d be happy to introduce to Grandma. Naturally quite reserved, he’s the quietest member of the group, but with all the larger-than-life personalities, that kind of works well too. Somebody’s gotta shut up long enough to actually think, and that someone is most definitely Jake.

  “Or what about Brad? Or Gramps? He and your grandma were married even before they laid the Rosetta stone, and they were possibly the handsiest people I’ve ever had the misfortune of spending time with. No offense. They were a great couple, and I feel terrible for your Gramps now that he’s all alone, but I still have traumatic memories of seeing them together at your family gatherings. There are some things you just can’t unsee.” He laughs at this own joke, and I join in. It’s funny because it’s true.

  “Ugh. I’d rather pull my toenails out with pliers than suffer through Brad’s big brother condescension. It was bad enough when I was a kid and kind of had to listen, but there’s no way that as a grown-ass man I’m going to voluntarily put myself in the line of fire of that crap.” He’s totally clutching at straws here. I guess he really doesn’t want to babysit me, but that’s his tough shit. I give zero fucks, and he’s not getting rid of me that easily.

  “I did go to Gramps back when I was trying to figure out how to get London back into my life after we first met. He said I should treat winning her over like a hostile takeover, which I’ve been doing ever since. I can’t imagine what else he’ll have to add, apart from more stories about him and Grandma, and you’re right—if I hear him mention one more time how fine her ass was, I’m gonna puke in my mouth.” Stevie loses it at this, laughing so hard he almost cries.

  “In summary, I’m basically out of options, so here I am, hanging with your sorry ass instead of with my girl and my unborn baby.”

  “Yep, looks like you’re stuck with sorry-ass me. All I’ve got for you is something my mom said about my sis when she was knocked up and she was screaming and carrying on about me buying the wrong ketchup, or some other completely crazy nonsense. She said that when they’re pregnant, their hormones go wild and it makes them do and say insane stuff. It turns out that London was pregnant when this whole thing with Marnie went down, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So maybe that’s what it was. Maybe she was hormonal and now she’s not, and she’s come to her senses.” He looks so pleased with himself, you’d think he just reinvented the wheel.

  “But she’s still pregnant.”

  Stevie shrugs. “That’s all I got, man. I told you, I’m about as much use as a chocolate cigar.”

  Well that’s one thing he’s got right, at least. Still, I appreciate him even trying. That’s what I mean about my boys. Always there, even when they know they can’t help.

  “In that case, make yourself useful. Restart the game and let me whoop your ass for the millionth time.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dear Squirt,

  it’s raining today. I wonder where and when you’ll first see rain. Or hear a dog bark. Or play on a swing set. So many firsts to come.

  I love you, Daddy.

  As I sit in the private VIP lounge at JFK, it’s as though my heart is trapped on a roller coaster with no controller and I can’t see any way to get off. I’ve just got to ride it out, no matter how sick it makes me feel. A crazy jumble of thoughts and emotions tumbles around in my mind, like odd socks in a dryer. Happiness at the prospect of finally seeing London and Squirt after so long. Apprehension, wondering why she finally reached out to me in her own strange way. Real fear that she has news and it’s not good.

  The many permutations of what that could be are enough to induce nausea. I used to be fearless. Nothing scared me. Nothing in life, and not even death. Now I look back and see that I had nothing to fear because I wasn’t really living. It turns out that only when you truly live do you give a shit about dying.

  I sent London a bunch of frequent flier points to upgrade her flight because I didn’t want her flying cattle class all that way while she’s carrying my baby. Our baby. I also pulled some strings using my invitation-only lifetime blue-diamond-level frequent flyer privileges and celebrity status to allow her access to the restricted VIP lounge.

  Not even a first-class ticket will get you in here unless you’re an invited VIP member, and traveling by private jet. The big advantage of the lounge is that after clearing customs, instead of leaving the airport via the normal departure door, she gets to come out through a private exit, thus avoiding the paparazzi hordes bound to be out in force.

  Me in the open arrivals hall is not a good idea unless we want our reunion live-streamed across the world, and to cause a riot of epic proportions. I think I’m safe in acting on London’s behalf when I assume that she wouldn’t want that kind of attention and commotion any more than I would. The only alternative would have been for a driver to meet her at arrivals while I waited in the car. I didn’t want that either. It seemed too impersonal, and I want to be able to hug her properly as soon as I see her, if she’ll let me. You can’t easily do that in the car.

  So here I sit on the edge of one of the supposedly comfortable lounge chairs, wringing my hands until I have shooting pains. This follows more than half an hour of pacing the small space. After what seems like an eternity, the glass doors at one end of the room swish open to reveal London on the threshold. I’m paralyzed waiting for her next move. She hesitates, looking uncertain, and I hold my breath. A beat… two… three. At last she moves, slowly at first as her eyes scan the room, then faster as they lock with mine. Tog. My nickname for her is on the tip of my tongue, but I resist the urge to call out. I need to let her make the first move.

  As she walks across the room, I take in her appearance. She looks… well. She’s glowing again. I’m glad she appears to be so much healthier and better rested than the last time. Her slightly sallow complexion, sunken cheeks, and dark-ringed eyes have been replaced by rounded cheeks and bright tan skin. She even seems well-rested despite her epic flight from Australia.

  Best of all, where the last time I saw her, her clothes hung loosely from her frail frame, she has now filled out. I love so clearly seeing evidence of our baby growing inside her.

  Being near her again is like stumbling across an oasis in the desert. She’s so out-of-this-world beautiful, and I’m hoping she’s no mirage. My breath catches in my throat. It’s not that I had forgotten her beauty, just that every time I see her, especially after an extended absence, she seems even more gorgeous than the last time. In a word, she looks like a fucking wet dream.

  She picks up her pace, abandoning her carry-on as she moves toward me, running the last few steps before jumping into my arms. I hesitate, momentarily floored. I’m especially shocked at the feel of her bump between us but recover quickly. Tog. I can’t believe I have her here in my arms. Her and Squirt. I squeeze her tight, perhaps a little too tightly, but I can’t help myself. I need to check that sh
e’s real and not a figment of my desperate imagination.

  As she burrows her face into the crook of my neck, I feel dampness on my skin and her body quivering against mine. Her sobs are silent. My girl is here and she’s crying. No, she’s bawling. In my arms. As much as I want to cling to her for dear life, I force myself to pull back so I can see her face. Sure enough, huge tears cascade down her cheeks.

  “Hey, hey, Tog, baby, what’s the matter?” I swipe at her tears, but it’s to no avail; they continue to spill from her eyes faster than I can wipe them away.

  “London, c’mon, sweets, you’re killing me here. What’s wrong?”

  She pulls in a ragged breath, clearly trying to regain control. I wait, wanting to give her time. I know when she’s ready to talk, she will.

  Moments pass, and finally she speaks.

  “I saw the gig.”

  Of course you did. Everyone saw the gig, which was totally the plan.

  “Oh. Did you like it?”

  “I loved it.”

  Thank fuck!

  “And it made me realize that I owe you an apology for a lot of things, but first and foremost for taking off and leaving the ultrasound image the way I did. I don’t know what came over me. It was a horrible, selfish, and childish thing to do, and I’m so ashamed of myself. In my defense, I was crazy hormonal at the time—pregnancy really wreaks havoc with all that. Poor Marko, I think he was a little freaked out for a while there—it was like living with Mary Poppins one minute and Freddy Krueger the next. He never knew what to do for the best. He was so good with me though. I love him.”

  I wince. I get the feeling it’s never not going to sting when she talks about him that way.