by MV Ellis
“Why not, babe? What’s not to love about them? They’re beautiful. I’m fascinated by them. Their rare beauty and strength reminds me of you.”
“Female hummingbirds are single moms.”
This is some cryptic shit. Maybe I should call someone to come and check her out now that she’s awake. It seems like maybe she’s not quite okay yet.
“They mate, and then the male takes off and the female brings up their babies alone. I don’t want to be like that. I want my babies, our squirts, to have a daddy and mommy, not coparents. I want us to be a real family, not roommates.”
Wait, what?
“So what exactly are you saying, Tog?”
“I’m saying yes.”
“Yes?” I’m so fucking confused.
“Keep up, Arlo, I’m the sick one, not you. Yes, I will marry you. Yes, I will be Mrs. Jones. Yes to everything.”
I’m in shock trying to digest what I’m hearing, because it kind of sounded like London just agreed to marry me, and her delivery seemed legit. Despite my initial skepticism, she was perfectly coherent, but I can’t shake the possibility that maybe it’s the drugs talking. She’s just come around after being heavily sedated—there’s no way this can be for real.
I don’t get to ponder this turn of events for long, as a noise near the open door of London’s room distracts me from my reverie. I look toward the door to be greeted with Luke’s smiling face. And Marko’s. And Jake’s. And Nic’s. What the hell is going on? Luke starts a very slow, very soft round of applause, soon to be joined by everyone we love most in the world as they file into the small room—Stevie, Ryan, London’s Aunt Gloria. My mom. Gramps, even. Jesus wept. Where did they all come from? It’s like one of those clown cars where more of them keep getting out of it, except in reverse.
Luke makes it to me first and gives me the bro handshake before abandoning it and coming in for a powerful hug, the grin still plastered across his face.
“Congratulations, bro. Well fucking played. Finally.”
“Umm… thanks, I think. I’m not even sure this is legit. I mean, she could very well just fall asleep again, and when she wakes up have no recollection of this whole exchange. Or worse still, why on earth she would ever agree to marry an asshole like me.” I bite my bottom lip.
“Don’t stress, man. That’s not gonna happen. Any dumbass can see she’s absolutely besotted by you. She has been from day one. The two of you were always a case of when, not if. The rest of the world could see it so clearly, we were just waiting for the two of you to catch up.”
I shoot him a look that I hope says to shut the fuck up. It clearly hits the mark, as he stops speaking, raising his hands in mock surrender and taking a few steps backward.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“How the did you all know where to find us? I haven’t let anyone know she was transferred to the ward yet.”
“Ah, yes. Marko is ‘friends’ with one of the nurses up here, so he asked her to let him know when London was moved. We figured you might forget to keep us informed.” Being a total man-whore has its perks—like me, Marko clearly has “friends” in many walks of life.
“So you snuck in behind my back?”
“Correct.”
I don’t know whether to slap them or kiss them.
“Well you all need to say a quick hi/bye and then leave. I’m sure Marko’s nurse ‘friend’ would agree that it’s not an ideal situation to overwhelm a patient who has just been through what London has. Even if it was, I want some alone time to spend with my new fiancée without the world and his grandfather crowding around her bedside. Honestly, we love you all and appreciate that this has been a rough time for everyone, but I’m gonna need you all to get out. Stat.”
I look around the room, crowded full of our nearest and dearest lining up to take their turn saying their tearful hellos to London, and my heart swells. They all mean well, and we’re crazy lucky to have them in our lives, even if they do annoy the living crap out of me most of the time.
As if on cue, a nurse squeezes into the room, clearly pissed at the party-like atmosphere in the completely inadequate space. She claps gently to attract everybody’s attention before echoing my earlier thoughts. Not only is it outside of visiting hours, but the number of visitors should be kept to no more than three or four at time, at an absolute maximum. She begins kindly ushering people out of the room.
Before he goes, Luke hands me a weekend bag, telling me it contains spare clothes and a few other essentials to get me through the next few days. He’s right in assuming that as long as London and our babies are here, this is exactly where I’ll be. I know I’ve definitely smelled better in my life, so a long hot shower would be awesome, and I’ll be grateful to change out of the stained sweats I’ve been wearing since London collapsed, and the scrub top someone at the hospital—I can’t even recall who—must have given me to wear at some point.
When the room has emptied, the nurse begins her battery of tests and checks. There seem to be more now that London is no longer sedated, which I guess makes some kind of sense. At some point during the exam, London slips back to sleep. I don’t blame her; I’d love to do the same. The nurse takes the opportunity to give me another rundown of London’s condition now that she’s out of ICU. As before, she declares Mama and babies to be doing remarkably well under the circumstances. However, because of the placental abruption, they will likely remain in the hospital on bed rest for the next four to six weeks.
Holy crap. London is going to flip her shit when she finds out.
When she comes to some hours later, we’re thankfully alone. Again her eyes blink open, and I see the confusion rise and fall in them quickly. Again she reaches for me.
“Arlo?”
“I’m right here, Tog. Always.” I stand up and take her outstretched hand, clutching it to my chest. With the other I smooth her wild curls, fanned out on her pillow, and gently stroke her forehead.
“Do you know where you are?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I know where I am. I’m in the hospital.” She reaches down and rubs her bump again, looking relieved to still find it there.
“I’m in the hospital. I’m fine. The squirts are fine, and we’re getting married.”
She really does remember, meaning it wasn’t the drugs talking when she said yes, it was her. I grin so widely, my jaw aches.
I bend down, bringing my lips to London’s. Gently at first, testing the waters, not sure what she wants or can handle. I hear her breath catch as our lips touch, and she pushes her mouth up toward mine, asking for more. I give it to her and feel her release the breath she’s been holding. You and me both, baby. I press down tentatively, not wanting to hurt her in her fragile state, but any doubts I have about what she needs or can take are swept away when she reaches her hand around my neck and yanks me closer to her, her tongue probing my lips, asking for entrance. I open for her and return the favor by plundering her mouth with my tongue.
We’ve been through so much together in the past thirty-six hours that the kiss is more emotionally charged than any we’ve ever shared. It’s a kiss of promise, of acceptance, of forgiveness. Most of all, it’s a kiss of a new beginning. A future for the two of us where each of us knows for sure that together is where we want to be, where we need to be, and where we’ll always be.
Moments later the intensity level skyrockets. We’re frantic, nipping, sucking, licking; our need for each other is apparently insatiable. Never has first base felt or tasted so good, but if I could do so without being walked in on, I’d gladly take things further. Having said that, if London is going to be in here for at least another month, we’re going to need to get creative about ways to tick off the other bases or lose our minds. Making out like a pair of high schoolers isn’t going to cut it.
With that thought in mind, and as much as I would rather not, I pull back from the kiss, resting my forehead on London’s and allowing us both to catch our breat
h.
“Yeah, that’s right, Tog. It’s gonna be you, me, and the squirts. No more pushing. We finally get our happy ever after.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
London
As I walk down the aisle, I still can’t believe I’m here. It’s surreal and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined. Two years, or even eighteen months ago, if you’d told me that this was where I’d be right now, I would have laughed in your face. Hell, even if you’d told me a year ago, when I was lying prone in the hospital bed with the squirts still inside me, that I was headed for the most blissful period of my life with the most gorgeous man on earth, I wouldn’t have believed you.
I reach the end of the aisle clutching Dad’s arm for dear life. Glancing across to my right, I take in Arlo’s groomsmen, Ryan, Stevie, Jake, and Luke. I don’t think this wedding could be more rock and roll if we set up instruments at the altar and the guys jammed to “Here Comes the Bride” while I made my entrance. As it is, there’s not a suit or buttonhole flower in sight. The guys have all chosen to wear what they’re comfortable in, and they look hella hot as a result. Who needs matching penguin suits when you’ve got four buff-as-fuck rock stars looking sexy as sin in black jeans, tees, and casual jackets? Not me, that’s for damn sure.
As if that wasn’t showbiz enough, instead of the rings, Luke holds Saint, one of our beautiful identical twin baby girls, while her sister Étienne nestles contentedly in Uncle Jake’s arms. I smirk inwardly again at the whole situation. Not content to be the lone person in the family with a “weird” place-related name, which leads everyone to think I’m male, the girls are named after Saint Étienne, one of our favorite suburbs in the city in which they were conceived—Paris. To add insult to injury, Étienne is typically a boy’s name in France, though we absolutely love it for our gorgeous and gregarious baby girl.
What I find even funnier is that the guy who was once one of the world’s most notorious womanizers now faces a life spent permanently worrying about who might be trying to get into his stunning daughters’ pants. They say karma’s a bitch, and now Arlo gets to live that fact every day of this life. What’s more, not only does he have to put up with me keeping his wayward ass in check, but at eight months old, our smart and feisty mademoiselles already keeping him against the ropes. If they grow up to be anything like their mama, he doesn’t stand a chance.
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.