by MV Ellis
I seem to be sobering up or coming down rapidly, and the more Luke talks, the more I begin to wonder if I did misread things with London. Stevie’s rehab admission, the canceled tour, and then the fiasco outside 12AM Mass with the fucking drone had thrown me off my game, for sure. I didn’t have my head on straight. Maybe the whole thing had played out exactly as she said it had and I’d completely overreacted. No wonder she’d wanted me to call the cops; she really must have thought I was a psycho, at least at the beginning anyway. What a shit show. I stalk across the room and flick on the coffee machine, setting down the now not-so-cold bottle of vodka. Coffee fixes everything.
“Let me get this straight, Colombo,” he finally pants. “On the basis that she’s a young and extremely attractive woman who claims neither to know nor give a fuck who you are, you reach the conclusion that she knows exactly who you are and has engineered an elaborate ruse as a means to get underneath you?”
“Basically, yeah.”
“Well don’t give up your day job, dude, ’cause your theory has more holes than a secondhand wifebeater. First, if she does know who you are, she’d realize you’re the easiest lay on the planet, and would have saved herself a whole heap of time and energy by not bothering with the whole shower setup. The whole world knows what a slut you are, so I’d say that any woman who wanted to throw herself at you would have headed straight for your bedroom. All she would have needed to do was push past whatever dish of the day you spent last night or this morning with and lie spread-eagled in her place. Job done.”
Sanctimonious asshole.
“It was Marnie,” I offer.
“What?”
“The dish of the day. It was Marnie.” Luke’s face contorts momentarily, but he shows no other reaction to my statement and carries on as though I haven’t spoken at all.
“Secondly, if for some strange reason she knew who you were but still wanted to go the extra mile to get a piece of you, why the hell would she slap you and then hightail it out of here faster than you could say ‘doggy style’? It doesn’t make any kind of sense, and if you used what little gray matter you still possess to actually process information logically instead of letting your dick do all the thinking, you’d have come to the same conclusion, cum-for-brains.”
“Yeah, I know, it kills me to admit it, but I’m beginning to think you’re right.”
“Trust me, I am right. Paul did a good job of making everyone think we flew back to LA after the tour was canceled. Nobody even knows we’re here yet, so how could she have?” Fuck him and his non-hungover, non-drug addled, logical thinking mind.”
“I don’t know, but in my defense, as well as nursing the hangover from hell, I may be suffering from comedown paranoia. And about that whole ‘nobody knows we’re here,’ thing… after what went down at the club last night, somebody obviously knows we’re here.” I begin fixing us both a coffee.
“Why do you say that, what happened?”
“What didn’t happen is probably an easier question to answer. You missed an epic night. It was off the fucking hook. I can’t remember all of it, it’s coming back to me in flashes and fragments—and it’s hot as fuck. One thing I do recall is that Marnie and I were going at it in the parking lot—don’t fucking ask me why—on top of Hunter’s car, to be exact, when there’s a whole lot a bright lights and what I think was a press drone flying over filming.” Luke’s face blanches, and I note him clenching his fists repeatedly. I idly wonder what’s eating him—it’s pretty rare for him to get so riled up about shit—that’s more my style. Even though he’s silent, I can physically feel the range emanating from every pore.
“What the fuck, Arlo? A motherfucking drone?” His voice booms unnecessarily—we’re the only ones here and we’re standing only a couple of feet away from each other.
“What?” I’m genuinely bemused by his reaction. Sure, I’m not stupid enough to think that being papped while fucking an internationally recognizable model over the hood of a car is the ideal way to conceal the fact that we’re back in NYC, but on the other hand, there are worse things happening for us from a PR perspective right now—the whole mess with Stevie being a case in point. Plus, it’s not like I fucking planned it. We were in a secure lot with fences eight feet high. It’s hardly my fault that the press will go to increasingly crazy lengths to get photos and footage of celebrities.
Luke paces the kitchen, seeming more like me than himself. He’s really worked up about this. “Well for a start, when were you thinking of telling anyone about this? Did it not occur to you that this was something that the rest of the band and Paul needed to know about?” He has a point, but damned if I’m going to tell him that.
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I? What more do you want?” Seriously, what’s eating him?
“Are we talking hypotheticals or real talk? Hypothetically, I’d like for you to take responsibility for once and behave like an adult. To think about something other than where you’re about to stick your dick. To consider the implications your actions have for other people and act accordingly. Which in this case would have meant telling someone about this little ‘incident’ before it was ancient front page news. In the real world, I’d settle for you just not acting like a giant fucking dick 100 percent of the time.”
I flip him the bird, not even bothering to dignify his little hissy fit with words.
“And what about Marnie?” He stares me down as though I’m freshly hatched from Satan’s lair.
“What about her?”
“Well, what happened to her after you banged her in the parking lot?” His jaw is locked up so tight, he’s speaking through gritted teeth. He seriously needs to take a chill pill.
“As I said, the details of the rest of the night are sketchy, but from what little I do recall I believe we came back here and carried on scratching the itch until I bade her a fond farewell, though likely not quite in those words.”
I’m pretty sure he’s working out how he can murder me and dispose of the body without being detected.
Chapter Six
Luke sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Back to our ‘house cleaner.’ What happened next?”
“Oh, yeah. At first when I kissed her, she let me, and it was this amazingly tender, light kiss, but at the same time it was so fucking hot, I just about died. I seriously can’t ever remember kissing someone and feeling such a strong buzz like that. I took a fuck load of shit last night, and nothing gave me a high like that. Nothing ever has.” And I’ve had a lot of different highs, all around the world.
“Listen, I’m going to come right out and say it—no woman has turned me on in that way before. But then the kiss went to a whole other level. She wasn’t just allowing me to kiss her, she was kissing me back. I mean really kissing me, hard.” Luke looks at me as though I’m something unpleasant he walked through the house on the bottom of his shoe.
“That’s gotta be the hardest my dick’s ever been—it was just a shade away from painful. I felt like I could have burst out of my own skin at any moment. Shit, if she’d touched it I probably would have. Either that or shot my load like an overexcited tenth grader. But it was more than that. I just felt this instant connection with her.”
“So you opened that enormous mouth of yours and said the douchiest thing you could think of?” As he speaks, I hand Luke his coffee, hoping it will help him chill the fuck out. That’s one thing we have in common, we’re both crazy for coffee and like it short, strong, and black. I sit down at the nine-foot kitchen table. It’s one of the few things in the house I sourced myself, handcrafted from recycled antique English church floorboards. I fell in love with it while on tour a few years back and had it shipped over from England, and I’m glad I did. I still love it to this day.
My LA house has more pieces I’ve collected from across the globe during my extensive travels. I took advantage of our many world tours to bring back artifacts, artworks, furniture, rugs, and even some ornamental fe
atures for the garden. Apart from the table, everything in this house was chosen by the interior designer, and though it was nicely done, it doesn’t feel like my home, just a place to stay when I’m in town.
“No, not really. I’ve said the same thing or variations on that line a thousand times before, and always got laid. Hell, most of the time I don’t need to say anything at all. All I have to do is motion in the general direction of my dick, and some chick will just about impale herself on it. It’s messed up really. If I ever have a little girl, I’m going to be drumming it into her to carry herself with more respect than some of these chicks we see every day.” But I’m never having kids, so it’s a moot point.
I track Luke with my eyes as he too takes a seat at the table, choosing almost the exact opposite end. I assume he’s still mad at me over the whole parking lot debacle. I guess he has a right to be a little sore, especially as he’s particularly protective of Marnie.
“Anyway, this time it was different, she’s different. I knew in my gut that she wasn’t going to go for it, and the second the words were out of my mouth I knew I’d screwed up.”
“Wow, I never thought I’d see the day.” Luke chuckles and rubs his chin. I guess he’s going for the Freudian-wise-man look again. Little does he know that he just looks like some dude with an itchy chin.
He meets my eyes for the first time since our clash, and we mirror each other’s intense glare. This has always been a thing between us, like a visual game of chicken, willing the other person to look away first. When we were young bucks and so pumped full of testosterone we couldn’t actually live under the same roof without erupting into violence on a daily basis, this was usually the precursor to a fight. As adults, we mostly manage to keep our fists to ourselves, but the staring thing has endured.
“What day? Why do you always have to be so pretentious?” I swear to God, this guy pushes my buttons like nobody else.
“The day that my little brother fell in love.”
“First, I’m not your little brother, we’re twins, you dick.” How many times in one lifetime, or two, if you’re counting both of us, can you have the same fucking conversation? It’s like Groundhog Day on steroids.
“I’m older.” Jesus.
“By eleven measly minutes.” I love this part. It’s a dance we both know the steps to so well, we could do it blindfolded.
“Thirteen minutes, as you well know. But it wouldn’t matter if it was thirteen seconds, I’m still older, little bro. And as your marginally older yet spectacularly wiser brother, I’m calling it. You’ve been struck by Cupid’s arrow, and it sounds like you’ve got it bad.”
“Define ‘it.’”
“Love, you idiot.”
“You’re calling me an idiot? Pot, meet kettle. Calm down, I hardly know the chick, and we haven’t even fucked yet. I will admit that there was definitely something about her that made her stand out from the others, but don’t get ahead of yourself, I’m not in love with her.” A feeling of unease settles in the pit of my stomach.
I haven’t been in love before, not even close. In fact, I haven’t even been in lust, or infatuated. I get horny, I fuck. Rinse. Repeat.
But if I haven’t been in love before, and I haven’t felt this way before, how can I know for sure what “this way” actually is?
It’s a cliché—I guess they exist for a reason—but meeting London, no matter how badly the encounter ended, feels like the beginning of something. More to the point, like the first bump of coke or first hit of the pipe, being with her felt like a one-way street. The only way forward is deeper in, and there’s no easy way out. I’ll do whatever it takes to get my fix and make her mine. The problem is that I can run, but she can hide, and something in my gut tells me she will.
As the bruise blooms on my cheek I realize that if this is love, it’s not going to be an easy ride.
“Dude, trust me, when a guy starts spouting all that shit about connections on a deeper level, blah, blah, blah, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, that’s love. I know these things.” He’s grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat, and his words hang heavy in the air as I take them in.
“I fucked up, didn’t I?” I crack my neck in a vain attempt to release the building tension.
“Yeah, you did. Big time. If you’re even semi-serious about this girl, I suggest you try and work out how you can put it straight. Stat. Before you drag someone else into your web of shit and fuck up their lives along with your own.”
What? “What are you talking about? I haven’t ruined anyone’s life. It was one bad morning, and I’m sure we won’t be seeing each other again. You’re such a drama queen.”
“I’m talking about Marnie. That’s what.”
“Marnie? What does she have to do with anything?”
It’s at times like this I wish I had just insisted on him getting his own place or staying at a hotel when he’s in NYC. After what’s gone down today, I really don’t want to hang out here playing guessing games with Luke. His superiority complex is a giant pain in my ass at the best of times, but right now it’s making me murderous.
“Man, Arlo, sometimes I think you’re a sociopath or something. Marnie. Our friend Marnie. Remember her? The chick who would cross continents just to get a piece of you, all the while pretending to go along with the casual ‘friends who fuck’ deal you’ve had going on since high school. Sound familiar? Didn’t you earlier say you spent the night screwing her?”
Ugh. “Seriously, Luke, are we really gonna go over this a-fucking-gain? How many times do I have to tell you that this is not a thing? I mean it’s a thing, but it’s not a thing. At least not in the way you believe it is anyway. This has been our jam for years. This is what it has always been. Great sex with no strings. How can you not get this?”
I don’t know how many times I’ve explained to him that she’s a big girl and very capable of looking after herself. More to the point, the agreement we have is mutual and we’re both happy with the way it is and has always been. Yet he insists on fussing over her like a helicopter parent. I guess he’s taken on a kind of big brother role to her. We’ve known each other since we were kids, and he took her under his wing from day one. She’s been through some shit, and I guess he took it upon himself to always be there for her. I’ve been sleeping with her almost since the get-go, so it’s safe to say that the feelings I harbor toward her don’t fit into the brotherly or parental category.
As well as our love of espresso, another trait we share is stubbornness. You would have to search the four corners of the globe to find two harder heads, but he has picked the wrong time to push my buttons today. Seriously. After the night and morning I’ve just had, my restraint is dangling by a thread. He pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes momentarily. Looks like I’m not the only one keeping my temper under wraps. Bring it on, douchey baby.
“You’re the one who’s not seeing this straight, not me. We’re talking years she’s been into you, and you just won’t see it. How can you be so fucking blind? ”
Seriously? “Because there’s nothing to see. It’s all in your mind. And even if it wasn’t, how is it any of your business who I fuck, and on what terms? What Marnie and I have suits us. You may not understand it, and you sure as shit don’t need to like it, but what you do have to do is butt out. Right?” I glare at him for extra effect.
He doesn’t respond, but I note the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw and curl of his hands into fists again. Really? Looks like his temper is getting the better of him today, for real. I can’t even think about doing this now, so for once I decide to do the right thing and back the fuck away. Partly it’s because I don’t want to waste my energy fighting with Luke, but the larger part is because I honestly can’t be responsible for my actions right now. It could get real ugly, real quick. Setting my empty coffee cup down on the table, I turn on my heel and walk out of the room. My relaxed pace belies the depth of my simmering rage and just how close I came to taking Luke out.
It’s funny how he thinks I’m this wild animal or loose cannon or something, when in reality I keep a lot of shit under wraps all the time, and he’s fucking clueless about it. In fact, he’s clueless about so many things. This Marnie “issue” being a case in point. I mean, I’m the one who knows her intimately, so how does that make him the expert on the terms of our arrangement?
Chapter Seven
I jump into the elevator and press the lower basement button repeatedly. I know that it won’t make the damned thing move any faster, but somehow the gesture makes me feel like I have some kind of control over the situation. Stupid, I know. But that’s me. I keep pressing until the door opens into the garage. I walk on past the cars, straight to the bikes. I know right away that the only thing that will get me out of this funk without a fight is a ride. Fast. Nothing beats the exhilaration of riding free of frame, roof, or windows. The sound of the wind howling in my ears is enough to drown out even the heaviest thoughts, which is exactly what I need right now.
Today only the fastest will do—my Testa—power personified. It’s only as I reach it that I remember I’m still dressed in my workout clothes and I haven’t showered. I don’t care. I drop my shorts and pull on my leathers, gloves, and helmet. Fuck, I love riding. I wait for the automatic doors to open just enough that I can make it out through the gap, and burn out into the New York traffic.
I’ve never been a major gearhead, but the feel of the powerful engine throbbing beneath me has an almost hypnotic quality, helping clear my mind. It’s kind of like meditation, I guess, but nowhere near as lame. I ride hard and fast for almost two hours, pushing and breaking speed limits all around the city. It honestly takes me that long to calm the fuck down, but it’s not long enough for me to want to see Luke’s smug face again anytime soon. Since home isn’t an option, and neither is anywhere that requires interaction with the public, I head to the next best place.