by MV Ellis
Although there’s a little more work than I was doing previously, it’s hardly backbreaking, and while Arlo speaks, I can’t help but wonder why the ridiculously generous pay increase, for a role that’s still pretty simple. I don’t know who my replacement was, but this doesn’t strike me as something that someone else couldn’t handle. It does make me question why Arlo hired me back here again—regardless of his explanation.
He hands me a credit card with my name on it, telling me “Use this for anything you need to do to get the job done.” Umm… wow. I’m in shock. This is only the second time we’ve met, and the first time didn’t exactly go well. Why in the hell would he trust me with a credit card? I don’t have long to ponder this point, or to respond. As though on cue, we’re interrupted by Luke’s arrival.
“Knock. Knock.” He air raps on an imaginary door in the large entrance to the kitchen smiling warmly at me.
As with the first time we met, I’m struck by the uncanny similarity between Arlo and Luke. Obviously, it’s totally to be expected, but on the other hand, I don’t remember ever having met adult identical twins, so it kind of freaks me out.
“Here he is, Prince Charming himself. Luke, meet London Llwellyn. London Llwellyn, meet Luke Aldous Jones.” I don’t miss the heavy note of sarcasm in his voice. Aldous? I hope my smirk isn’t too obvious.
“Fuck you.” Well that’s not charming at all. He glares at Arlo, before turning to me.
“What? That’s your name, no shame in it.”
“You know I hate it, stop being a dick. Oh no, wait, you can’t.” He’s smiling at me, but clearly still speaking to his brother.
“Whatever, man.”
“Pleased to meet you under more pleasant circumstances than last time, London. I look forward to seeing you around the house more often.”
He takes my extended hand, and instead of shaking it, turns it palm downwards, and kisses the back of it like an old-fashioned gentleman. What is it with these guys and strange handshakes? I note the absence of sparks this time, despite their identical looks, it’s definitely only an Arlo thing.
I give Luke a warm smile and hear a loud huff from Arlo’s side of the table. I look across to see him rolling his eyes melodramatically.
“What’s eating you, Arlo Cassius Jones? Need a few lessons in how to treat a lady?” Ha!
Arlo’s jaw tenses, but he says nothing. I get the impression he’s biting his tongue, most likely for my benefit. Even still, the sparring between the two of them is entertaining, and the dynamic between them makes for fascinating viewing, especially for an only child like me.
I’d spent the weekend after Showergate googling Arlo and the rest of the band, which was definitely an eye-opener. Although I’d vaguely heard of the Heartless Few prior to that, I clearly hadn’t known much about them, and definitely couldn’t pick any of them out of a lineup, including a certain Mr. Arlo Cassius Jones. It didn’t take long to get up to speed on the ins and outs of their lives, though, figuratively and literally.
It turns out that Arlo’s disbelief at my failure to recognize him wasn’t just
arrogance. The Heartless Few are über successful, and astronomically famous. So much so that my nanna could probably recognize all the members, even if I couldn’t. Their sales, downloads, and streaming stats are off the charts, smashing pretty much every record in musical history. I must have been sleeping under a rock, to not have been more aware of them before now.
Mr. Jones, I discover, is an extremely accomplished man. Not content with tearing it up in the music world, he owns several successful businesses, which he manages while also touring, writing songs, and recording with the band. Because… why not?
Here in NYC he has a nightclub, 12AM Mass (pronounced Midnight Mass), then he has SK:eTCH, an adjacent tattoo parlor. He owns both outright, with no shareholders or board, and established them with no assistance from investors. If Forbes is to be believed, business is booming, and he has another tattoo parlor planned for LA, hence the relocation there. In a nutshell, Arlo Jones is winning at life. #bigtime
You can’t go looking for info on Arlo without very quickly stumbling upon the sordid details of his “love” life. If everything I read is correct, he’s been associated with just about every actress and supermodel who’s anyone. Let’s not even mention the groupies, hangers-on, and other wannabes who throw themselves and their underwear at him on a daily basis. The man is prolific.
It actually makes me feel a little sick to think about it. I can see the attraction—he’s stunning to look at, built like Zeus, famous, successful, powerful, and richer than rich. What’s not to love? Well, his personality, for one thing. With all that notoriety comes a reputation for being sullen, moody, rude, and arrogant. He is the quintessential broody front man, and he plays the role to a tee, even at home.
My Google foraging also tells me that Luke tends to play good cop to Arlo’s bad, also doing very well with the ladies himself. By all accounts, women proposition the two of them on a daily, even hourly basis. The boys allegedly respond in kind, treating women like discarded Kleenex. I know the media is prone to stretching the truth, so I take much of what I read with a pinch of salt, especially as I struggle to reconcile the picture painted by the press with the version of Luke that I get to know over the coming weeks. Something in my gut tells me to give him the benefit of the doubt, whereas from what I know of Arlo, there seems to be a lot more truth to the rumors.
The three of us quickly slip into a daily routine. I start my cleaning rounds early and do a couple of hours’ work before getting on with making breakfast for the guys. Neither of them are early risers, which is no surprise really, given that they’re musicians. I gather that they’re not in bed much before sunrise most days, and even then, I’m not sure how much actual sleeping happens. Generally, Arlo heads straight down to the gym and swims laps, runs or pumps weights for an hour or so, while Luke and I chat in the kitchen as Luke eats.
As the weeks roll on, and I spend more time around them, it fast becomes obvious that despite being Arlo’s physical double, Luke is quite different to him in just about every other way. Sometimes I can scarcely believe they are brothers, let alone identical twins. Where Luke is laid-back and takes things in his stride, Arlo seems perpetually on edge. Where Luke is warm, and an open book, Arlo keeps his cards close to his chest. Though he doesn’t speak loudly, as such, there’s a sharpness to the tone of his voice that isn’t there in Luke’s. It’s as though he’s measuring every word before he says it. On the other hand, he has a quick temper, which has a tendency to flare up—especially when dealing with his brother.
My friendship with Luke is relaxed, warm, and familiar. Our quick and easy rapport feels like we’ve known each other forever, and we quickly find that we have a number of common interests, like independent movies. We make the discovery by accident one day when I’m sitting at the dining table during my break, booking tickets to a French film season at the Sunshine Cinema. Looking over my shoulder at my laptop, Luke interrupts me.
“Planning a date?”
“Hmm…? No, the opposite, in fact. I don’t know anybody who shares my love of beautifully shot independent movies, so I’m gonna go and see a few of these alone as usual.” I turn the screen toward him so that he can get a better look.
“Ha! Well today could be your lucky day.”
“What do you mean?”
“I love art house movies.”
“No way! Seriously?”
“Seriously. Arlo thinks I’m a pretentious prick, but when I was younger, I had a bit of a Mrs. Robinson thing with an older woman. She was a lecturer at NYFA, and she introduced me to the indie movie scene. The fling didn’t last, but my love of art house did.” He grins impishly.
“I’ve already booked a few sessions for the French season—why don’t you see if you can grab tickets to the same ones, and we can go ‘solo’ together? Unless of course you really want to go alone? Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge my way into your
plans like that.” What a sweetheart.
“No, you’re not barging. I’m actually glad we spoke before I booked anything. I only go alone because I don’t want to drag any of my friends along, and deal with the fallout if they don’t enjoy it. It seems silly for us both to go solo if we can have a movie buddy. This is so great! Which ones are you seeing? Hopefully there are still tickets left.”
Luke pulls up a chair close to me and we sit huddled together, laughing and joking, poring over the confirmation details on his phone, while booking tickets for me on my laptop.
“What’s for breakfast?” Arlo’s voice is gruff and comes out of nowhere. Neither of us had heard him approach us from behind. I jump up, both startled at Arlo’s appearance, and feeling guilty for chatting to Luke, even though technically I’m on a break.
“Umm… morning, Arlo.” I try to appear unflustered, though I’m not sure that I pull it off—I always feel so on edge when he’s around.
“I made some banana protein pancakes earlier, do you feel like those? Or I could make something else. Eggs, a smoothie…?” I look toward him to find that he’s staring intently at the back of Luke’s head as he continues to browse the cinema bookings page on my computer. Why do I get the impression that he wishes his eyes were lasers?
“Pancakes are fine.”
“Okay, great, I’ll grab you some.”
As I begin to move toward the oven, Luke speaks up without looking away from the screen.
“Dude, don’t be a dick, you can see we’re in the middle of something. What’s wrong with your arms and legs?”
Arlo says nothing for a few moments, but I can see the fury building. A vein at his temple throbs, yet when he speaks, his voice is calm and low.
“Yeah. You get back to your thing, I’ll get it myself.” He sounds as though he’d rather eat a shovel of shit.
“No really, it’s my pleasure. Sit down, and I’ll get them. Do you want anything else with them? Fruit? Bacon….”
“No.” Okay.
“All right then, I won’t be long. Umm… we were just booking some tickets for this French film thing. Do you want us to get you some too?”
I move into the cooking area to get the pancakes, which I’d left warming at a very low heat after Luke ate his earlier. Arlo strides toward the table, and throws himself into a chair opposite Luke, where he sits slumped, legs splayed in front of him, arms folded across his chest.
“Nah. That shit’s not my bag. Besides, I don’t third wheel.”
Third wheel? Wait, what? Understanding dawns slowly.
“Oh no, it’s not—” Luke interrupts me.
“Man, can you just not be a douche for like ten seconds? It’s not a date. We’ve discovered a mutual love of indie movies, and we’re going to catch a few movies together, that’s all. You’re more than welcome to come.”
“Like I said, I’ll pass.” Up until this point, he has studiously avoided eye contact with either of us, but now he raises his gaze from a spot on the table to meet Luke’s glare. Nobody speaks for the longest time, not in words, at least.
Four
I don’t know how to describe the status between Arlo and me, except to say it’s fucking complicated. It’s not exactly a friendship—it’s too strained for that—but it’s definitely more than employer/employee. Either way, there’s no mistaking the sexual tension between us. It’s so in-your-face whenever we’re together, it’s like a third person in the room, and three is most definitely a crowd.
The chemistry is so strong that I regularly feel him near me before I see him. He often noiselessly pads barefoot into the kitchen and just watches me, noting my every move—and I sense his gaze boring into me. He rarely says hello, or actively makes his presence known in any other way. He just stands there waiting for me to notice and acknowledge him.
I normally wait a while before looking his way. I kind of enjoy being near him without having to deal with him. We have an unspoken agreement to keep our conversation to a minimum, orbiting each other in loaded silence most of the time. From the YouTube videos I’ve watched of the band, I can see that the moody thing works like a charm when he’s in front of thousands of adoring fans—whenever he performs, there are panties melting for miles around—but sometimes in person, it can be too much to take.
One morning I’m hand-washing delicate crystal champagne flutes left from the previous night’s partying, when I feel Arlo lurking behind me in the kitchen doorway. My breath catches as it does whenever I know he’s near, and I quickly exhale and inhale a few times, trying to regulate it, and focus on what I’m doing. He knows I know he’s there, and in time I plan on turning to acknowledge him, just as I always do.
Today is different though. Before I get the chance to turn around, Arlo moves behind me at the basin, the front of his body pressing into every inch of the back of mine, arms stretched either side of me to rest on the countertop. I freeze, almost losing my grip on the glass in my hand, and hold my breath, silently waiting for him to make his move.
He’s so close that his quickening heartbeat thuds against my back, and his unique musky male scent fills my nostrils. He’s topless, as ever. In the few seconds that pass, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention at the feel of his breath caressing them, and my mind seems to spiral out of control.
His mouth hovers by my earlobe, as though he’s about to speak, but he remains silent. I get the impression he’s waiting for me to say something, but what? Fuck! I should be pushing him away and telling him to stop pressing his growing erection into me, but my brain has gone to mush, and my knees to Jell-O. I don’t understand how I always have such a strong reaction to a man whom I’m often not even sure I like.
“What do you want, Arlo?” I just about manage to form a coherent sentence, but my voice is thin and barely audible.
“To talk.”
Two simple words, low and sensual.
His tone of voice and the pressure of his hard-on against my butt tell me that talking isn’t the only thing on his mind. I don’t know how much longer I can stand here like this without saying or doing something I’ll regret.
“What?”
“You heard me. I want to talk. About the elephant in the room.”
“I don’t know what you mean. And why are you be pressed up against me like this to ‘talk’?” I snap.
My wits seem to be returning to me, thank Christ. Arlo doesn’t back off, of course, instead leaning forward, pressing into me harder.
“I need to be this close to you. I’ve been so desperate to touch you since you’ve been back here. I just wanted to feel you, and have you feel me. I can barely stand to look at you every day, you turn me on so fucking much. Whenever we’re together, I’m trying to keep it under wraps and just be with you, without trying to get with you. It’s not something that comes naturally, and I’m not gonna lie—it’s driving me out of my mind. I have to do this.”
He spins me around to face him, and before I can object, leans in to quickly press his lips to mine. I’m deadly still for a few seconds while my brain registers what’s going on. He pauses, waiting for my “answer.” Moments later, I yield to him, allowing him to kiss me harder. I guess my answer is yes. His eyelids fall closed, and mine follow suit.
I can’t believe that he can make me feel the way he does. He’s arrogant, obnoxious, and possibly a narcissist. Yet even with all that, I’m putty in his hands right now. It makes me want to shake some sense into myself. The bubbling heat in the pit of my stomach has me grabbing him by the waist, pulling him closer. His erection pushes against me, and in response, I’m getting wetter by the second. I can’t remember ever wanting a man the way I want him right now, with every fiber of my being.
With Danny, our romance grew out of friendship, warmth, familiarity, and platonic love first. Yes, the sex was great, and there was passion, attraction, and moments where we couldn’t keep our hands off each other—lots of them, in fact—but we built up to that after knowing each other as fr
iends first. It was a slow burn to something deeper and more meaningful. There was never the instant, chemical zing I had with Arlo the first time we met, and every time since, but it was love, and it was real.
Arlo brushes a hand lightly across one of my nipples, pulling me out of my reverie, and wiping away any trace of thoughts of Danny. Suddenly I can’t remember much of anything at all, in fact. As I lean up on my tiptoes, anxious for more, he reaches a steadying hand behind my head. My tongue hungrily explores his mouth. He tastes and feels so good. Every muscle in his body seems to be flexed. The effect is purely masculine and unbelievably arousing. He strokes my nipple again, and I let out an involuntary groan, glad he’s supporting me from behind.
Chemistry is one thing, but I hate the fact that I let myself get out of control with Arlo. Even worse, I’m filled with guilt that I let my physical attraction to him crowd thoughts of Danny from my mind. It’s disrespectful of Danny’s memory and what we had together, and completely out of character for me. The thought finally brings me to my senses, and I start to pull away.
I shove against Arlo’s chest, trying to put some distance between us while still returning his fevered kiss. Predictably, he tightens his grasp around my waist. I push harder, and am about to give him a piece of my mind, when abruptly he releases me, stepping back quickly, as though my skin is suddenly scalding hot. His hands drop limply to his sides, and immediately I wish they were still touching me, sending those electric currents through me.
“What now? I didn’t say anything.” He sighs, searching my face for clues, making no effort to hide his agitation.
“That’s exactly it,” I reply, equally agitated. “You said you wanted to talk, and so far you haven’t said a word. Just say whatever you came to say, or let me get on with my work.”
We’re standing almost nose to nose, our mouths a mere inch apart. I might be pissed off, but my eyes are still drawn to those deliciously full lips, and I crave the feel of them against mine.
