by MV Ellis
I laugh, turning to look at Arlo.
“You realize that fantasies are exactly that, right? Just because someone gets off on the thought of something, it doesn’t mean that they’d act on it in real life.”
“Whatever you say, but as far as I’m concerned, you’ve just not-so-subtly let me know more than once that you want me to fuck you in public. And you know me, I’m a gentleman—I always give a lady what she wants. From here on in I’ll be sure to jump on you whenever there’s a chance that we could get sprung, okay?”
There’s humor in his voice, but I don’t think that he’s completely joking.
“Whatever, dude.” I can’t help grinning.
“In the meantime, can you clean me up, please? I’m not gonna lie here like this all day.” I feign annoyance, but I’m actually pretty euphoric. That was hot, with a capital FUCK ME DEAD.
As Arlo goes to get a warm facecloth, I ponder everything that’s happened over the last few hours. If I’m honest, for a while now, promising myself I’ll stay away from Arlo sexually has felt foolish. Even with the impropriety clause in place, it’s a near-impossible feat, given our working relationship and inescapable chemistry. With what’s been going on between us over the last few days, I resign myself to not fighting it, which is a relief.
Trying to resist him all this time has been like attempting to push water uphill with a fork. I’m exhausted by the whole thing. When Arlo returns from the bathroom to wipe my back, he’s already got another raging hard-on, the sight of which makes me horny again too. Christ. Things may be complicated between us, but no matter how much sex we have, it’s never too much. In fact, it’s never enough. For either of us.
It’s past midday by the time we finally emerge from our fog of fucking and napping. We’re still in bed, naked, with Arlo draped all over me, idly stroking the nape of my neck, tracing around my ears. He winds my curls around his index finger and then releases them, over and over. I find the repetition soothing, and right now, I can do with all the soothing I can get. All the second-guessing and overanalyzing of every minute detail of our interaction is really starting to hurt my head.
While I can admit I’m in love with Arlo, I can’t switch off the sensible part of my brain that’s telling me to steer clear. I’m so churned up, I feel like someone has put me in the washer on a spin cycle. Surely if it was right, it wouldn’t be this complicated. Or would it? Fuck, I don’t know. I’m so lost. Arlo’s words pull me out of my head, and back into the room.
“I love your hair, it’s like your signature thing—all these stunning dark curls tumbling down your back. That and your fucking great ass. Both turn me on so much.”
“Even when it looks like a crazy bird’s nest? My hair, I mean, not my butt!” I’m laughing at myself.
“Especially when it looks like this. You look freshly fucked, which of course you are, thanks to me.”
He flexes all five fingers into my hair and makes a fist, gently pulling my head back, and presses his lips down onto mine.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve fallen for him, or if he’s genuinely the best kisser on the planet, but a simple kiss with him is anything but simple. I pull back quickly as I feel myself melting into him. I want to stop before we get too carried away. Again.
“Arlo, let’s get up and do something with the day.”
“What do you mean? I am up, and we are doing something.” He flashes me the thousand-watt grin again, looking down at his growing hard-on. Jesus fuck!
“I mean something other than screwing each other raw. Because as much fun as that is, I want to get better acquainted with this stunning city. Actually, first I want to go back to the other hotel, shower and change and stuff. Then I want to see some more of Paris.”
“Newsflash, this is a hotel, and there’s a shower here. No need to go back to the other place.”
“Umm. All my stuff is there—my clothes, my toiletries—y’know, everything I need to look and feel vaguely human. Why don’t you want to go back?” I quiz.
“Like I said to Luke, I’m enjoying being in our little bubble, away from the guys and the merry-go-round. The minute I walk back into that place, I’ll be pulled in all directions, and our vacation vibe will be wrecked. If you want clothes, let’s just go shopping and grab some.”
I have more than a little sympathy for his perspective. Despite all the luxury and the amazing experiences and opportunities that are constantly thrown his way, a lot of the time, it’s not easy being Arlo. When the band is on the road and traveling en masse, it’s pretty hard to ignore the maelstrom of fans and paparazzi and who knows who else that comes with that. To say it’s hectic is an understatement. It’s stressful and invasive. All. The. Time. Arlo is right, the past twenty-four hours or so hanging out incognito have been utter bliss. Though I’m gradually becoming acclimatized to the craziness, I certainly don’t miss it now it’s gone.
“Shopping?”
“Yeah, it’s this thing where you go to these places called shops and select items that you need or want, before handing over legal tender in return for said items. People have been doing it for centuries, I believe.”
“Hardy ha, ha, ha, Arlo—you’re such a comedian!” I lay on the sarcasm thickly.
“I know what shopping is. I’m just not used to buying new clothes when I’ve already got perfectly good ones close at hand. However, I do know what you mean about the chaos at the other hotel—so fuck it, let’s do it. I’ll just have a quick shower and try to slay the hair beast as best I can, first.”
I shake out my mass of curls, and head to the bathroom, knowing that Arlo is watching my every naked move. I hear his sharp intake of breath as I sashay across the room.
As we leave the hotel hand in hand, I suggest that we find the nearest H&M and grab a few things to get us through the next few days. I’m not joking, but something I say must be funny, as it has Arlo chuckling.
“Yeah, nope. That ain’t gonna happen, Tog.”
“What?”
“H&M’s not really my speed these days.”
“Oh.” Right.
It’s weird, but because Arlo is so blasé in his attitude to most things, money included, I often forget that he’s insanely loaded. Like, richer-than-God wealthy, so of course he doesn’t shop at H&M. Plus, regular activities like shopping have to be planned with military precision, or they descend into chaos.
How silly of me. I decide to keep quiet after that and let Arlo lead the plans for the day. He’s the one with the virtual access-all-areas city pass, after all.
Moments later, a black town car pulls up to the curb as we approach. I guess we won’t be catching the Metro, either, which was going to be my next suggestion. Arlo opens the door and ushers me in.
“Hi, Sid, thanks for coming.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Arlo, and Mademoiselle…?” The driver’s eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror.
“London. Sid, this is London. London, this is Sidney.”
“Hi, Sidney.” I give him a small, sheepish wave. The number of girls that Sidney and all of Arlo’s staff around the world must have seen come and go doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m sure he thinks I’m just another one in the long line, and he’s probably right. The cliché makes me cringe inwardly.
“Mon plaisir, London.” He gives me a broad smile in the rearview mirror as he pulls the car out from the curb and into the Parisian traffic. If he has an opinion about my presence, he hides it well, I guess discretion is all part of this job.
A short while later, Arlo and I are settled in the personal shopping lounge of Paris’s most exclusive department store, glasses of vintage pink champagne in hand. Nadine, our shopping assistant, is the epitome of French chic—her clothes are tastefully expensive, and just the right side of fashion forward. Nobody does fashion quite like the Parisians, and Nadine is no exception.
I feel decidedly shabby in comparison, which is fair, given my current state. I’m not exactly well-dressed on a good day, let alo
ne one where I’ve been wearing the same clothes for more than twenty-four hours, and haven’t been near my makeup bag or hair products in that time.
Nadine is lovely, and after sweeping me with a cursory appraising glance as I enter the salon, she conjures up a couple of racks of absolutely fabulous high-end clothes in my size. Okay, I’m not gonna lie, I could definitely get used to this way of shopping versus my usual mall scrum and schlep home on the subway. Not that I visit brick-and-mortar shops much, anyway—I pretty much hate shopping, so if I must buy clothes, I tend to do it mostly online.
As enjoyable as shopping this way is, I can’t afford most of the clothes, so I don’t want to waste too much time looking at them. I just want to grab some basics—jeans or shorts, and a few tees and sweaters, and be on my way. I mention this fact to Arlo, and he just smiles benignly, as though indulging an errant child.
“Just try a few things on. You never know, you might find something you dig.” He’s sprawled out on the sumptuous dove-gray chaise, eyeing me appreciatively.
“I like jeans, and cut-offs, and T-shirts, and sweaters, and sneakers,” I say plaintively.
“So I’ve noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I can’t keep the snark from my voice.
“Hey, calm down, I’m not criticizing you. You look fucking fabulous in anything, and even better in nothing. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try something new, would it? I for one would love to see you in a skirt or dress sometime, and then to see it pooled on the floor next to the bed after you’ve stepped out of it. C’mon, just humor me. Consider it a requisite of the job, like a uniform or something.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve already had the conversation about you trying to dictate what I wear to work—it’s sexual harassment, remember?”
“Hah!” Arlo just about snorts with laughter. “I’m not sexually harassing you, although I definitely plan to later. I would just love to see that crazy bangin’ body in something a bit more sexy now and again. Is that so wrong?” He flashes the boyish grin. “Plus, you will actually need something a little more dressy for some of the events you’ll be shadowing me at. You’ll stand out like a dildo at a wedding if you turn up wearing ripped shorts and a faded T-shirt. Which is a shame, because I love your side boob in those T-shirts. In fact, I’m getting hard just thinking about it. Sexy. As. Fuck.” He looks down at his crotch suggestively. Subtlety really isn’t his strong suit.
Yup, Nadine is still in the room with us. Great. She doesn’t bat an eyelid, so either she’s a consummate professional, or she’s used to Arlo’s ways from previous experience. As awesome as she is, my money’s on the latter, rather than the former. Either way, I agree to try some clothes on, just to shut him up before he says something even more embarrassing.
“I guess there’s no harm in you playing dress up with me like I’m some kind of living doll. None at all.” Sarcasm is my friend.
I wink at him and grab a few items from the racks. I have to admit, there are some supercute pieces. It’s a shame I’d have to pawn a kidney just to afford a T-shirt. We’re going to have to swing past a normal shop after all this anyway, but I decide to humor him, like he asked.
It turns out to be a lot of fun—the shopping, not the humoring. Nadine has impeccable taste, natch, and a real eye for what suits me. Most of it is stuff I would never choose (let alone actually wear) myself, but in the spirit of playing along, I try on whatever she picks out, and am pleasantly surprised when the majority of it actually looks good, or even great. Before I know it, a couple of hours, a few too many glasses of premium champagne, and innumerable mouthfuls of sumptuous hors d’oeuvres have passed. I glance distractedly at my phone, suddenly realizing we’ve spent most of the day fucking and shopping. Not a great way to get to know Paris.
“Shit, Arlo, look at the time, let’s go!” I shriek in alarm. I’m a little flustered, trying to find my clothes amongst the discarded piles so I can dress, and we can leave.
“What? So what, where’s the fire? You got a hot date or something?”
“I just don’t want to spend a whole day in bed, and then ‘shopping’ for clothes I’m not actually going to buy. Let me just run to the nearest H&M, like I said, and I can quickly grab a few things. You don’t need to come with me. Maybe you can just wait in the car with Sid, if it will be too much hassle with the fans, and stuff.”
I wish I had insisted on that in the first place—we would have been done with shopping hours ago.
“What are you talking about? Why have you been trying it all, if not to buy?” He looks and sounds genuinely confused.
I’m going to have to break this down for him so that he really gets it.
“I was indulging your dress-up fantasies, remember? C’mon, Arlo, just a few hours ago, someone was explaining to me that shopping is where you hand over legal tender in return for your selected items. Well, in order for me to earn enough legal tender to pay for just one of these items, I’d have to auction off a couple of internal organs. If I wanted a whole outfit, I’d have to give up a few limbs, also. So yeah, not gonna happen.” I can’t help but laugh, the situation is so absurd. I can’t imagine ever being so wealthy that you forget money doesn’t actually grow on trees. I’m hoping he gets the message now though, as I just want to make use of what little is left of the day.
This time it’s Arlo’s turn to laugh. He throws his head back and lets out that throaty guffaw. I never tire of that sound. It’s got this melodious caramel quality, just like his singing voice, and it’s so light and carefree that it makes my heart melt. I see a totally different Arlo than the rock-star front man when he laughs like this—someone who is loving, warm, and affectionate, and someone I want to be around. A lot.
“If all you’re worried about is money, don’t be. I got this.” He winks, which for some reason makes me want to slap him.
“No, Arlo. I’m not letting you buy any of this stuff. A hundred years or so ago I said I wanted to grab some stuff from a regular shop—can we just do that, please?”
“I’m not going to argue about this, Tog. You looked stunning in everything you tried on. I want you to have it—I can afford it, and I’d like to give you a gift. It’s no big deal. Really it’s just me being selfish, because I want to see you wearing this stuff. Isn’t it rude not to accept a gift?”
He’s back to sulky-rock-star Arlo now—brows furrowed, shapely lips protruding in a childish pout. God, even when he’s acting like an overgrown toddler, he’s stupid cute.
“I don’t believe it is rude not to accept a gift if the gift should never have been given in the first place. I mean, this”—I wave my hand vaguely in the airspace between us—“whatever it is that’s going on with us is inappropriate enough as it is, given that you’re technically my boss twice over, without you throwing lavish gifts into the mix. It’s all a bit too Pretty Woman for my liking. So thanks for the gesture, Arlo, but my last word is no, thank you. I’d really just like to go now. Please.”
“Okay.” He throws his hands up in surrender. He’s pretty stony, but I’m surprised that he agrees so readily, regardless of the frosty delivery.
“Okay? Like okay, that’s it, we can leave?” I look at him questioningly.
He sighs dramatically. “Yeah, I get it. You don’t want to accept anything from me, because it makes you feel cheap, like what we’re doing is sordid, or something. So, okay. Get your stuff, and let’s go.”
If his tone was frosty before, it’s arctic now. I guess on reflection, all but accusing him of acting like my sugar daddy or john wasn’t my most gracious moment. I think I’ve actually hurt his feelings. Crap, that was harsh, given that he was just trying to do something nice. He can be really thoughtful when he’s not being an ass; I should really cut him some slack sometimes.
“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across like a total bitch.”
I search his features for a response, but I’m met with a carefully neutral expression and steely gaze. He’s totally s
hut down. One thing I’ve noticed about Arlo is that he can be completely cold and unflinching when he chooses to—that poker face can really come in handy sometimes, I guess. This is clearly one of those times.
“Look, I said it’s all right. No biggie, okay? Let’s just go. I’ll wait outside while you get your shit together.”
I open and close my mouth like a guppy, at a loss as to what to say. Before I can engage my brain, he saunters out the door, slamming it behind him.
Seventeen
As I leave the personal shopping salon, I fumble around in my bag until I find my phone to call Arlo. On the one hand, I totally get why his nose is out of joint, but I do think he could maybe try seeing things from my point of view too. Regardless of his bank balance, we’re hardly at the stage of giving and receiving lavish gifts. Fuck, we’re only just at the stage of giving and receiving head, for Christ’s sake! When I finally find my cell in the cavernous expanse of my bag, I see that Arlo has already messaged me.
Arlo: Outside with Sid
Okay then. Straight down to business, no hello, or goodbye, or xoxo. I guess I’m well and truly in the dog house.
Meh. Screw him. I wend my way out of the mammoth store and find that true to his word, he’s is leaning against the car, kicking the curb and talking on the phone. No doubt it’s a business call—he’s never “switched off.” His cell goes everywhere with him, and there’s always business to attend to. Whether with the band, the club, or the tattoo parlor, something or someone always needs his attention.
The sun is just starting to set, the muted colors of the Paris skyline perfectly matching Arlo’s somber mood. It’s a beautiful sight. He’s stunning, and Paris speaks for itself. The two together are a potent combination. It would make a dramatic image for the book, but something tells me now is not the time to start firing off shots, so I leave my camera in my bag. I also resist the urge to run to him and smother him with passionate kisses. I can’t get over how gorgeous he is. Months on, and that shit never gets old. I push all those feelings under, and silently take a few photos in my mind.
