by MV Ellis
I sink back into the sumptuous gray couch to absorb the news. I love this couch—not only does Marko have bucketloads of money, he also has impeccable taste.
“How? Come on, smartass, spill it.”
“It’s everything and nothing, really. Your body language when you speak about him, the things you say, but also the things you don’t say. Even with Danny, although you were definitely a smitten kitten, it wasn’t like this. Maybe because you were friends first, or something, the way you were with him was more subtle. I don’t know exactly. What I do know is that with this guy you’ve been different from day one, even after what happened with him that first time. Since then you’ve been so unsure and unsettled, but also completely wrapped up in him.” I wince at the comparison between Danny and Arlo; it still doesn’t sit well with me.
“I am not wrapped up in him.” Jesus. Considering he’s supposed to be my best friend, I shouldn’t want to clock him in the jaw, but I want to right now.
“Okay, whatever you say. Regardless, I could tell this was a big deal, but I could also tell that you were in denial about it. Nic has said the same thing. You’re a smart girl, so I figured that eventually, your brain would catch up with your heart.” He smirks his wickedest smirk. “So are you going to tell me what has happened, or make me guess?” he presses.
I sigh. “Okay. You’re right, I’ve been churned up and maybe a little in denial about my feelings for Arlo, for months. It was so many things—confusion and guilt about moving on from Danny, and worry about whether I’m strong enough to take on a guy like Arlo, and come out of it okay if it doesn’t work out. I got a fucking tattoo proclaiming my strength after everything I’ve been through, and now I’m worried that this one guy could be the thing that breaks me. How fucked-up is that?
“Anyway, on the last day of the tour, I told him that I wanted some space when we got back here so that I could get my head straight. He agreed to it, almost too readily, I now think. He said he thought that it might be a good idea because he felt like he was smothering me, and possibly driving me away as a result.”
“Much as I hate to admit it, he’s a smart guy, and what he said sounds legit,” Marko replies. I rake my hands through my mess of curls and sigh heavily.
“It does, and it doesn’t. It does for someone who’s considerate and patient and puts others before themselves.”
“In other words, not Arlo?” interrupts Marko.
“Definitely not the Arlo I met that first day at his house. The Arlo I got to know on tour could be all of those things and more when he wanted to be, so it’s not completely out of character. Even so, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that there’s more to it than that.” I hate talking about this shit—it makes it seem more real somehow.
“Like what? He’s happy to have you out of the picture so he can fuck anything on legs?” Marko is smiling, which hardly seems like an appropriate response.
“Basically, yeah.”
“After everything that’s gone down between you, do you really believe that?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. You know his reputation as well as I do.”
“Sure, I know his reputation, but you know him, not some version of him portrayed in magazines and online. What’s your gut telling you?”
It’s a good question. Damn him for being so levelheaded while I’m a mess.
“I honestly don’t know. The tour was unbelievable—I felt like I got so close to Arlo, and saw a glimpse of the man behind the myth. He can be so sweet, and loving, you’d hardly know it was the same guy. Don’t get me wrong, he’s no pushover—at times, he can be a total jerk, and his bark is every bit as bad as his bite. But he’s actually a good guy at heart. I think. But then I’m still not sure, or I’m scared, or I don’t know… I just find myself holding back with him.”
“And?”
“And what? Have you become a shrink or something while I’ve been away? Why do you keep saying ‘and’ like that?”
“Because I know you, and I know there’s more to this than you’re saying, so I’m waiting for you to cough up the info.”
I sigh again. “Okay, Freud, you’re right, there is more. He told me he loves me. Twice.”
Marko’s jaw almost hits the deck. So much for his people-reading skills. Clearly he didn't see that coming.
“He did what?”
I have to laugh at the aghast look on his face. “You heard me. He told me he loves me. Completely unprompted. He also wrote a song about me and performed it on stage at the last gig in Paris. The other guys had no idea he was going to do it. He just got out the acoustic guitar and sang. People cried. It was epic.”
“I had heard rumors. You know my sources keep me well informed. You realize you’re that girl, right? Of course you are. I should have fucking known.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What girl? ”
“The one who comes along and completely changes the game. Tames the quintessential bad boy. Succeeds where others have failed. All of those clichés.”
I erupt into raucous laughter at the thought, and once I start, I find it really hard to stop, until tears are rolling down my cheeks, and I’m grabbing at my sides. Eventually the laughter dies down, leaving me completely out of breath and overheated. I’m still wiping the tears from my cheeks when I finally answer.
“This is me we’re talking about. I’m so not that girl. Besides, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression; it’s not like Arlo has become a pussycat overnight. In fact, he’s still very much got the beast in him. Especially in bed. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had, he’s so fucking—”
Marko raises his hand to stop me midsentence.
“Why can’t you see this for what it is? Do you think he’s the kind of guy to tell someone he loves them the drop of a hat?”
“No, I guess not.”
“No. I guess not. So he’s spilled his guts to you, and have you told him that you love him too?”
“No. It was the last night of the tour, and I was still coming to terms with my feelings myself. Instead, I asked him for some space. I’ve been so swept up in the circus of the tour—I guess I just wanted some time alone to really think, and be sure.”
“No, that’s not it. You’re sure, but you’re scared.”
“I’m so scared.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“And now I think I’ve screwed it up. He can have any woman in the world—he’s not going to hang around waiting for me to make up my stupid fucking mind.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, sweets, because you know I adore you, but you’re an idiot sometimes, you know that?” He looks at me solemnly.
“Um, thanks, friend, I can always rely on you to kick me while I’m down. First I look like shit, and now I’m an idiot. And you wonder why I don't spend much time at home anymore!” I tease.
“I’m not kicking anybody. In all the years I’ve known you, it just shocks me that you don’t get what a hot ticket you are. I’m not surprised that Arlo wants you, even if he can have anyone in the world, and even if you are making him jump through hoops.”
I slap him playfully on the arm again.
“Marko, stop it. You’re meant to be giving me advice, not blowing smoke up my ass.”
“I’m not blowing shit, I’m just saying it like I see it. Hell, you know if you weren’t like a sister to me, I’d tap that.” He fans himself theatrically and flutters his eyelashes like a camp pantomime dame.
“Ugh, Marko, you’re a fool, and you did ‘tap that,’ remember?”
“Nah, that doesn’t count.”
“Charming.” I feign indignance. “Was it that bad, or merely forgettable?”
“C’mon, sweets, you know as well as I do that it was an experiment that didn’t work out. I think we both knew it wasn’t going to, even before we did it.”
“Don’t get your balls in a bunch,” I tease, laughing. “I’m totally yanking your chain.”
“Good. You had me worried for a minut
e there. Anyway, you know what I mean about you.”
“I’m not sure I do, actually, and why I’m taking relationship advice from you of all people, is beyond me!”
He bends double with laughter, but when he straightens up, he’s serious again.
“Don’t forget, he has been hanging around, waiting. For months. I think he’s wanted you from the get-go, and he’s still hanging on in there. Joking aside, from what you’ve told me, I’d say he’s got it bad for you.”
“Right now I don’t know what to think. Anyway, what’s for dinner? I’m starved.”
I’m keen to change the subject pronto, and I hope Marko doesn’t notice my very unsubtle segue. He grins wolfishly. Jeez, he reminds me of Arlo in so many ways.
“Your favorites. French onion soup and garlic bread, then roast chicken, roast potatoes, and vegetables. And maybe, just maybe, I got some of those chocolate tarts from Paul’s that you love so much, but I’m not promising anything.” He winks. Jeez, I love him. And hate him.
“Oh my God, you’re spoiling me. I swear if you weren’t such an asshole, and like my brother, I’d totally marry your ass, regardless of the bad sex.” I throw that in to get him back for the earlier comments.
As we sit down to eat, I focus my attention on him.
“Anyway, enough about moi, what’s going on in your world? More specifically, what’s the status with Jourdan? Have you managed to screw that up yet?”
He shoots me a look. It seems like my comment has hit a raw nerve.
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence there, friend.” He mimics my earlier sarcasm.
“Come on, Marko, I know you better than most people do, and the chances that you haven’t fucked this up are slim to none, so quit the wounded ego act, and spill it.”
He smiles weakly. “If I’m honest, I really don’t know how things are going.” Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“How do you mean?” I ask, and shovel a large spoonful of French onion soup into my mouth. “This soup is the best, by the way, you’re a legend.”
“I mean that Jourdan is difficult to pin down. She plays her cards close to her chest, and most of the time I’ve got no idea what’s going through her mind. At times I can tell she’s into me, but then sometimes she hardly wants to give me the time of day. I think she thinks I’m a waste of space, or a sociopath, or something. Fuck knows.”
She sounds like a smart girl. He isn’t those things, of course, but even as one of his best friends, I’d advise any woman involved with him to tread carefully. I keep my thoughts to myself, because although I have zero filter with Arlo, it still seems to work just fine with everyone else.
“But you like her?” I interject between slurps.
He looks down into his bowl for a long moment, as though hoping to find answers there, then looks back at me. He’s as serious as I’ve ever seen him.
“Yeah, I guess so. It’s weird. Sometimes the fact that she can barely tolerate me except in bed gets to me—I’ve done and said some things I’m not exactly proud of as a result. You know me, I’ve never really had to work for it. I mean, it sounds arrogant as shit—”
“You, arrogant? Never!” I chuckle at the irony of him even uttering that sentence. As much as I love him, Marko is one of the most supremely arrogant people I’ve ever encountered. And then there’s Arlo.
“Fuck you, biatch.” He laughs. “And just remember who’s providing the food tonight. Don’t bite the hand.”
I laugh too. “You’re so right. Continue, oh jilted one.”
“I haven’t been jilted.” I’m having a bit of fun now that the shoe is on the other foot.
“True. She just hasn’t dropped her pants within ten minutes of meeting you. Is that what’s got you rattled?”
“Ten minutes? That would be playing hard to get!” And the arrogance is back in full effect.
“It’s not the getting into her pants part that’s the problem; we’ve passed that hurdle, and then some. She hasn’t let me get close enough to jilt me. I don’t mind that so much, but I hate that for once, I’m not prepared to walk away. You know me. Normally I would have lost interest and moved on—whether it’s a job, a chick, buying a house or whatever, I make it my business not to want it as much as the other person, and if it was remotely like hard work, I’d be gone without a backward glance. It’s always worked well for me in the past.”
“But not now?”
“Exactly. And unfortunately, she is prepared to walk away. In fact, most of the time we’re together, she seems absolutely hell-bent on it. Every now and again I’ll feel like I’m getting somewhere with her, then bam! The shutters come down again. I’m not gonna lie, it’s screwing with my mind a little, but it’s also hot as all hell. Looks like me and Arlo have that in common—the less a woman wants us, the more we want them. Who knew? Women throwing themselves at us from all angles, and we’re chasing the ones who can’t get away from us fast enough. We’re stupid, stubborn assholes.”
“Maybe it’s karma?”
“What?”
“Payback for the trail of destruction and broken hearts you’ve left behind over the years. If I’d installed a turnstile in here, made it an actual revolving door, and charged them on the way out, I could have set up my studio by now. Maybe it’s good for you to get a taste of your own medicine for once.”
“Fuck that. It sucks.”
“So what are we going to do about this sorry state of affairs?”
He pauses for a moment, his smile broadening to a grin. Then he jumps up, and returns a few moments later with a bottle of Hendrick’s gin and two glasses. He holds the bottle aloft.
“Let’s get fucked-up!” he declares.
“No, Marko, I can’t. I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow morning, and surely you’ve got to dance? You can’t rock up hungover and stinking of gin.”
“I can, and I will, and what the hell is anyone going to do about it? You know it’s not the first time, and it’s sure as shit not going to be the last. They can like it or kiss my ass. Besides, you know I don’t get hungover.”
With that, he begins making us gin and tonics. Well, that’s being generous—it’s actually a tumbler of gin with a suggestion of tonic. I’m sure I’m going to regret this in the morning, or sooner, but I do need a release, and Marko is a man who doesn’t like to be told no. Funnily, I know another man just like that….
Twenty-One
I wake with a start, feeling like shit, the room spinning around me. My mouth tastes like a rat crawled into it and died, but not before leeching every ounce of liquid from my body. Gin is delicious, but all those aromatics and botanicals are not kind to the system the morning after the night before.
I startle again when, seconds later, I realize I’m not in my own bed, or in my makeshift residence at the studio. My heart pounds heavily in my chest as I try to fathom why I’m naked in a strange bed. Finally the shoe drops, and I realize I’m at Rosemond House—thank God. I think?
The pounding in my chest is immediately replaced by thumping in my head. It’s as though Stevie has set up his drum kit inside my skull and is thrashing away like Animal from The Muppets. Now I feel sick too, but I’m not sure if it’s my hangover or dread causing it. I can’t recall how or why I ended up in Arlo’s bed for the first time since we got back from the tour, but I’m guessing it’s not good.
I scrabble on the floor looking for my clothes, instead finding a shirt of Arlo’s, presumably discarded the night before. I slip it on, taking comfort in the smell of him, and the feeling of the cool, smooth fabric slipping over my skin. Where my underwear is, or any of my clothes for that matter, is anyone’s guess. I’ll look for them later, but first thing first, I must brush my teeth, and get rid of the decomposing rodent taste. I decide to give my face a quick wash too.
When I’m done, I work my way through the expansive hallways of the large house. It has never really felt like a home to me. I don’t mean my home because obviously, it’s not, but not anyone
’s home. The whole time I cleaned it before Arlo came back, I had no real sense of the person who lived here, apart from the fact that they were obviously wealthy, and had almost certainly hired an interior designer to decorate and furnish the place. Even now that I know him as well as I do, and have spent time with him here, I don’t feel Arlo’s presence in the place. It’s a house, but not a home.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen, and find Arlo with his back to me, standing at the large table. He’s talking on the phone.
“I don’t care if it’s not what people expect, we need to make this happen. We’ve been hitting the studio hard, and this stuff is good. I mean, really fucking good. Arguably our best yet, in fact. Yeah, it’s a more mature sound, but we’re not kids anymore, and neither are our true-blue fans. They’re growing up with us.
“Besides, this is an evolution of where we’ve been, not a revolution. I don’t know why those imagination-less label suits can’t see that. They’re fucking creativity black spots—wouldn't know a good idea if it gave them head. I swear to God, if they had their way, we’d spend the rest of our lives playing songs we wrote in our garage when we were fifteen!”
He sighs heavily and looks at the ceiling. I know even without seeing his face that he’s rolling his eyes. He cracks his neck a couple of times from side to side. I slink behind him, push up against his back, and plant a light kiss on his bare tattooed shoulder, wondering once again if he ever wears a shirt at home. Not that I’m complaining, of course, his naked torso is one of my favorite views. Plus, right now I’m happy to be the one wearing his shirt, instead of him. I snake my arm around his body and across his chest. He slots his hand over mine and squeezes—his way of saying hello while preoccupied on the call. He then quickly slips my hand down to his crotch and rubs it across his substantial erection. Now that’s a real hello.
“Oh hello there,” I whisper huskily.
That’s one of the few advantages of a night spent drinking myself silly on gin—my voice sounds pretty damned sexy. Arlo continues his conversation.
