by MV Ellis
“Listen, I’m just about sick of this, so here’s how it’s going to be. You’re going to make this happen. I don’t care how many dicks you have to suck, just get it done. That’s why we pay you the big bucks, Paul. The next time I speak to you, if the wheels aren’t in motion, it’ll be time for us to start looking for a new manager, okay?” He hangs up. I’ve given up expecting him to say goodbye.
He swivels around to face me, grinding his massive hard-on against me. He rests his forehead against mine, and smiles.
“Well if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty, or should that be ‘Gin-derella’? How do you feel this morning?” He laughs heartily at his own joke.
“Very frickin’ funny,” I retort, my tone heavily sarcastic.
“I’m sorry, but after watching you puke in my car, I think I’ve earned the right to mess with you just a little, don’t you?”
“Please tell me that did not happen,” I beg, but I fear I know the answer already.
“I wish I could, L, but then I’d be a liar.” He smirks evilly.
“Ugh.” My heart sinks.
“Don’t worry, it could have been a lot worse. Only a little went on the interior. The rest, you managed to get on yourself and into the gutter as I pulled over.”
“Oh God.” I’m utterly mortified. “Why was I even with you? I can’t really remember anything, except devouring gin and chocolate tarts with Marko. The next thing I know, I’m waking up not knowing where I am, feeling like someone is trying to hack a hole in my skull with an ice pick. So to answer your earlier question, I feel like death, and now maybe you can enlighten me as to what the fuck went on last night.” The hangover is doing nothing for my sense of humor, that’s for sure.
“To be honest, I’m not sure myself. I was leaving the studio late after a mammoth recording session with the boys. I was wiped out but was going to swing past the club, show my face and tie up a few loose ends before heading home to crash. You called just as I was getting into the car, and I could tell right away that you’d had a few too many—you were slurring, and rambling. Damned if I was going to leave you there with Dancing Don Juan De Marco—” He sniggers at his own joke. “—in that state.”
“Now hold on,” I interject. “I’m perfectly safe with Marko. He’s not like that.”
“I told you, if a guy’s got a pulse and a dick, he’s like that. With your looks and his reputation, it’s even worse.”
“Ha!” I snort. “That’s pretty rich coming from you. Are you oblivious to your own reputation?” I arch my eyebrow in question, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice.
“On the contrary, I’m completely aware of my reputation, so maybe it’s a case of ‘it takes one to know one.’ Anyway, I jumped in the car and came and got you.”
“Wait, so let me get this straight. The only reason you came and got me was to rescue me from the ‘clutches’ of one of my oldest and best friends?”
Arlo rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I said. I wanted to see you, I miss you like hell. But I especially wanted to make sure that you were okay. I can’t win with you, can I? On one hand, you’re constantly reminding me of my reputation, while on the other, you’re giving me shit for doing what I thought was the right and gentlemanly thing at the time. I can’t be who or what you want me to be even when I’m on my best fucking behavior.”
He’s got a point. I guess I need to give him the benefit of the doubt sometimes.
“I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I just wanted to know if you missed me as much as I’ve missed you, that’s all. Sorry, I’m tired and hungover—my powers of speech are not 100 percent yet.” I try to sound as conciliatory as possible.
“So what happened after that?”
“Well I got there, and you and Don Juan—”
“Marko,” I interject.
“Yeah. That guy. The two of you were drunk as skunks. I pretty much had to carry you out to the car. I have to say, it’s the first time I’ve regretted driving a convertible with no back seat. Anyway, we’d been on the road for about five minutes before you started complaining about feeling nauseous. I pulled over as quickly as I could, but you started heaving before I could get the door open.”
“Oh God, Arlo, I’m so sorry. I’m horrified. You know me, that’s not my usual style at all. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I’d say about a quart of gin and a ton of chocolate, judging by what came back up.” He’s grinning from ear to ear, and I can tell I’m already forgiven. “Look, you’ve heard my rep, so you know I’ve had my share of embarrassing drunken and otherwise under the influence incidents. More than my fair share, some would say, as have the rest of the band. A bit of puke is all in a day’s work. It was kind of cute, actually.”
“Cute? Please enlighten me as to how upchucking all over your leather interior can be considered cute in any way.”
“Well, I like that I was the first person you called when you needed help—that you were missing me, and you told me so. Plus, it wasn’t all over the car, it was actually mostly in the gutter, and although it’s not the sexiest thing, you still looked cuter barfing up a lung than most people would. When we got back here you were out cold again, so I carried you upstairs, got you out of your gross clothes, and put you to bed. You slept like a baby—snoring faintly, I might add. Now that was hella cute.”
“Ugh.” I put my head in my hands. “Kill. Me. Now.”
“Seriously, babe, don’t sweat it. I’m happy to see you under any circumstances. I actually kinda love that you weren’t on your best behavior for once—you finally trusted me enough to let your guard down. ‘In vino veritas,’ and all.” He smiles indulgently.
That smile, though.
“Look, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got to be back at the studio soon so we could waste time raking over the events of last night, or we could put the time to much better use. The latter gets my vote.” There goes the famous attention span.
He pushes my hair over my shoulder and begins gently nuzzling my neck. It feels so good. The feel of his warm lips brushing against my skin is heaven. He moves toward my chest, gently kissing every inch of skin as he goes. At the same time, he sweeps both hands under the oversized shirt I’m wearing, coming to rest on my butt, lifting me up. I wrap my legs around him instinctively, holding myself in place until he walks me to the counter and places me gently on top.
His hands travel up my body, settling on my breasts. Even before he touches my nipples, I’m quivering with anticipation. I can’t get enough of him. I place my hands over his as he begins to rub each nipple between his thumb and index finger. They harden immediately, and I’m overtaken by waves of arousal. My head falls back, and I arch my back, eyes closed, mouth open, surrendering to the pleasure, and pushing harder against his erection. We both groan.
“Arlo….”
I want to tell him how unreal it feels to be with him again, but I can’t get it together to speak a coherent sentence. He slides one hand up to the base of my neck, pulling my mouth to his. Thank God I brushed my teeth before coming downstairs. The kiss is passionate and raw, almost painful, and it sets my libido on fire. Holy fucking shit. I pull back and turn to look up at Arlo, and it’s then I catch a glimpse of the time on his watch.
“Shit! Oh my God, Arlo, I’ve got to go.”
“What? You can’t go now, we’ve only just….” He looks confused.
“No. I have to. I’ve got a meeting at the studio in like forty minutes, and I’ve got to get home, shower, and change.”
“Can’t you just cancel it? We’re kinda in the middle of something here.” He motions toward the erection straining in his pants. I sigh.
“This meeting needs to happen now. I’m sorry, I’d love to stay, but I just can’t.”
Arlo cracks his neck and rakes his hands through his hair.
“Okay, I’ll drop you home, and then to your studio. I can go straight from there to the recording studio.”
“That’s okay, you don’t have
to do that, I can just grab an Uber. Besides, isn’t your car a bit gross after last night’s shenanigans?”
Arlo looks at me, smiling ruefully, clearly a little embarrassed. It takes me a few seconds to work out why.
“Oh yeah, right. Of course, there are other cars. Sorry, I keep forgetting you’re richer than God. It takes some getting used to for mere mortals like me.”
“Oh come on, Tog, don’t be like that. I’ve worked hard, poured my blood, sweat, and tears into the band since I was fifteen and built my businesses from the ground up. Yeah, I’ve done well financially, but I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not some greedy fat cat or entitled trust-fund baby—everything I’ve got, I’ve worked fucking hard for.”
“Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean it like that. Just ignore the stupid shit I’m saying today, I’m not myself. I just meant I find it hard to get my head around this level of wealth, and I’m constantly tripping up, is all. You’re not the problem, I am. I’d love a ride, if the offer still stands?” I scramble from his embrace.
“Of course it does.” It takes me a while to work out why he’s grinning, but then I realize the double entendre.
“I mean in your car, not on your dick.”
“I know, I’m just yanking your chain, and don’t worry, I’m a big boy. It takes a lot more than that to dent my ego, trust me.” Ain’t that the truth!
“Okay, great. Let me just change into my walk of shame clothes, and I’ll be right with you.”
Arlo looks down at his crotch again and then back at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to…?”
He grabs me by the hips, gently stroking just below my hipbones with his thumbs, pressing me against him again.
“I do want to, Arlo, but I can’t.” I place a chaste kiss on his lips before hurrying from the room to get dressed.
It’s then I remember that my clothes are nowhere to be seen—Arlo put them in the laundry room because they’re gross. I have to travel home in his shirt, and the smallest pair of his gym shorts that he can find, teamed up with my shoes from last night. Nice. The only thing worse than doing the walk of shame in yesterday’s clothes is doing it in someone else’s clothes. I’m all class.
Arlo and I take one of the other cars—so for the first time, I go downstairs into the underground garage, and realize he has quite the collection—classics, off-roaders, sporty numbers, motorbikes, the full nine yards.
We swing by my place, and I dart in quickly to change. I have to forgo a shower, which is not ideal after a night like last night, but despite Arlo’ s best efforts behind the wheel, there just isn’t time. I tame my curls somewhat, throw on some mascara and a slick of gloss, and call it good. Arlo waits for me in the car, and is on another business call when I return—he’ s never “off duty.” He wraps up rapidly as I climb in.
“Yeah, okay. Draw up the final paperwork and courier it over to me at the studio and I’ll sign it and get it back to you ASAP. I want this purchase finalized today.”
“I understand, Mr. Jones,” comes the voice on loudspeaker. “I’m onto it now. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that’s it.”
She is obsequiously sickly sweet, and I’m sure Arlo elicits this response from people all the time, especially women. It’s all “Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir.” I bet he doesn’t even notice, or he thinks that’s how everyone is treated. It really is a different perspective when you’re king of the world.
“Okay, wonderful, well you have—”
I guess she was going to say “a nice day,” but as ever, Arlo cuts her off. I don’t ask him what the conversation is about; I figure it’s none of my business. He doesn’t offer any kind of explanation, so I guess he feels the same.
Arlo speeds through the morning traffic, ducking and weaving like a pro race car driver. I’m equal parts terrified for my life, awed by his skill, and relieved that I’ll make it to the studio with a few minutes to spare before my meeting. I marvel that I can now stomach a car ride like this without having an anxiety attack. After the accident, it was months before I could even get into a car, then once I did, I would never have been able to handle someone driving like Arlo just did. I’ve come so far in so many ways.
“Thanks so much for the ride, I really appreciate it. I’m glad we both made it in one piece—you had me worried a few times there. In fact, I think I have few gray hairs sprouting all of a sudden, I was so terrified!” I tease.
“Come on, baby, you know you’re always in safe hands with me.” He winks.
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I can’t argue with your driving skills. Thanks for having my back last night too—you didn’t have to come and get my drunken ass, it was very gallant of you.”
“Wow, that’s a huge compliment coming from you, especially given that you seem to think I’m a caveman. It’s no biggie though. I meant what I said about always being there for you. No matter what’s going on between us, you call me, and I’ll drop everything, no questions asked.”
“Thanks, Arlo.”
“I mean it. Anytime, night or day. You need me, you call me, okay?” He searches my face for a response.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Good. On that note, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Umm… okay?”
It’s weird for Arlo to check before saying something. Normally he just says whatever’s on his mind, for better or for worse. He’s a more of a “ask for forgiveness, not permission” kind of guy.
“Don’t take this the wrong way…” Christ, he’s really treading on eggshells, it must be bad. “…but I couldn’t help but notice you’ve lost a lot of weight since I saw you last. I mean, there wasn’t anything to lose in the first place, but you have. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay?”
“You’re as bad as Marko—the two of you need to quit worrying about me like a pair of old grandmas. I’m fine, Arlo, totally fine.”
“So you’re not sick, or….” He lets the end of the sentence hang in the air, a heavy frown clouding his features, his tone hesitant.
“Or what, Arlo?”
I’m trying not to lose my cool, as I know that he’s only looking out for me, but his rare failure to get to the point is annoying the crap out of me—if nothing else, he knows I’m about to be late for my meeting.
“Well, you know, like…. You haven’t got an eating disorder or anything, have you?”
I try not to laugh, as I feel bad that he’s worrying about me unnecessarily. I know that in general, it’s not an unreasonable suggestion—I was a professional dancer, after all. But anyone who knows me, including him, knows the chances of that are slim to none. No pun intended.
“No, it’s nothing like that. I promise. Anyway, you know how much I love to eat. It sounds stupid, but I’m literally so busy and stressed that I keep accidentally skipping meals. Then I’ll carry on working until way into the night, and collapse in bed for a few hours’ sleep, and then do the whole thing again the next day. I’ve been pretty much living at the studio, and there’s only that poky little galley kitchen, so it’s not like I’m about to cook a proper meal, so it’s been takeout and deli food, when I do remember.”
“You cook?” His frown quickly transforms into a look of complete shock.
“Well no, not generally. Not saying that I can’t, as such, I just don’t. That’s one of the reasons I love living with Marko. He’s an amazing cook. In fact, he called me and summoned me home so that he could feed me up, because he was concerned too. My point was that even if I was the domestic goddess type, there’s not much I can do at the studio, and given that I’m there more often than not, my diet has taken a hit. And to be honest, I’m so fucking uneasy about these photos, the exhibition, the book, all of it, that food has been the last thing on my mind. If I don’t nail this thing to the wall, I’ll be ridiculed.”
“Okay, stop.”
He actually puts a hand up, traffic cop style, before raking it through his hair and crack
ing his neck.
“You listen to me, London Llwellyn. I told you before that I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t believe that you could not only pull this off, but to do a stellar job. You’re a weapon—you have a great eye and technical skill, but you also feel what you’re photographing, and you ‘get’ people. It’s the perfect storm. Besides that, no job, or reputation, or stress is worth your health. If you collapse due to exhaustion or whatever, there will be no book or exhibition. I will withdraw my permission and put a stop to the whole thing in a heartbeat. Those assholes at the publishing house can kiss my ass, and sue me for breach of contract if they like. I’ve got the legal backing and the money to fight it out for as long as it takes. Zero fucks given.”
“Okaaay….”
“No. I’m serious, London.”
“Ummm… yeah… I got that.” Loud. And. Clear. “Listen, Arlo, I appreciate your concern, really I do. Both you and Marko are very sweet—”
He looks less than pleased at the third mention of Marko.
“Yeah, well he’s not sweet enough, letting you drink your body weight in gin last night. What the hell did he think was going to happen?”
I hurry on with what I was saying. “I promise I’ll make more of an effort to look after myself, but you don’t need to worry. I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Hmmm… we’ll see.” He’s obviously not convinced.
I lean over to give him a quick thank-you kiss on the cheek, but at the last minute he turns his head, and I catch him full on the lips instead.
As ever, the passion heats up straight away, and before long, Arlo has pulled me across the gap between our seats, and into his lap, so that I’m straddling him, grinding my crotch into his growing erection. The urge to unleash on him and scratch this itch is very, very strong.
“Arlo, we’ve got to stop.” I pull away, breathing raggedly. He’s the only man who can do this to me. “I’ve got this meeting—the guys from the publishing house will be here any minute, and the last thing I want is for them to see me making out in the car like an oversexed teenager. Especially with you.”
