Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  “It’s about the photography contract.”

  Motherfucker. He’s right. I don’t like it at all. This fucking contract is haunting me like the ghost of drug-fueled nights past.

  “What about it?” My tone earlier was sunny in comparison to the shade I’m throwing his way now.

  “Well, the publishing house say they’re going to assign somebody to shoot these photos, and if you refuse to go ahead, they’ll sue.”

  “Screw them.” I struggle to think of something I give less of a fuck about than this stupid fucking contract.

  “The thing is, as much as you’re against it, they’re well within their rights to do both. This whole thing has spun way out of control. Honestly, the fact that they haven’t pursued this through legal channels before now is nothing short of a miracle, but we can’t afford to continue to push it and expect the same result. They’re shit out of patience on this now, and I can’t say I blame them. This project has been hanging around like a festering sore. It should have been put to bed months ago, yet here it still is, a fly in the ointment for all concerned.”

  I know its Paul’s job to protect us, but I often find myself wishing he’d grow even half a pair of balls. He trundles on.

  “Bottom line? This is about money. They offered up this contract in the first place because they know there’s money to be made, obscene amounts if all goes according to plan. I know you regret agreeing to it, but that’s exactly what you did, and no amount of tantrums is going to change that fact. Your signature is on those contracts in black and white for all to see. They’re upholding their end of the bargain in good faith, and they expect you to do the same, whether that means them serving papers and waiting the whole thing out in court, or continuing to apply the pressure to ensure it happens before it gets that far.”

  If I roll my eyes any further, they’ll disappear down the back of my neck.

  “Trust me, court is the last place we want to end up on this one. It’s not a good look. Either it will drag out for months, which sucks shit for anyone concerned, or they’ll be angling for an out-of-court settlement, which will be quick but by no means painless. They’ll want to be compensated for loss of projected potential earnings from sales of the book and art prints in perpetuity. They’ll pick a figure, then quadruple it. It won’t be pretty.”

  “Yeah, I get all this shit. Apart from the fact that you’ve told me no less than eight hundred times, I also wasn’t born yesterday, I know how this works. It’s not my first rodeo when it comes to litigation. You of all people should know that.”

  “I do. All the more reason we need to keep this one out of court. So either you nominate somebody or they do, but either way it’s going to happen.”

  I’m still mentally bitch slapping myself for getting myself into this situation in the first place. Paul pretty much conned me into signing a deal with a publishing house to produce a coffee table book and gallery showing full of photos of me. My travels, touring, partying, hanging with the band, and “the rest.” Basically a photo essay. The whole thing was to be launched via the gallery exhibition of the prints. The purpose of which was primarily to excite journalists and other industry people. The whole thing is tedious but potentially very lucrative.

  Okay, so he didn’t con me in the true sense of the word; it’s not like he forged my signature on the contract or forced me into signing something I didn’t want to. He was approached by the publishers with a deal that made good financial sense for all parties concerned, and which I must concede would be tremendous PR for me specifically, and for the band in general. I’m big enough to admit that he wouldn’t have been doing his job if he’d withheld the offer and not made me aware of it.

  Not only that, but I had the contract checked out by my own lawyers who deemed it essentially sound, bar a few changes that they ironed out with the legal suits from the publisher’s side. The part where the whole thing fell down is that no fucker pointed out to me that the reality of the logistics of the project made it a damned fool idea for most people, but for me especially.

  Of course, on a normal day, I don’t need anyone to tell me that anything that involves me having some asshole photog shadow my every move for months on end is borderline suicidal, but those weren’t normal days. I had been hitting it pretty hard—drinking, smoking, snorting, fucking as though my life depended on it… and though I don’t recall the specific conversations, I’m guessing Paul got me at a weak point when my defenses were down, and I just agreed to whatever he was saying so that he would shut the fuck up and leave me the hell alone.

  One small mercy is that even lit, I was at least compos mentis enough to ensure that I could nominate the photographer, which the publisher then reserved the right to reject. Still, even with that clause in the mix, in the cold light of day I couldn’t think of anything worse than months on the road in close quarters with a stranger. Like Gramps said, for a smart guy I really do some dumbass things at times.

  I’ve been giving them the brushoff since I signed, with one excuse after another about why it’s not the right time, hoping they’ll get bored and back out. Which of course they haven’t. Two years down the track and they still want their pound of Arlo Jones flesh and the greens that go with it too bad to just drop the subject. Not that I can blame them from a business perspective—if it goes down like I think, it will make everyone a whole stack of cash, which is what we’re all in it for. I know if the tables were turned and I was the one instigating the deal, I’d have sued my slack ass long ago. I take no prisoners.

  While I’m half listening to Paul threaten me with fire and brimstone, half making a voodoo doll of him in my mind, then hacking it to pieces with a Samurai sword and dunking the pieces in a vat of acid, I have an epiphany. A plan comes to me that is so beautiful in its simplicity, it’s beyond perfect.

  “Yeah, I get it. I have a possible solution. I have a photographer in mind, but it’s going to take some juggling to make it happen.”

  “You do?” He sounds like I said I’ve invented a cure for stupidity.

  “Don’t sound so shocked. Despite some pretty damning evidence to the contrary, I am actually what’s loosely termed a responsible adult. As well as the band, you know I have the club and the tattoo parlor. But unlike most celebrity business owners, I’m not just a public figurehead. I’m hands-on in both businesses, and what do you know? They’re both thriving. Clearly I’m not a total incompetent.”

  “That’s not wha—”

  “Relax, I’m yanking your chain. I get it, and to answer your question, yes, I do have someone in mind. Her name is London Llwellyn.”

  “Her name. So it’s a woman.”

  “Ten out of ten for observation, Sherlock, she is indeed of the female persuasion. So the fuck what? It’s not 1847, women can do whatever the fuck they want.”

  “Of course, I know that. That’s not the issue. I just wonder about the wisdom…. You know…. It’s thirteen weeks on the road….”

  I’m glad this conversation is by phone. If we were in the same room together, I would have strangled him with his Hermès tie by now.

  “Seriously, Paul? For fuck’s sake. Google her, and you’ll find her website—her portfolio is there. She’s a phenomenal photographer, and I am 100 percent sure she’ll nail this gig to the wall. Bottom line? It’s her or nothing.” I can hear him frantically typing, I presume doing exactly as I instructed.

  “Hmmm… you’re right, some of these photos are… exceptionally good. She’s definitely skilled, but what did you mean by all or nothing?”

  Since discovering her website, I’ve cruised it an embarrassing number of times. Like, I’m officially at stalker level: DEFCON 1. She really is ridiculously good with a camera. Way too good to be cleaning up after pigs like me and panhandling for tips at some third-rate restaurant. In the course of our conversations and confrontations around the house, she revealed that she’s working her ass off to build up her photography career, which makes perfect sense—clearly cleaning
and waitressing aren’t her calling.

  I need a photographer. She’s an outstanding photographer in need of work. Supply, meet Demand.

  “I thought that was pretty self-explanatory, Paul. Either London Llwellyn is the photographer for this job, or there’s no deal.”

  What better way to put her firmly on the map than to produce a coffee table book and gallery exhibit featuring her photos of one of the world’s most recognizable and in-demand faces? Like it or not, photos of me are big currency. Huge in fact. A book and exhibition are basically the Holy Grail. If she’s as serious about taking her career to the next level as she said, then this is the definition of an offer she can’t refuse. And even if she does, I’ll work on her until she sees this for what it is—the career-making offer of a lifetime.

  Of course, the plan also works ridiculously well for me. Stevie is out of rehab and cleared to work again, which means that the Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour is back on track, and we’re heading out on the road again to fulfill the dates that were canceled. When I found out, I was happy that Stevie was okay, excited to be able to get back on the road to do what we love best, and pissed off that I would be away from London for weeks on end.

  Mostly I was pissed. Just as I felt like I was maybe, possibly starting to get somewhere with London—I wasn’t sure where, but somewhere had to be better than nowhere—I got the news that the tour was back on. I felt a gnawing anxiety in the pit of my stomach that this would be the beginning of the end with her. I’d only gotten as far as I had, which admittedly wasn’t very far, because I’d persevered. I’d chipped away at her defenses and shown her something of the man behind the myth. Gramps’s advice had been on the money, and I’d been executing it every day.

  “The thing is, Arlo, that’s not how it works. You can’t just issue an ultimatum like that. There’s already a deal. The deal is that you get to nominate the photographer, but the publisher has final right of veto. You signed a contract, and it’s watertight. As I said before, if you refuse to go ahead, they’ll sue.”

  This is the ultimate hostile takeover, part IV. I couldn’t have planned this shit better if a genie had popped up and offered me three wishes. I’d figured that once I was on the road, it would be a case of out of sight, out of mind for London. She’d move on, or worse still, come to her senses, and I’d lose all the ground I’d made. It had felt like a giant game of Chutes and Ladders. Like I would have come back from tour and have to try to win her over from scratch.

  I was especially pissed when I mentioned my imminent departure to her and, while I was losing my mind over it, she apparently didn’t care. In fact, she seemed almost glad to see the back of me. I’ve been stewing over her reaction for a few days, and I seriously can’t believe I didn’t think of this whole thing sooner. Gramps would want to shake me by the lapels if he knew I’d been so lax in applying his very sage advice. “Find out what she wants, and give it to her,” he’d said. The answer had been right under my nose from day one, but I’d been too blind to see it.

  “Fuck the contract, and fuck them. These are my terms. It’s London, or it’s nobody. If they don’t want to go ahead on that basis, I’ll see them in court. I have the money, time, and sheer bloody will to go all the way, and I will.” As far as I’m concerned, it’s well worth getting sued for.

  “Bu—”

  “No buts. Do me a favor: earn your fee, and make this happen.” I hang up, excited.

  From here on in, it’s a numbers game: thirteen weeks, fifty shows, thirty-two cities. Two thousand, one hundred and eighty-four hours to make London mine. Hostile. Takeover.

  PUSHING ARLO

  Prologue

  Six Months Ago, 5:00 a.m.

  I pull Marnie out into the parking lot with a sense of urgency, but once we get out there, I’m hazy as to why. It must have seemed like a good idea moments ago, but I’m buzzed as fuck, and right now, any possible logic to my thinking escapes me. I don’t waste much time trying to figure it out. Who cares about the past, even if it was only moments ago? I’m here for the here and now. Right here, right now, I have Marnie, and a stiff dick. That’s plenty to work with. More than enough, in fact—the two of us together is a recipe for a good time. Every time.

  The next thing I know, I’m fucking her from behind on the hood of somebody’s car. A Porsche, I think. Maybe Hunter’s? I make a mental note to apologize when I speak to him next, but all I can think about is the feel of Marnie wrapped around me. The sex is off the hook, as always. Emotionally detached and hotter than Hades. Just how I like it. That has always been what keeps us coming back for more. Well, for me anyway.

  I’m lost in the ever-pleasant feeling of being inside her; there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now than here. The world around me is a dim blur, screened out so I can focus totally on giving and receiving pleasure, but somewhere in the depths of my addled consciousness, I become dimly aware of a commotion overhead. What the hell is that? A plane? A UFO? The nuclear apocalypse? Wait… it’s a fucking drone. Damn the paparazzi. Just when you think you know what you’re dealing with, they find new depths to sink to. I lose my shit, yelling and screaming, even though I know it’s futile.

  I’m playing right into their hands, standing there with my dick on display, carrying on like a crazy person, but even knowing that, I can’t seem to stop. Someone—Hunter—intervenes, shoving me into my ride while I stuff myself back into my pants. Hunter is a legend. I make a note to thank him for saving my ass, as well as apologize for violating his luxury baby. Marnie follows me into the back seat, and as we speed off into the night, I try to put the pieces together, and work out how we got here….

  Six Months Ago, 1:00 a.m. (Four Hours Earlier)

  The sleek town car snakes through the gated lot and pulls up to the back door of my club, 12AM Mass (Midnight Mass). As ever, I’m thankful for the private and secluded entrance, away from the baying crowds and paparazzi scrum at the front of the club. I’ll never regret the huge success I’ve had with this business, but sometimes the trappings of fame and notoriety can wear thin. Having just seen my bandmate, and one of my closest friends, carted off to rehab again, today is definitely one of those days.

  Dressed to kill in my trademark skintight black jeans, formfitting black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and dark glasses, I have one aim in mind. I’m on a mission to mourn the postponement of our Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour by getting as fucked up as humanly possible, and then getting as fucked as humanly possible. If I can swing both at the same time, even better. I like to be efficient.

  Admittedly, this is not my best thinking. In the cold light of day, even a monkey can see that. Knowing the tour issues stem from Stevie’s tendency to overindulge in every way possible at every given occasion, walking off a plane and doing the same thing is worse than stupid. It’s reckless, destructive, and irresponsible. But then, that’s me.

  In my defense, I’m borderline delirious with jet lag and physically and mentally strung out from months of endless touring and all Stevie’s drama. Most of all, though it’s rare for me to admit it even to myself, I’m fucking lonely. The last thing I want to do now is to head back to my giant soulless pad alone—except for Luke, and he hardly counts—and look at the plain white walls. When I feel this way, my solution has always been to get wasted and then get laid. Rinse and repeat. It’s worked for me so far, and if it ain’t broke….

  We draw to a stop, and I head inside to quickly take care of some business, before I can take care of business. As I enter, I’m met by Hunter, my club manager. He’s expecting me—I called him from our jet and told him I’d be heading there directly from the airport. There are a few things I need to discuss with him before I can finally be off duty for the night. I also had some “requirements” I wanted him to take care of before I arrived. I don’t want to have to wait to get the party started once our work is done.

  As I approach, Hunter reaches out to give me a firm handshake before leaning forward for the bro hug. I’m genuinely
glad to see him. He may be my employee, but the two of us are tight, which is why our shit works. I always enjoy his company, and with months on the road behind me, it’s been a while.

  Even when I’m not touring, living in LA means my visits to the club are the exception rather than the rule. We speak on the phone and FaceTime often, but there’s no substitute for seeing the whites of someone’s eyes in the flesh, especially when that person is good people. Hunter Campbell is 150 percent good people. I’d trust him with my life, and thinking about some of the shit I’ve done in the club, I literally have.

  He greets me warmly, as always. “My man, good to see you. To what do I owe this impromptu visit? Not that I’m not happy to catch up anytime, but you’re in the middle of a tour, so I’m guessing you’re not here for pleasure. What’s up?” He flashes his trademark grin.

  “Man, don’t even ask. Let’s just say that Stevie needed another ‘vacay’”—I air quote, even though he can’t see me on the other end of the line—“urgently. So the rest of us are on a forced break too. I’m not gonna lie—it wasn’t pretty out there toward the end. Not at all. If the label hadn’t pulled the pin when they did, I sure as shit would have. Anyway, enough of that. I have a few things I need to talk you through, and then I want to get lit. Big. Time.”

  Of all the guys, Stevie is the easiest to be around. He’s charming and affable, and he’s rarely seen without his trademark wide-mouthed grin. I challenge anyone not to feel like they’ve known him forever within minutes of meeting him. He radiates an energy the people are just drawn to. They say a great sense of humor is one of the top characteristics that women look for in men, and judging by Stevie’s strike rate, I’d definitely say that was true. Chicks fucking lap up his laidback vibe. The fact that he’s pretty easy on the eye just adds to the charm.