Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

Of course, being the “sociable one” in a band is synonymous with partying. Our man Stevie wrote the book on working hard and playing harder. Too hard, in fact. He’s definitely always the member of the band most likely to need bailing out of some disaster scenario or other. In fact, any fucked-up situation you can name, there’s a good chance that Stevie has found himself in it at some point over the past fifteen years. Missed planes? Check. Passing out midgig? Check. Hitting on some guy’s woman and getting beaten to a pulp as a result? Check. Night sobering up in lock up? Check. Check. Check.

  Hunter and I make our way into the back of house area. It has the staff rec room, changing facilities, kitchen, bathroom, and offices for me, Hunter, and his brother Hendrix, our bar manager. My office gets used a few times a year, if that, given that I’m hardly ever in town, but it’s nice to have my own space when I am.

  Business quickly and efficiently dispatched with, I check that Hunter has met my requests for the night. He confirms he has and shoots me a quick wink, throwing over his shoulder almost as an afterthought as he walks away, “Be careful tonight, Arlo. It’s a jungle out there.”

  Yeah, and I’m the fucking king. Let the games begin. I head for the VIP area and silently praise Hunter. He has catered exactly to my needs, as I knew he would. It’s going to be a good night.

  From there on in, everything is a blur of snippets of time and activity flashing in and out of mind, small moments of clarity in a murky sea of confusion. It’s safe to assume that I indulged in the “gifts” Hunter left me, and then some. I remember women. Not specific women, but assorted women in various states of undress, various lewd positions, and various states of coital and postcoital abandon. I recall body parts and clothing flying. I have a dim memory of the lingering scent of mingling perfumes and bodily fluids. Can I recollect a specific face or name? No. I guess that’s the sign of a good time—the less you retain the next day, the better it was. By that measure, this one deserves a dedicated star in the “debauched night out” hall of fame.

  At some stage in proceedings—late, I think—Marnie appears. I have no idea how or why. She also came from the airport, straight from a modeling gig in… Prague? Berlin? Barcelona? I can’t remember. Anyway, there she is, in all her supermodel glory. She’s exceptionally beautiful and always has been. She also seems to have some sort of radar for knowing exactly where I am, then being there too. It’s weird, but then I guess our “thing” is weird to anyone viewing it from the outside.

  I see it as something similar to an addict going on a binge on their chosen poison. We use screwing each other’s brains out to fill a void. For me, being with her momentarily drives out the gnawing loneliness, replacing it with a high—even if it is short-lived. More often than not, as soon as I’ve come, reality kicks in and I want to kick Marnie out. It’s nothing personal, just the way it is. I love to fuck, and screwing Marnie is a whole lot easier than dealing with the hot mess that normally goes along with groupie sex. We know what buttons to push to get each other off every time, and we use each other to get what we need with no emotions involved, then move the fuck on. I haven’t figured out what it is Marnie needs, and I’ve never asked her—it’s sex, not therapy.

  One

  I let myself into London’s studio, which is also doubling as the gallery for the launch of my coffee-table book, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless tonight. Not that she knows it’s her studio yet; that’s a surprise I’m planning to drop on her at the launch itself. As far as she knows, the space has been rented until the exhibition is over, and then she’ll have to move out and find herself new digs. Little does she know that as soon as I saw how much she loved the place, and how perfect it was for her needs, I approached the owner and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Strangely enough, they didn’t.

  I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her. I’ve always enjoyed the material benefits that my level of success in music and in business has brought me, but now that I have someone to share it with, instead of drinking, snorting, and smoking most of it, or buying myself obscenely expensive toys, I’m really seeing the true benefits of this kind of wealth.

  I’ve also realized it’s London’s natural inclination to refuse all gifts and other gestures I put her way. I think she has a complex about feeling like a gold digger, or not being able to stand on her own two feet or some shit. Little does she know that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that crap if I tried. Fact is, I’d give her my last dime if she needed it, or even if she didn’t, and not think twice. We weren’t even officially a couple—at least in her eyes, anyway; in mine we were from day one, and have been for months—and already, what’s mine is hers, and then some.

  I know for sure that if I’d suggested buying the studio, she would have flat-out refused, so I went ahead anyway. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and now that it’s done, she’s hardly going to refuse the gift. Even if she tries, it’s been bought entirely in her name, so I pretty much have her over a barrel. I love the game of cat and mouse we have going on—it keeps me guessing. On the other hand, if I’m in something, I’m in to win, so I know how things will turn out, even if I have to wait a while for it to come to fruition.

  Still, London is the first woman to have even vaguely caught my interest, beyond the contents of their lingerie—the fact that I have to work for her affections is a large part of the attraction. I’m a sick bastard like that. Pretty much the first girl to have resisted my “charms,” and she had me with the first slap in the face. Go figure.

  It sounds sappy as shit, but seeing the shock and delight on her face when I surprise her with some new grand gesture is worth its weight in gold, and there are no lengths I wouldn’t go to to make her smile that way. Right now, she’s at a pampering makeup and wardrobe session I organized to help her de-stress, relax, and prepare for this evening. I knew she was freaking out about the launch—she had been for months, in fact—so I thought that a little lady time might help settle her mind, and give her a little more confidence.

  I have an ulterior motive for wanting her out of the studio for a few hours today, also—or more accurately, a couple of ulterior motives. First, it means I have access to the photos before anybody else. A few months earlier, I had given London carte blanche to select whichever shots she felt worked best from the photos she’d taken of me while on tour with the Heartless Few, and treat them however she saw fit. She has mad photography skills, and I trusted her implicitly to put together a world-class exhibition and book. However, curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I really want to see the images both before the rest of the world, and without London around to witness my initial reaction.

  Not that I thought I wouldn’t like them—quite the opposite, in fact. I knew I’d love them. We had been on a break at her request since she came back from the tour, and while she prepared for tonight. Having barely seen each other in that time, I wasn’t sure I could be trusted not to make an ass of myself over them in front of her. So here I was, sneaking around behind her back like a crazy stalker. Who knew being in love could make you do such dumbass shit?

  Nothing prepared me for the deep wrench to the gut I feel on seeing the photos. I’m literally fucking winded. I walk into the airy open space, and I swear to God, I’m dead. Like heart stopped, bury me six feet under, fucking chuck roses on my grave, then throw a big party and get high in my name. Dead. Mind epically blown. My future wife isn’t just good with a camera—she’s an actual fucking genius.

  She’s also majorly in denial if she doesn’t realize that she is as fucked up over me as I am over her. It’s all here in black and white. And color. And sepia. And negative.

  I know this, but I can’t help wondering if London realizes she’s about to tell the world, albeit in pictures rather than in words. These photos would be big news regardless of their content or composition, simply because they feature me. Looking the way they do, and telling the story they tell, they’re going to set the internet alight, for sure. I briefly pause to co
nsider whether I should warn her.

  She was fretting about not being good enough, or about the book failing, but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to her to worry about potentially exposing the most private and intimate details of our love for each other to the baying pack of press wolves, and then to the rest of world. You think you know what you’re going to see when someone launches a behind-the-scenes on tour book, and it sure as shit ain’t this. The serenity and love radiating from these photos are not what people expect to see from me. Not at all.

  When I recover my breath and my heart feels a little less like someone rode over it on a dirt bike, I laugh aloud to myself like the crazy fucker I’m obviously becoming. These photos scream “Sorry, ladies, Arlo Jones is officially off the market once and for all. Back the fuck up and get your hands off. He’s mine.” The irony of the fact that I’m about to give an exclusive interview to Rolling Stone where I spill my guts about London in words to the same effect isn’t wasted on me.

  As though reading my mind, just then there’s a small tap on the door. It’s the columnist who will be conducting the interview, and her accompanying photographer. A photographer to shoot the exhibition—and me, of course. They enter the space, and we quickly dispense with the introductions. I note the journalist—Jen Wharton seems vaguely familiar. In such circumstances, I generally assume that means we’ve fucked at some point, and judging by the deep flush spreading across her face, neck, and chest as we shake hands, I think it’s safe to say my assumption is correct.

  I feel for her. I’m long past the point of being embarrassed about running into conquests, whether I recall the event or not. When you spread yourself around as much as I do—or did—you learn pretty quickly that it’s a very small world, and accept it as an occupational hazard.

  She looks around the room, eyes boggling, jaw dropping in amazement as she turns around several times.

  “Wow.”

  Rolling Stone Interview

  Arlo Jones, Fallen Star

  Jen Wharton talks love, loss, and redemption with coldhearted rocker Arlo Jones, the one that got away.

  I walk into the Chelsea warehouse where in a few hours’ time, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless, an exhibition of photos taken from a coffee-table book of the same name, will be launched to the press and a select group of invited guests before its public launch tomorrow. The exhibition and the book feature photographs taken on tour with the Heartless Few. The band, with Jones at the helm as front man, has reached stratospheric levels of success since it formed fifteen years ago.

  The images were captured over the course of thirteen weeks at the tail end of the band’s almost ill-fated Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour—back on the road after being postponed due to the band’s drummer, Stevie Knox, being admitted to a facility to be treated for exhaustion. The work represents a high-profile debut for fledgling photographer London Llwellyn, who has little commercial work in her portfolio, and for whom photographing rock stars represents completely unchartered territory.

  From my initial look around the room at the photographs, I know I’m witnessing something special. History-in-the-making special. I can also suddenly see why Jones, who is notoriously wary of the press, sought out Rolling Stone in order to give this interview. A cursory glance is all it takes for me to know that this is a pivotal moment in music history, and indeed in Arlo Jones’s life. I sum up my thoughts and feelings in one simple word.

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, that pretty much covers it” is Jones’s understated response.

  Though possibly on the margins of professionalism, I’m going to say it anyway. Everything about Arlo Jones screams sex at ten thousand decibels. I’m not the only woman to say so. He’s been routinely voted “sexiest male” on the planet more times than most people have had hot meals. Fifteen years into his career, and there are no signs of his popularity waning. Today, as every day, he’s dressed in all black everything—stylishly ripped and form-fitting T-shirt perfectly showing off his toned and taut arms, chest, and abs; equally ripped ultratight jeans that leave nothing to the imagination; and pointed, laced dress shoes.

  His thick glossy hair lies in artful waves that hover between shabby chic and outright messy, the long tendrils being kept out of his eyes by a pair of sunglasses on top of his head, which most likely cost more than my car. His broody good looks are a thing of legend, and in real life, they don’t disappoint—the chiseled jaw, the blazing green eyes, and intense artist stare could disarm even the most hardened of hearts.

  Speaking of hearts, the shoes and the Le Smoking jacket slung across the arm of a nearby sofa are a definite departure from his normal relaxed rock star uniform, but then tonight is a big night. As well as the launch for his new book, it will also be the official public confirmation of his previously rumored relationship with Llwellyn. Put another way, if the world was wondering and speculating about the nature of their relationship before now—spoiler alert, it was—that speculation will be over at the sight of these photographs. They seem to document not only the tour, but also the couple’s trajectory as lovers.

  This isn’t my first rodeo with Jones. I met him for the first time a number of years ago at an awards ceremony, and although the air of sex simmering just under the surface and his smoldering good looks are the same, a lot seems different. Albeit the ceremony was a nighttime affair and everyone involved was very “merry,” Jones’s vibe was completely different—darker, and not in a good way. He had the haunted look behind the eyes of a man who had yet to find his place in the world and was battling demons while trying.

  I don’t want to put words into his mouth, but I get the distinct feeling that Jones has some major news to share, and that maybe he’s found his place. Though I have a list of prepared questions I’d like to cover as part of the interview, something tells me that Jones will be leading this conversation; though it’s not the way I tend to work as a journalist, today it seems like the right way to go.

  He stalks toward me with intent before throwing himself onto the charcoal couch. Patting the space next to me, he invites me to do the same. I sit, and we start the interview.

  Looking around the gallery, I can see now why you wanted do this interview. Looks like a lot has changed in your life recently?

  Yeah, I guess you could say that, and although I normally hate speaking to the press, I decided that this time around, I want to control the story for once, or at least input into it. I want to set the story straight and put the truth out there in my own words.

  And what is that truth?

  For a long time, I thought I could prevent myself from ever loving anyone. Like I was literally no longer physically capable of it. I figured I’d somehow managed to turn that function off. Romantic love, I mean—I loved my family, but obviously that’s platonic. I vowed never to allow myself to fall in love. Ever. As far as I was concerned, that part of me was broken and couldn’t be fixed.

  Why not?

  My dad died of cancer when I was fifteen. Losing a parent at that age fucks you up beyond belief. At least it did me. I was heartbroken, shattered, in pieces. I decided then that I was never going to willingly open myself up to feeling like that again. I just shut that part of myself down—closed it off to the rest of the world, and to me. My reputation is heartless by name, heartless by nature, and it was true. I went out of my way to ensure it. Despite being with countless women, love was never on my radar, and as far as I was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay.

  You’re speaking in the past tense. Am I right in assuming that this is no longer the case?

  Basically, yeah. I thought my plan was working, and that I was in control of every aspect of my life. But it turns out that wasn’t true. Now I look back and think… I don’t know… like the past, all of that time, I was just in a holding pattern, like a TV on standby—never fully switched off, just waiting for someone to press the button and bring me to life again.

  Has someone pressed your button?

  P
ressed the button? She’s activated the whole home cinema system, complete with 3-D imaging and surround sound. Shit, this thing even has smellavision.

  You’re in love?

  I guess that’s how most people would describe it.

  How would you describe it?

  I’m… saved.

  Saved from what?

  From myself. I feel like I’ve lived the past fifteen years under a thick black blanket of volcanic dust. It was gritty and suffocating. It smothered everything, dulling my thoughts and feelings, snuffing out life and hope. More and more dust piled on over the years, making it impossible to see the light above my head, or all around. Making it impossible to think, feel, or even breathe without it getting at me, getting into me, choking me. It was pervasive and destructive, but it was all I knew. Then London came along and just fucking blew the dust away, literally in one puff.

  I used to say that music saved me. And it did. If it hadn’t been for the band, and music in general after my dad died, who knows where I’d be right now. Probably dead myself. What I didn’t realize was that although I wasn’t dead, I wasn’t really living. London saved me again, and showed me what I had been missing.

  You’re talking about London Llwellyn, the photographer responsible for your new photography exhibition and coffee-table book, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless?

  One and the same.

  Interesting. How did the two of you meet and get together?

  It’s kind of a long story, some of the details of which we’d like to keep private, but what I can say is that London came into my life when I was least expecting it, but needed it the most. She was… no, she is like no woman I’ve ever met. She challenges me in ways I never thought possible, but I can’t get enough of.

  She sounds perfect for you.

  She is, but don’t get me wrong—she kicks my ass every day. Sometimes literally.