by MV Ellis
“Nothing. I don’t know. Umm… I think I’m just overwhelmed and overtired or something. It’s been a big day. In fact, a big few months. Ignore me.”
Not gonna happen.
“You’re pretty hard to ignore, sweets. Especially when I’m balls deep inside you.” I smile down at her, hoping to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t seem to work. She props herself up on her elbows, looking into my eyes, but more importantly allowing me to look into hers, to really see her. The connection we have is clear when our gazes lock. I stare at her, long, hard, and unblinking. I’m sure the worry I feel is etched on my features, just like hers is.
“Seriously, you okay, babe?” I probe again.
“Yeah I am, I promise. I know you’re sick of hearing me say I’m overwhelmed, but it’s true. It’s been a hell of a few months, as you know, and I’ve been running on nervous energy and little else. The tour, the photos, the interviews, the show tonight… it’s… big. I guess. I mean, I know it’s just another day at the office for you, but for me it’s a lot to handle. The crash was inevitable. I’m just relieved I made it through the show before losing my shit.
“I’m so unbelievably tired. I’ve been bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. It’s so unlike me, but I guess exhaustion will do that to you. I can’t wait to catch up on some sleep and get back to my normal self. I’m fine, honestly.” She licks her lips slowly and salaciously.
Although I’m aware she’s trying to distract me from what’s really going on with her, it doesn’t stop my body responding—I’m hardwired to want her. Still inside her, I feel my dick twitch again. I don’t think I will ever be able to get enough of this woman.
“You’re killing me here, London. Killing me,” I say, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her thick black curls are completely out of control right now—I love them at the best of times, but even more so now, when she’s sporting the “freshly fucked by Arlo” look. I guess it’s kind of a caveman thing. Like I’ve left my mark on my woman in more ways than one. I love it, but I need to stop thinking this way. As much as I’d like to go for round two, I really don’t think it’s the right time.
“We’ve had this conversation before, Tog, and you know I’m not going to be okay with you holding back on me, right?” I know her well enough by now to know that if something’s not right with her, it’s far from “nothing,” and if I ignore it now, I’ll regret it later.
I run my fingertips up and down her ribs, idly stroking her tattoo as I speak. I love it. Strength Through Weakness is totally appropriate for her. For someone so physically small, she’s one of the toughest and most resilient people I know. It may be discreet—you’d only see it if you were intimate with her—but it’s totally intrinsic to who she is.
It’s the same with the cluster of silvery scars on her hip. They’re an everyday reminder of how fleeting life is. How one day—in fact, one tiny moment, one split second in one day—almost tore her from the world. Each time I look at those scars, which is often, I fall in love with her a little more. I’m also thankful they’re there. They mean she’s a little broken, like we all are, but more importantly, they mean she’s here.
“We’re gonna be married someday, but for us to ever get to that point, you need to trust me. With what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. With everything.”
London chokes on thin air. I don’t think she’d look more shocked if Elvis turned up carrying Bigfoot in his arms.
“Don’t look so horrified. Anybody would think I said I’m going to eat your liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Judging by her expression, I think she’d almost rather that. Fuck. I should be offended. I swallow my pride, something I seem to be required to do on an almost daily basis to survive life with London Llwellyn. I lean toward her, planting tiny light kisses down her spine.
“You’re…” Kiss. “…perfect…” Kiss. “…and…” Kiss. “…one…” Kiss. “…day…” Kiss. “…you’re…” Kiss. “…going…” Kiss. “…to…” Kiss. “…be…” Kiss. “…my…” Kiss. “…wife…” Kiss. “…and…” Kiss. “…have…” Kiss. “…my…” Kiss. “…babies.” Kiss.
“Knock it off, Arlo. That’s not something you should joke about, even if you’re trying to cheer me up.” Finally she speaks! She tries to scooch out of reach of my kisses, but I simply move across the bed with her, scooping her up in my arms. She always feels so tiny when I hug her, I guess because compared to my six-four frame, she is. It’s just that her personality more than makes up for her physical size, so I always think of her as bigger than she really is.
“No joke. I’m deadly serious. Never been so serious about something or someone in my life.” She starts to squirm in my arms, but I hold firm.
“I know it’s just the post-orgasm endorphins talking, Arlo.” She’s starting to sound angry. What the actual fuck? Before I can come back in my defense, she continues.
“I’m also pretty sure that unless you’re blind drunk in Vegas and accidentally have a quickie Elvis wedding with a hooker, I’ve got more chance of walking on the moon than I have of seeing you walk down the aisle. With anyone.”
At that, she leaves me openmouthed as she wraps the sheet around her body and stomps into the bathroom, I presume to clean up. I feel like I have whiplash with this woman. One minute we’re coming down from our postcoital high, the next I’m inadvertently offending her in yet another unexpected way. Music, I get. Bars and clubs, I get. Tattoos, I get. Fucking, I get. Love? London? Not so much. I sigh and wait for her to emerge from the bathroom.
“Ah, there she is. I was beginning to think that you’d freaked out and hightailed it out the window. That would have been a first—it’s usually me bailing, not the chick.” I grin, hoping that my good humor will prove infectious.
“I was just trying, and failing, to tame the stupid bed hair.” Funny that she hates it whereas I find it unbelievably sexy.
As she approaches the edge of the bed, I pull the sheet from her body, yanking her down toward me.
“I swear I will never tire of looking at this body,” I murmur, a note of awe in my voice. I pull her in closer, so her back is against my chest. I’ve never been the spooning type. In fact, I’ve never been the type to want anything after sex except maybe another round and a fat blunt. If a woman is still there ten minutes after we’re done, I start to get restless, even with Marnie. Hell, ten minutes seems long. Yet with London, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.
She traces idly around my tattoos with the tip of her forefinger. It’s such a small, almost subconscious gesture, but so intimate. As she often does, she begins narrowing the path of her finger, circling one particular tattoo.
“This one’s new. Tell me about it?” she says finally, scrutinizing the ink on my chest. It’s a little ritual we have. She picks a tattoo and asks me to tell her the story behind it.
“Yeah, I guess you could say it’s new.”
“So…?” Her tone is probing. Why does this feel like an inquisition?
“So…?” I have the feeling my stalling is getting me nowhere except further under the microscope.
“So tell me.” She cocks an eyebrow, and I can tell she’s not going to let it go until I spill the beans. I guess I deserve it. When I want to know something about her, I’m like a dog with a bone—I won’t take no for an answer.
“It’s a hummingbird.” A hummingbird flying out of an open birdcage door, to be exact.
“I have a pair of working eyes, Arlo. I can see that. You know how this game works, so why are you dragging it out? Is there something you don’t want me to know? Is it about Marnie or something?”
Where the fuck did that come from? “What? No, of course not. The opposite, in fact.” I sigh. I had hoped we could let the subject drop, but now with the mention of Marnie, I can’t.
“Hummingbirds are beautiful. They’re these tiny delicate-looking little creatures, but they’re capable of so much more than their fragile appea
rance would suggest. Just being in flight takes unbelievable strength, yet they make it look effortless. They flap their wings, and then they’re there, but not there, you know? It’s like they hover somewhere between reality and another world that the rest of us can only observe from afar.”
She nods but doesn’t speak, continuing to trace delicately, lightly pressing over each line. As her fingertip moves across one of the wings, she hesitates.
“Wait, what’s this? It looks like….”
“It’s an L. There’s one on the other wing too, see?” She nods and raises her eyebrow questioningly again. I sigh again. Shit. I may as well put my cock on the block now.
“It’s about you. I got it when we were on the break. I guess if I couldn’t have the real thing, I wanted something close to my heart to remind me of you. A hummingbird flying the coop seemed fitting, somehow. I sketched the design late one night when I was having trouble sleeping.” Because I was busted up over you. “I took it into the tattoo store the next day and worked on it some more with Zed, and this is what we came up with together. It has fast become my favorite piece. I love it. It’s so beautiful, just like you.”
I look at her and see that she’s smiling from ear to ear. When our eyes meet, she lowers her mouth to my chest, kissing the tat repeatedly while keeping eye contact. Blood rushes straight to my dick.
I need to deal with the Marnie situation in the morning, but for now, I sweep London’s hair over her shoulder, revealing her neck to me again, and proceed to plant tiny kisses all over it. We both ignore my growing hard-on, favoring sleep for once. Another first for us. The last thing I remember is London bringing our linked fingers to her lips, kissing each of mine in turn. That, and the feeling of bliss that comes from knowing this is the first of many nights we’ll fall asleep together like this.
Five
I’m woken up at an ungodly hour by my phone ringing in my pants pocket. I leave it to ring out, three times, only attempting to answer it on the fourth, when a very sleepy London nudges me, mumbling, “Pick up.” I miss the call again, noting that it was Paul, my manager. Why the hell would he be calling me at this hour? Before I can ponder any longer, or call him back, it rings yet again.
“This better be fucking good.” I immediately start thinking the worst.
“It’s not good.” He sounds nervous.
“Tell me.” I don’t have time for niceties, but then I never do. I’m well aware that my attitude sucks, but I give zero fucks.
“So the reviews for the show and book have started to trickle through, and they’ve all been great, better than great. Outstanding, in fact. I think it’s safe to say that we have a runaway hit on our hands.”
Why is he telling me this? “You’re calling to tell me this when no self-respecting person without a plane to catch should even be awake because…?”
“That’s not all. Unfortunately, as resoundingly glowing as they are, I’m pretty sure nobody is going to be paying attention to them—good, bad, or otherwise. There’s a video….”
“Paul, have you called me at the butt crack of dawn to play riddle-me-fucking-this? I’ll ask you one more time before I lose my shit. What the hell is going on?” I’ve never been a morning person.
He exhales deeply. “Someone has released footage of you and Marnie.”
“Footage? Dude, it’s early. It’s been an epic twenty-four hours. Would you at least try to make some fucking semblance of sense, because right now, you might as well be speaking Japanese.”
“Sorry, Arlo, I’m just as surprised as you are, and literally still piecing it all together here. It’s footage of you and Marnie… uh….”
I start to wake up more fully as he speaks, and my mind kicks into overdrive. A vague recollection comes to me slowly. The memory is fragmented, and disjointed…
Jet. Coke. Gin. Airport. Car. Club. VIP. Vodka. Tits. Coke. Bathroom. Redhead. Ass. Body shots. Blonde. Table. Cristal. Tequila. Dance floor. Brunette. Shots. Booty. Ebony. Cristal. Rinse, repeat. Vodka. Dance floor. Marnie. Coke. Office. Body shots. Hall. Marnie. Lot. Lights. Camera. Action. Drone. Car. Coke. Marnie. Bed. Marnie. Marnie. Marnie. Fade. To. Black.
Drone. There had been a drone. Marnie and I fucked in the parking lot of 12AM Mass, and some paparazzi scum of the earth caught the whole thing using a drone. But that night was about six months ago. Before London. Before I called things off with Marnie. Before anything that I give any kind of a fuck about now. Half a year, but it feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it was. Things were different then, I was different, and I know for sure I’ll never be that guy again.
But that’s a good point. Why is it only just coming to light now? If it is newsworthy now, why hadn’t it dropped sooner? Press years are like dog years—they move a lot quicker than real time. Six months is beyond old news; it’s basically prehistoric. Why would anybody bother with that now? If it was going to surface, I would have expected to see it within the first twenty-four hours. Hell, I’d have expected to see it as breaking news within the first twenty-four minutes.
After that, I’d put it to the back of my mind and promptly forgotten all about it. So much so, I hadn’t even given Paul a heads-up. It hadn’t been relevant, and I’d had way more important things occupying my mind ever since. Like London. In fact, in one way or another, she was all that I had been able to focus on properly for the past six months.
“Paul, it’s early or late, depending on how you look at it. I’m tired, and maybe my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, but I fail to see what the problem is here. We were two consenting adults who’ve known each other for years fucking on private property. Besides which, it was months ago, before London and I—” I glance over to the bed now to see that London has propped herself up on her elbows and is regarding me curiously.
“The big deal is that it doesn’t look good. You look pretty ‘intimate,’ to say the least.”
I rack my brain back to that night again. Of course we were intimate; we have been fucking since we were kids. And…? “So some sad pleb releases ancient drone footage of me and Marnie screwing on Hunter’s car. Still I say so what? I was completely out of it, and she was pretty far gone too. But in any case, who cares? Maybe I should have given you a heads-up about it at the time, but to be honest, I’d completely forgotten about it until now. Apart from that, what’s the big deal?”
“Wait, sorry, Arlo. To be clear, the video isn’t drone footage. Far from it, in fact. It’s up close and personal of the two of you in bed. Well, in, on, and over the bed. You name it, you’re doing it in this video. It looks like it has been professionally edited. It’s pretty fucking graphic.”
“A sex tape? What the actual fuck? That’s impossible. Even in my most stupid moments, like the one where I let you talk me into doing a fucking coffee-table book, I have a few hard and fast rules. No bareback, no underage girls, and no photographic or video evidence of what goes on behind closed doors.”
As I say the words, it occurs to me that I’ve broken two of those three rules with London in the past. In fact, the very first time we screwed, I fell asleep and woke up to the sound of her snapping photos of me as I dozed. As creepy as it sounds at face value, by then I knew she was a great photographer and I was well on the way to being in love with her, if not there already. If it had been anybody else, I would have made them delete the photos, and had my lawyers slap them with a gag order in case there were any I didn’t know about. By that point I just trusted her implicitly. She really didn’t seem like the kind to kiss and tell.
In fact, she was pretty reluctant to kiss in the first place, let alone leak shots of me—I had the feeling at the time that she would rather forget anything had happened between us than have the moment forever recorded in the press. Then when I looked at the images—she was completely honest that she’d taken them, and willing to delete them if I told her to—I was floored by just how good they were. Those candid snaps were the beginning of a working relationship between the two of us that led u
p to last night’s launch.
More serious than that lapse of my rules, in Paris we both screwed up, forgetting the condom on one occasion, and almost a second time. In fact, it was London who had pointed out our near-mistake that time. Majorly stupid and risky behavior, but then, London brings out shit in me I never knew I was capable of. I’ve never even been remotely tempted to forgo a condom. Not when I’ve been out of my head on booze and God knows what else. Not even with Marnie. Nor when I’ve found myself in the kinkiest of hookups. Especially not then, in fact. Except with London. Crazier still, I can’t even bring myself to regret taking that risk in Paris. It felt so good to be inside her with nothing between us, and she was on birth control, so no real harm done.
“Look, even so, I fail to see what the issue is. It’s been widely noted that Marnie and I are ‘friends’ in the biblical sense. I can’t imagine the fact that we used to fuck is exactly revelatory, even for the IQ of the average tabloid reader. We’ve been papped together more times than some happily married celebrity couples.
“The general assumption is that if I’m in the same room as a woman, she has a pulse, and we’re not related, then we’re either fucking, have fucked, or are planning on doing so very shortly. So what am I missing here? Last I knew, there was nothing scandalous about two grown adults screwing, for fuck’s sake.”
As the words are out of my mouth, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. I know it’s a big deal to London, given my history with Marnie—actually our history with her. I’m so stupid. I want to slap myself in the face, especially after last night’s fiasco, starring none other than Miss Marnie Harloe herself. I love London, and I know she loves me, but to say the path to earning her trust has been bumpy is like saying that if you flew too close to the sun, you’d get a little burned.
I look across at London, expecting to see her looking like she wants to slap me in the face—it wouldn’t be the first time—but instead, she looks like the one who has been slapped. I can’t quite read her expression. It seems to sit somewhere between anger and hurt. Both would be justified, and neither is good. Timing is a bitch, but never more so than today. Less than twelve hours ago, I finally managed to earn London’s trust enough for her to admit her feelings for me, and to agree to take things to the next level and move into Rosemond House.
