Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  “I’m hoping that like Marko said, she just needs to be near her mom, and not to have to deal with my shit. He was talking like she was pregnant and staying that way. If she was planning to have an abortion, he would know about it.”

  “Are you sure that you could trust him to tell you even if he did know?”

  “Yeah, Ma. I mean, I want to fucking kill that pretentious cocksucker stone dead most of the time—”

  “Arlo!”

  “What? You know I’m no altar boy. Do you want me to put a couple of hundreds in the swear jar to cover this conversation?” I know she hates to hear us cursing, but it’s not the first time, and it sure as shit won’t be the last. We both know that. I have no idea why she still insists on trying to ‘fix’ this—all four of us curse like drunken sailors, and no amount of nagging or guilting is going to change that. “My point is he loves her almost as much as I do. He’s really been there for her, when I couldn’t be.”

  “Because she wouldn’t let you.”

  Because she doesn’t trust me. When she needs something or someone, he’s the one she turns to.

  “I know, but the fact still stands. She needed him, and he was there. Always has been, and says he always will be. I hate him, but I believe he keeps his word. Case in point, he’s been throwing me a bone too. Since all that shit happened with you-know-who, I’ve called him every day, and he’s played along, given me updates on how she’s been doing without letting her know.”

  “But he didn’t mention the baby, so…?”

  “What kind of friend would he be if he betrayed her trust like that and told me she was pregnant? Think about it. It’s bad enough that he was taking my calls behind her back in the first place, without totally double-crossing her. And if she didn’t have him to rely on, then what? Then I’d have kicked his ass. For now, he’s my only connection to her, so I’m rolling with it.”

  “Okay, son, you know best.”

  “I don’t know shit. I was clueless when it was just the two of us. What the hell do I know now that there’s a baby in the mix?”

  “You run the band, and not one but two successful businesses. Even though you behave otherwise a lot of the time, you’re a smart guy. Your problem is that you act before you think when something gets to you. You let your heart rule your head way too often.”

  What? Where does she get this stuff? That’s total bullshit.

  “You’d do well to apply some of the smarts you’ve used to get so far in business to your personal life. Oh, and the other thing is that you need to grow the hell up.” Her tone sharpens. Looks like understanding gentle Mom is gone, to be replaced with kickass Mom.

  “Excuse me?” Between Mom and Gramps, I don’t need to wonder where I got my bluntness from.

  “You heard me. You need to man up. Fast. A small part of me is not surprised she ran. A woman’s instinct is to protect her child—and by the way, that instinct never goes away, no matter how old or stupid that child gets. This whole time, London’s been trying to shield herself from you, but now it’s not just her she has to look out for. You can see why she doesn’t want to drag an innocent little one into the hot mess of your life. To be honest, I’m glad she’s doing the right thing. The way things stand, I wouldn’t want my future grandbaby caught up in all this.”

  Ouch.

  The women in my life sure know how to slay me with their tongues. If I had to choose between going head-to-head with Conor McGregor, and taking a verbal beating from the two of them, I’d risk it with the prizefighter every time—broken bones heal quicker than a bruised ego. Not that I don’t need to hear it, but that doesn’t make it any easier to handle.

  “If you want her and the baby, you need to show her you can be the partner and father they need in their lives.”

  Then I’ll work out how to move matter backward through time and space. In fact, that sounds simpler.

  “Easier said than done. How the fuck do I do that?”

  “I wiped your butt for years when you were a boy. I have no intention of starting again now. You were my baby once, but now you’re a grown man and you’ve made a baby of your own, for Christ’s sake. Time to start thinking like a man and a father.”

  Word.

  My phone beeps with another call. I pull it away from my ear to see the caller ID.

  “Oh shit, Ma, I gotta go. I have to get this, okay?” I really need to take this call.

  “Okay. And Arlo?”

  What now?

  “Yeah?”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  Twelve

  I hang up quickly and pick up the incoming call.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Jones.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello, it’s Adam Gottfried from Gottfried, Fry, Pierce. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “Sure. What do you have for me?”

  “We have an update on the whereabouts of Ms. Harloe, and another key development in the case.”

  “Okay, so shoot.”

  “Mr. Simons, our private investigator, has just traced Ms. Harloe to a property on Long Island, registered in the name of one Mrs. Cathleen Gardiner.” Marnie’s grandmother. Thinking back, I have a very vague memory of her spending a summer or two with her grandmother on Long Island when we were kids.

  “So you’re going to serve the papers now?”

  “We can, but we are now in possession of further information that will affect our next steps. In addition to locating her, we have also been trying to trace the origin of the message sent to Miss Llwellyn’s telephone the day the video first appeared in the press in order to establish a link between Ms. Harloe and the video being circulated. This is fairly crucial to the case in terms of suing for what essentially amounts to ‘revenge porn,’ in layman’s terms.

  “In short, and without going into too much unnecessary detail, Mr. Simons’s technical team uses complex software, allowing them to extract the metadata from an image or a video, which can yield some very detailed and informative results. On this occasion, they have analyzed the data associated with the video to help pin down some of the specifics of the case.”

  Without getting too technical. Right.

  “The first news is that the information retrieved indicates with about 99 percent certainty that the video was recorded with Ms. Harloe’s cell phone. Each device has a set of markers that embeds code into the photographs or videos shot on it. This code is almost as unique as fingerprints, so the chances of the data originating from a different device are slim to none.”

  Motherfucker.

  Although I knew it in my gut, it still smarts to have it officially confirmed. I had already had my security team sweep the house several times for bugs or any kind of recording devices, and as anticipated, each search came up empty. So then the only other logical explanations were that a third party had physically been present in the room, or Marnie shot the video.

  The two of us have never had a threesome—she doesn’t play well with others, or like sharing her toys, so I ruled that out instantly. A review of the CCTV from outside Rosemond House over the past few years confirmed that she had been alone every time she visited. Therefore, all roads led back to Marnie as the shooter. Still, part of me had hoped for some other unforeseen explanation, even though I had no idea of what that could even be.

  “Additionally, the origin of the message received by Miss Llwellyn has been traced to a web-based SMS client via an IP address in China.” I have no idea what he is talking about, but figure if I listen long enough, something will start to make some kind of sense.

  “This address is known to authorities both in China and here in the US to have been involved in illegal spamming and click farm activity, as well as celebrity phishing and hacking scams in the past.”

  Fucking lawyers. They charge by the minute, then spend hours spitting out hot air before they get to the goddamn point. Not that money’s the issue—I just don’t have the patience for long-winded b
ullshit.

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Essentially, although she more than likely shot the video, it is highly unlikely that the video was distributed by Ms. Harloe herself, either to Miss Llwellyn or to the press. In order to be categorically sure, we would need to subpoena Ms. Harloe’s phone records for further analysis as part of the legal proceedings. However, Mr. Simons’s opinion at this stage is that the most likely explanation for the chain of events is that the video was obtained unlawfully from Ms. Harloe’s phone and then distributed to the press and to Miss Llwellyn by this third party. I tend to agree with him.”

  “In other words, Marnie’s phone was hacked?”

  “Put simply, yes. The video was therefore most likely distributed without her knowledge or consent. Being known in her own right and having a longstanding and well-publicized relationship with you is plausibly enough to make her a target, especially if she is less than guarded with her cell phone and computer security. That being the case, it is highly unlikely that a case related to ‘revenge pornography’ would have legs.”

  What. The. Fuck? This seems to be a theme at the moment. Just as I think things can’t possibly get more complicated or more fucked up, they do.

  Gottfried carries on in the face of my silence. “However, there is still the matter of her recording the video without your knowledge or consent, without which none of the ensuing events would have been possible.”

  I hardly know what to be most pissed off about, Marnie or the hacker. The whole thing is a giant mindfuck. Marnie knows the no-photos rule better than anyone—she’s pretty much the only person I’ve slept with on more than one occasion. Except London. I won’t even let chicks take selfies.

  In fact, I have been known to make them turn their phones off, or leave them in a drawer. Of course, I never bothered with those precautions with Marnie because she’s a friend and I can trust her. Or at least that’s what I thought.

  When I think about it, I don’t even know why I’m so adamant on this rule. I’ve done a lot worse things than screw in public, and not given even half a damn, but this was one of the few things I was totally anal about from day one—at least I thought I was. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I’d gotten totally loose and let my guard down on other occasions? I guess I won’t know until some other video surfaces. Why do I even care? Maybe it was just one aspect of my life I thought I could keep away from prying eyes and own for myself. One of the few things I could completely control. Until now.

  Now I have so many questions. How had she done it without me noticing? Had she done it before or since? But my biggest question was why? Why did she do it? My guesses ran from the benign to the truly vindictive. Maybe she had been bored and looking to amuse herself. Maybe she had wanted an addition to her trophy cabinet. Maybe she had been high—we’d fucked while completely off our faces enough times for that to be a possibility also.

  But then maybe the answer was more sinister than that. Maybe she had been planning to release it to the press herself—I guess she could have made a whole bunch of cash, but she was a high-end model, so it’s not like she was struggling financially. Or was she? Maybe the idea was to use it to blackmail me—why, I couldn’t even begin to fathom—but right now anything seems plausible. Not having been able to trace her to this point, I had no fucking idea what was going through her mind then or now.

  At the very least, she caused this mess, even if accidentally, which led to me possibly losing London and our baby forever. Even if she didn’t know it at the time, if she had never taken that video, none of this would have happened. That’s fucking major.

  “Okay. So, what do you need from me?”

  “Well, I wanted to update you on the new information and get your consent to proceed with the lesser case, should that be what you wish to do.” There’s an extended silence while my brain whirs at a million miles a minute. Is that what I want to do?

  On one hand, regardless of Marnie’s motives, some other fucker had intentionally obtained that footage and distributed it far and wide, even sent it directly to London. Why, I couldn’t fathom. Selling it to the press, I kind of got. It was a low act, but it made some kind of economic sense, at least, if not morally. But to send it to my girl? That’s an extra level of sticking the knife in that made no sense to me. London would have found out about the video anyway; the special delivery just hastened the inevitable and ensured she couldn’t ignore it even if she had wanted to. Why had someone gone to the trouble, and who was that someone?

  “Mr. Jones, how would you like to proceed?”

  “Is there any way of tracing who is behind the Chinese IP address?”

  “Mr. Simons and his team can try, but he’s already said that it’s potentially going to be like looking for the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow—time-consuming, costly, and unlikely to yield fruitful returns.”

  “Time I can’t do anything about, but I have enough money to go for as long as he can. I want him to do that.”

  “Okay, Mr. Jones. Leave it with me, and I’ll get back to him. In the meantime, what do you wish us to do regarding the case relating to Ms. Harloe?”

  “Let me get back to you.” I have some shit to take care of before making any decisions, one way or the other.

  “Of course. Take your time. We have a little while before we need to decide on the next move. I’ll await your instruction.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. You ha—”

  I hang up. Cliché pleasantries have never been my bag.

  Thirteen

  We’re putting the finishing touches on the album, meaning a less intense studio schedule, so the guys start to drift in just after midday with no sense of urgency about getting down to work. When Ryan arrives and we’re all present—variously occupied with our phones, chatting, getting coffee, and eternally tired dad Jake dozing on one of the easy chairs—I attempt to call everyone to attention, clearing my throat a few times. It has zero impact, so instead, I whistle between my fingers. Loudly. It has the desired effect—everyone stops what they’re doing to look my way. Everyone except Jake, who always seems to sleep much more heavily than the rest of us. I guess having kids will do that to you. Not that I’d know.

  Not yet at least, but holy shit, it hits me like a ten-ton truck that one day soon I will know. I’ve known since finding the ultrasound that I’m going to be a dad, but for the first time right now, it feels real. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  Stevie kicks at Jake’s sneaker-clad foot until he jerks awake, looking shocked. “What?”

  Everyone looks at him, then at me. I study my shoe for a moment before glancing around the room and taking in the four pairs of eyes looking expectantly back at me. I sigh heavily.

  “So there’s some shit going down I think you all should be aware of. There are going to be some changes around here that will affect you, so I wanted you to know. First, you may or may not know that just before all of this crap happened with the video and Marnie, I asked London to move in with me—”

  “Did you just say you asked London to move in with you?” Ryan looks at me as though I’ve grown two heads.

  “That’s exactly what I said, jerk-off. And you wanna know what’s even more shocking?”

  “What?”

  “She said yes.” I glare at him, even though I know his shock is more than justified.

  “Get the fuck out of here! She did not.”

  “Yeah, she did.” Cue amazed stares from the rest of the guys. “I asked her on launch night at the gallery.”

  “Was that before or after we all had to stand there and make polite small talk while pretending we couldn’t hear the two of you fucking like horny rabbits?”

  I shoot Stevie a death stare but don’t bother to pick a fight—he has a point.

  “After. I may or may not have taken advantage of the postcoital high she was on. Then we went home, and in a matter of hours, that video surfaced. Yada, yada, yada. You know the rest. After the stupid interven
tion you guys organized—thanks, by the way. I know you were only trying to help, in your own dumbass way—I called and spoke to Mom again a few days ago, and she told me I needed to grow the fuck up. Except you know Mom, she didn’t say it quite like that. Anyway, that got me thinking that we’ve been on this crazy ride since we were just kids, and I just realized that somewhere in amongst all of it, I turned into a giant douche.”

  A chorus of childish snickers rolls through the room.

  “I’m that guy. The celebrity asshole the rest of the world can see is an out-of-control dick. The one who is too high on his own supply to listen when anybody tries to tell him to get the fuck over himself, so people stop trying. That. Guy.”

  Stevie speaks up. “Listen, Arlo, I get what you mean, but I think you’re being too hard on yourself, and kinda… dramatic. Can PMS affect dudes too? You seem a little… overemotional or something.”

  I flip him the bird, much to his amusement. He carries on.

  “Seriously, dude, you need to cut yourself some slack here. You didn’t turn into the giant douche we see before us overnight. By all accounts, you were born that way, and have been refining your shtick ever since. You’re right about one thing though—the difference now is that with the fame, money, and power, there aren’t as many people prepared to slap you upside your head when you let it get out of control.”

  He’s flat-out laughing and not making any attempt to hide it. I flip him off again, this time with both hands, and carry on as though he hasn’t spoken.

  “I feel like Scrooge after the ghosts of whatever-the-fuck visit him. I’m not going to end up like the bitter, burnt-out old rocker stereotype who ODs alone and unloved in a filthy hovel, fortune spent, friends and family deserted. I might be late to the party, but I guess this is the turning point—the wake-up call I needed to get my head together. If I’m to get the things I want in life, especially London, I need to make some changes. Starting now.”