Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  That was the thing with Arlo—despite my claiming otherwise, he was pretty much the center of all our worlds. What happened to him effectively happened to everyone around him, which made it even worse that he never considered anyone except himself before acting. Still, I couldn’t help but feel bad that after all his ups and downs with London, there had been another fly in the ointment so soon after he’d thought they were solid.

  I’d offered to head back to Marnie’s apartment to see if she was there, as she wasn’t answering either of our calls. Not that I was surprised. I probably wouldn’t have either in her position. Arlo on a “good” day could be bullish and combative—he wasn’t known for taking a softly-softly approach to anything or with anyone. After something like this, that threatened his relationship with London, he’d be worse than a bear with a sore butthole. By his own admission, it wasn’t the ideal time to be face-to-face with Marnie.

  After this fiasco, I doubted there would ever be a good time for them to be in the same room, in fact. I knew straight away that there was no easy way out of this for me. I loved them both in very different ways, and it would kill me to ever have to choose between them. There was no winning for me in that equation.

  I kept thinking over the situation, and the more I thought about it, the more the whole thing didn’t sit right with me. We had no idea when the video had been taken or how it had landed in the lap of the press, but something told me that Marnie wasn’t behind it. It just didn’t seem like her MO.

  She’d been around the band, and more particularly Arlo, for so many years and never been anything other than unendingly loyal and unquestioningly discreet. Even without the video evidence, the shit she knew about us, especially Arlo, was enough to fill countless tell-all books and magazine or online exposés, yet she’d never so much as accidentally said something she shouldn’t have in an interview or to one of her disingenuous fashion “friends.” Releasing X-rated footage of Arlo and herself didn’t fit with her past behavior at all.

  On the other hand, it was likely that she had been the one to take the video, as there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room. She was familiar with Arlo’s rules about filming and photos in the bedroom, but by the looks of things, had probably ignored them, so who was to say what else she’d do? I’d thought I knew her, but maybe that was a delusion. Or maybe there were other plausible explanations—someone else in the room, or a hidden camera, maybe?

  I decided to try to contact her again to see if she was okay but also to see what light she could shed on the situation. I called, but there was no answer. No voice mail. The phone just rang out, giving me the angry “why the fuck are you still here?” tone. Next I fired off a quick text.

  Me: Morning, how’s your head? We need to talk. Give me a call when you get this. Please.

  We did need to talk, and not just about the video. With the fiasco that was the night before, we still hadn’t spoken properly about what was going on between us. Fuck. How did life get so messy?

  I stared at the phone as though I could will it to ring with the power of my mind. I couldn’t of course, and apart from the ping of the messages back and forth between the rest of the band, it stayed stubbornly silent.

  I showered and dressed, stopping to obsessively check my phone every few minutes. Nothing from Marnie. I called the car service and had a driver take me to her place, waiting at the curb as I approached the door. Predictably, she didn’t answer when I repeatedly buzzed her apartment number. There was no sign of any press anywhere I could see. She was known to some extent, but not enough to have them know her address, at least not yet, which was one small mercy. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, so I was doing the collars up, snap back down thing.

  It seemed to be working fine until a woman came out of the building, judging by her clothes, clearly heading out to work. She looked up at me briefly as she exited and gave me the fleeting, noncommittal smile people reserved for random strangers outside their home. But then she did a double take, and as I had witnessed many thousands of times before, I saw the flare of recognition in her eyes. Her smile widened, and she clumsily tried to backtrack her steps to hold the door open for me to enter. I’d already taken advantage of her fumbling and held the door with one hand, making her seem even more awkward as she lunged to try to grab it. I smiled my thanks, hopefully helping to ease some of her embarrassment—her face was beet red by this point. Once inside I headed right for Marnie’s door.

  “Marnie? Marnie? It’s me. Are you there? Marnie? If you’re there, can you open up, please? We need to talk.”

  I persevered with that approach for a while, trying to manage the balance between knocking and talking loud enough for Marnie to hear me but not so loudly that the neighbors were disturbed by the noise. After a few rounds, and a resounding silence from inside, I called her and sent another message.

  Me: Hey, babe, I’m outside your door. I’m worried about you. I get that you might not want to see me, but can you just let me know you’re okay. Please.

  Silence. This seemed to be a theme with the two of us over the past few months, and it was starting to wear thin. I waited a few more minutes, not knocking or calling, hoping Marnie would open the door to see if I’d left. She didn’t.

  Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up outside the studio and it became clear that half of the paparazzo in the country who weren’t at Arlo’s house were waiting outside. Fuck. The last thing I wanted at that point was to deal with the press. In truth, I didn’t want to deal with anyone who wasn’t Marnie, yet she seemed to be the only person who didn’t want to have anything to do with me. For a split second, I almost considered telling the driver to turn around and take me back to the house, but I didn’t want to let the guys down—that was me, dutiful to the last.

  With hindsight, I probably should have taken off for the day. To say my mind wasn’t in the game was a vast understatement. I was finding the whole situation draining. Conversely, despite the fucked-up circumstances, Arlo was smoking hot. The adrenaline and rage seemed to put fire in his belly and fuel his passion and creativity. Trust us to have the exact opposite reaction to the same turn of events.

  On the other hand, the difference wasn’t surprising when I took into consideration the fact that Arlo had the luxury of pouring his passion straight into our album because, like everything he touched, he dominated the creative process in the band. In theory, we were all free to contribute songs any time we wanted, but in reality, that generally wasn’t how it worked.

  After a frustrating morning session—for me anyway—I called a break and walked out of the studio and into the green room, slamming the door behind me. It opened again almost immediately, and Ryan slipped in after me. I was expecting the rest of the band to follow, but nobody else did.

  “I know shit’s bad, but is something else eating you, man? You seem way off your game. You holding up okay?”

  “No. Well, kind of. I’m just tired. Tired of the way things are, and the way they’ve always been. I think I need a break.”

  “A break?”

  “Yeah. Like a break from Arlo, from the band. From everything.”

  “Uh… okay….”

  “Yeah, it’s not just this thing with the video. That was just the last straw. I am worried about Marnie though. I haven’t heard a thing from her. Tried calling numerous times, sent messages. Even went to her apartment this morning. I just have a bad feeling about this.”

  “What kind of bad feeling?”

  “I don’t know. You said yourself you thought things would get worse before they got better, and now here we are in the eye of a shitstorm of the worst kind. I don’t know what to fucking think, if I’m honest.”

  “Yeah, I feel you. This is fucked up, especially with the way things were with you and Marnie before this went down, and the way you feel about her. What are you gonna do?”

  “No clue, man. Right now, I barely know which way is up. I really just want to know that Marnie is okay, first and for
emost.” I rubbed at the back of my neck, feeling the tension building.

  “Listen, go home. I know Arlo’s determined to work through this, but that doesn’t mean you have to. Go home. Take some time. Get some sleep. Things always look better after you’ve slept.”

  “How do you know I haven’t slept?”

  He slid me a sideways glance, grinning mischievously. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  I shook my head. I guessed not.

  “If you had, you wouldn’t need to ask. Seriously. Take off.”

  “Bu—”

  “I’ll square it with the others. You just worry about yourself—and Marnie—today.”

  Well, I already had one of those bases covered. I was fucking worried about Marnie. The nagging feeling in my gut wouldn’t quit.

  “Okay, thanks, man. I can’t concentrate anyway. I can’t stop thinking about Marnie.”

  “I know. Go do what you gotta do. We can get by without you here.” Even though it hadn’t solved the problem of finding Marnie, just knowing that I was free to carry on looking for her was a huge weight off my mind that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying.

  I didn’t even bother going back into the studio to tell the guys what was going on. I was too preoccupied thinking of Marnie, and I knew Ryan would have it taken care of regardless. I called the car service and was back on the road minutes later, doing the same journey as earlier but in reverse. The visit to Marnie’s building and numerous calls yielded the same response. Zip. I was freaking the fuck out.

  Back in Arlo’s kitchen, I made another call.

  “Good morning, Wildefire Management. How can I help you?”

  “Uh... hi. I’m looking for Marnie Harloe.”

  “You have a booking or go-see for Marnie?”

  “No, I just need to see her or speak to her. It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not clear on what you’re asking. This is a modeling agency, so unless you have a work-related booking for Marnie, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

  “Look, this isn’t work. It’s personal. Very personal. She and I are… old friends. I’ve been calling her and have been past her apartment twice, and there’s no sign of her anywhere. I’m worried. Maybe you could just pass on a message for me and ask her to please call Luke as soon as possible.”

  “Uh… I’m not really sure I can do that, but I'll see what I can do. Okay?”

  It was better than nothing, I guessed. Either way, I had no choice, it was all I had.

  “Okay, great, thanks so much.” I rattled off my cell number in case they needed or wanted to call, though I got the distinct feeling that the bored-sounding receptionist wasn’t even writing it down. I was going to wear a hole in the polished concrete floor if I paced any more, but it was all I could do. That and rack my brain to try and figure out where Marnie could possibly be.

  Twenty-Two

  Marnie

  The buzzer sounded, signifying the end of classes. It had always been my favorite time of day. Once school was out, I could relax a little and stop pretending to be a normal, happy, well-adjusted kid. Stop pretending to fit in, or pretending not to give a fuck that I didn’t. Pretending not to be in love with Luke Jones. School life for me was just one big pretense from beginning to end. I walked across the school parking lot toward where the school buses pulled up, but even though I was outside the building and getting farther and farther away by the second, the sound of the school bell wasn’t getting any quieter. What was with that?

  Something gnawed at my subconscious, and I slowly realized that the sound wasn’t the school bell at all but my phone ringing. I sat up quickly and instantly regretted it. The room spun manically, and a herd of safari animals stampeded through my head in seven-inch stilettos. I realized too late that I was going to hurl. With no possibility of making it to the bathroom in time, I had to settle for lunging sideways to throw up on the floor. That would be an easier clean up than having to strip the bed sheets. By some miracle, there was a bucket on the floor into which I managed to aim most of the bitter liquid. How it had gotten there had momentarily floored me. I had no recollection of putting it there. In fact, I had no recollection of anything.

  When I was sure I had nothing left to spew up except my spleen, I sat up slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Ugh. I groaned. A smear of red lipstick streaked across my hand. Passed out with a full face of makeup—it must have been a big night. I was normally fanatical about removing my “face.” As a model, I had to look after my skin—it was what paid the bills.

  The room was still spinning but a little less sickeningly so, and my head was still pounding. It was then that I noticed the pills and water. I didn’t know how they’d gotten there either, but I’d never been happier for Tylenol in my life. I chugged them down, then reached for my phone, remembering that it had been ringing before, which was what had woken me in the first place.

  Holy shit. I had missed call upon missed call. Mostly from Luke, but also from Sandra, a couple from girlfriends, and some more from industry frenemies. I had no idea how I’d managed to sleep through that many calls and message alerts. One of the messages caught my eye. There was no caller ID and no text, just a video file. At the risk of having my phone and its contents melted by a deadly virus, or my identity cloned, I let curiosity get the better of me and clicked on the video. As it came to life, I instantly regretted the decision.

  Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I lurched for the bucket again, knowing full well that there was nothing more to spew. That didn’t stop my stomach from contracting painfully though, or me dry retching and gagging on bitter bile.

  I’d always known I was destined to somehow fuck up my life—how could I not, with the legacy of my parents woven into my DNA? Knowing that I had a ticking time bomb hanging over my head, I’d always been determined not to inflict my crazy on anybody else. It seemed I had failed epically in this aim. But how? I forced myself to watch the video from start to finish. It was extremely graphic and incredibly humiliating, and judging by the content of the texts and voice mails on my phone, it was now out in the world for all to see. How the fuck had this even happened?

  Sure, I vaguely remembered shooting it, but that had been months earlier. I was drunk as a skunk, bored, and lonely, and looking for ways beyond the sex with Arlo to amuse myself. With hindsight, it was one of the dumbest things I’d ever done, but I knew with certainty that I’d hadn’t sent it to, or even shown it to anybody else. How it had ended up in the public domain was a total mystery to me.

  I flicked through my phone, trying to find the video file, and after some scrolling, managed to locate it. The phone rang in my hand, the sound nearly giving me a heart attack. It was Luke again. Memories of the previous night started to swim into focus in my mind, and I was hit by a strong wave of embarrassment. Between the video and the spectacle I’d made of myself at the gallery, I never wanted to show my face outside the house again, and Luke was pretty much the last person I ever wanted to speak to—then or ever. I rejected the call and immediately diverted my phone to voice mail. There was no way I was facing the world any time soon.

  The sound of the door buzzer had startled me out of my skin. I hauled myself out of bed like a million-year-old mummy leaving its tomb. The room had stopped spinning, but I still felt sick as a dog. I wasn’t sure if that was due to the drinking or the residual shock of seeing the footage.

  I knew that in a few hours I’d be through the worst of the hangover, but I doubted I’d ever get over the video and the fact that the world was watching it. The buzzer continued to sound, and the noise was like someone hacking into my brain with a machete. The monitor showed Luke at the entrance to the apartment building looking worn out. He was making a call at the same time. I looked down at the phone in my hands to see more missed calls from him. Then a message.

  Luke: Marns, I’m downstairs. Again. Can we talk, please? I’m worried about you.

  That was rich coming from him. He and his brot
her were front and center in everything that was going hideously wrong in my world. Almost everything.

  I scrolled through the scores of earlier texts and saw that sure enough, he had messaged me previously to say that he was outside the building. Then that he was outside my door. And here he was back again. Well, stalking me was his prerogative, just as it was mine to ignore the fuck out of him. The only activity on my agenda for the foreseeable future was wallowing in my pit. Nothing and nobody was getting in the way of that. I’d disconnect the entry phone if I needed to. I pretty much crawled back to my bedroom on my hands and knees, but before getting back into bed, pulling the blankets over my head and shutting out the world, I decided to empty the vomit bucket and clean up the overspill that had hit the floorboards. I didn’t want to wake up to it festering there later on.

  As I made my way to the en suite bathroom, I felt a pang of guilt. Playing back the events of the previous night, I realized Luke had gotten me to bed safely and left the bucket, water, and pain meds. I was pissed at him for various things, but even through my anger, I could appreciate him trying to look out for me in his own way. The bucket especially had saved me a world of pain—so much better than having to mop the floor. Even when he was an asshole, he was simultaneously a good guy.

  When I came to again, I felt a lot better—almost human, in fact. I was also a lot clearer in my mind about what I needed to do. The fact was, I was choking on thin air in my apartment and had been for months. Since the rug was dragged out from under me with the loss of my modeling contract, then Arlo pulling the pin on our thing, then the debacle with Luke, I had been an empty shell who looked like me, walked like me, and talked like me, but who wasn’t me. Or maybe she was.