by MV Ellis
When I think I can be trusted not to behave like an animal, I move toward the bed, sliding in close to London, but not touching. We lie like that, not speaking, not moving, just listening to the hypnotic inhale and exhale of each other’s breath, until London breaks the silence.
“Hold me?”
Fuck. Her voice is a hesitant whisper, and even knowing I’m setting myself up for a disastrous fall, I can’t not. I slide closer to her across the cool sheets, with my chest against her back. Slipping my arms around her, I pull her closer still. Motherfucker. I’ve missed this so bad. I never want to let go. Knowing that I’m going to have to, I silently chant the periodic table once again. With her glorious butt this close to my dick, it’s going to take a whole lot of willpower and nerves of titanium to make it through this without getting hard again, but I’m willing to at least try. I pull the sheet up over us, slip my arms back around her gorgeous body, and let myself succumb to the wave of sleep that washes over me.
When I come to again, it’s clear I’ve failed in my attempt to keep my cock under control. It takes me a moment to work out why. London is rubbing her butt against my junk slowly, her intention more than clear. She’s killing me. Against my better judgment, and almost against my will, I unwind my arm from around her torso, placing my hand on her hip to still her. I whisper into her hair. “You sure?” As much as I need what she’s offering, I want to make sure she’s 100 percent on board. If this is to be our last time, I don’t want either of us to have any regrets.
“Yeah. I want to say goodbye.”
I hesitate a moment. This is so bittersweet. I wait a beat or two, a thousand thoughts circulating in my mind.
“Okay.” It’s barely audible, but I know she hears me. “Turn over.” I want to see her face. I want to read every emotion as she feels it, and commit it to memory. I don’t want to miss a thing. She rolls over on her side to face me.
“Look at me.” I don’t know if it’s because, like me, she wants to savor the moment, or because she’s simply lost the will to fight, but she slowly raises her eyes to mine and holds my gaze as I read her face for clues. The look in her eyes guts me like a fish. She looks so… broken. The responsibility for making her feel that way weighs on me heavily.
Moments pass, and eventually London moves forward to brush her lips gently against mine. I don’t move a muscle. Sensing my hesitation, she presses a little harder, coaxing me to engage. When I do, slipping my tongue inside her mouth, a soft moan escapes her lips. I swallow it with mine. I feel like a desperate addict finally getting my fix. Not wanting to spook her, or to hurry things toward our inevitable end, I take my time, gently deepening the kiss with every stroke of my tongue.
When I feel like I may just about lose my mind, I pull back a little, wanting to see her better. I love looking at her body at the best of times, and now that I know this may be the last time, it’s even more important to me than usual. Jesus. She’s beyond beautiful. I cup her breasts; they feel fuller than I remember, or maybe it just seems that way in contrast to her smaller frame. I suck on each in turn as though they are juicy ripe peaches, just how she likes. She bucks beneath me, and I smell her arousal.
Always so wet and ready for me, even under these circumstances. The feeling is most definitely mutual. I almost don’t know what to do next. While the foreplay between us is always glorious, I’m literally aching to be inside her. On the other hand, the sooner that happens, the sooner it will be over, so I’m tempted to hold back, to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. Sensing my hesitation, London takes the initiative and decides for both of us.
“Scooch to the end of the bed.” Her voice is firm, and she doesn’t break eye contact. Fuck.
I move quickly, sitting up and placing my feet on the floor. London climbs astride me, sitting in my lap, facing me.
Like me, she clearly wants to see every emotion we’re about to share. My rock-hard cock lightly grazes her pussy, and we both shudder. No matter what happens between us, the chemistry is electric. Always. I wrap my arms around her waist, and in turn, she slips hers around my neck. We brace against each other like that for a while, clinging to one another and to the remnants of our relationship.
I slip inside her one last time, reveling in the feel of her wrapped around me. I rock my hips, pushing deeper every time. In answer, London rotates her hips, tightening around me as I claim more of her. I’m reminded of something else I learned in high school science: for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. Our movements are opposite and equal, taking us on our shared road to climax. As I feel mine building, my movements becoming faster and more desperate, my grip on London increases as though somehow I can hold her tight enough to keep her from leaving.
I feel her quickening around me, spiraling toward her release, milking me and taking me with her. I come epically, climaxing so forcefully as to almost be painful. To say I’m spent is an understatement. As I release my final burst of pleasure and collapse backward onto the bed, pulling London down with me, I growl out, “Don’t go.”
In my heart I know that she already has.
I wake up hours later—after the first decent sleep I’ve had in weeks—with a crick in my neck and air between my arms, like every cliché romance out there. I’m fuzzy with sleep, but not too addled to remember that London was here, and to know immediately that she’s gone. For good.
I crack my neck—I hold tension there more than anywhere else, and right now, there’s plenty to hold onto. Stretching out my limbs, my hand grazes against something on the pillow next to mine. It’s a piece of paper; I guess it’s London’s Dear John letter. I pick it up. May as well rip the Band-Aid off now, then work out what the fuck to do from here. I look down at it, bracing myself for the emotions it will bring out in me.
What. The. Fuck. It’s not a letter at all. Far from it. It’s an ultrasound photo. At the bottom is a handwritten note.
Arlo,
I’m sorry to tell you this way.
It’s cowardly, and I’m not proud of it, but right now this is all I can handle.
Don’t hate me.
L
We were always so right, the two of us, so how the fuck did we go so wrong?
Chapter Ten
I maneuver the Testa around the streets like a man with the devil on his back. If I lose my license, so be it. The most important thing right now is getting to London as quickly as possible. I arrive at the apartment she shares with Marko in record time, and leave the bike haphazardly at the curb, throwing my helmet onto the seat. I couldn’t care less if neither of them is there when I come back. Nothing matters except reaching London.
I lean on the button with all my body weight, banging on the huge, solid door with my other hand.
“London! London! Open the door! Come on! Please? London! Londo—”
Her apartment window flies open, and Marko’s head appears in the frame.
“Man, you need to calm down and shut the fuck up before somebody calls the cops on your ass.”
I’m almost blind with fury, but a small, surprisingly sensible part of me tells me he’s right. I have to play this at least a little cool. I want to speak to London, not end up in lockup for the night, thus screwing things up between us even more and giving the paparazzi and gossip press fuel for their front-page fire. Drawing more attention to myself publicly right now is not a smart move. At all. I take my hand off the buzzer, turning my palms up toward Marko in a gesture of surrender.
“I want to see her.” My voice comes out in a rush, and I stop to take a few steadying breaths. I’m not so far gone that I don’t realize I’m in danger of making a total fool of myself. Correction: I already am.
“I know. Come up.”
I jump the stairs of the brownstone four at a time until I arrive winded at their apartment door. As I wait for the door to open, my mind flashes back to the first time I was here. It was just a few weeks ago, but it feels like a lifetime away—so much has changed since then. T
hat day I was Prince Charming, rescuing the drunken princess, saving her from herself. Today I’m the reformed villain, begging for forgiveness.
I was never fond of the idea of London having a male best friend at the best of times—especially one she once slept with—but Marko went a long way down in my estimation that night for standing by and watching her get so drunk she puked in my car on the way back to my place. Drinking accidents aside, these days I’m pretty sure he genuinely has her back, but that still doesn’t mean he’s on my list of favorite people. Probably never will be.
No matter how much I know their relationship is 110 percent platonic, I can never quite silence the green-eyed monster within me when I think of the two of them together. Even though I know it’s not sexual, I resent how easy things are between them. They’re close in a way she and I maybe never will be. She trusts him unconditionally, and they don’t even seem to need to work at it. We’re far from there. Who knows if we’ll ever get there. It fucking kills me. Still, Marko has been playing along with my demands since the shit hit the fan, and I know he’s looking after London. There’s no way she’ll let me do the same right now, so I guess I need to be grateful and hold my temper. Easier said than done when my emotions are running wild.
The door opens as I approach, and I’m standing face-to-face with Marko. I was hoping it would be London in front of me, but I kind of knew it wouldn’t be. We stand there, on either side of the apartment’s threshold, staring each other down for the longest time. One thing I know about Marko is he’s as much of an asshole as me. Bullheaded, overprotective of London, with a reputation as a beast in bed and in business. He’s the best at what he does, but the worst to deal with. The only difference is he dominates the dance world while I kill it in the music industry. Basically, he’s me in a jockstrap and tights. If I didn’t hate him, I’d probably kind of like him, or at least respect him. Right now, I would happily rip his face off and throw it in the Hudson.
He yields finally, moving sideways to let me through the door. Their apartment feels eerily empty and quiet. My footsteps echo off the triple-height ceilings as I walk down the parquet hall to the living area. Marko’s outstretched hand guides the way. As much as I don’t want to believe it, I know instinctively that London isn’t here. I feel it. Or more accurately, I feel nothing. When she’s near me, I feel her.
I turn on my heel to confront Marko. Surprised, he comes to a stop sharply to avoid crashing into me. I guess ballet gives you good reflexes.
“Where is she?” I spit angrily.
“Gone.” He shrugs noncommittally, and my blood runs dangerously hot. This could end very badly if he doesn’t play it right.
I clench, then loosen my fists. I desperately need to stay in control. He’s the only source of information I have about London right now, so the last thing I can afford is to piss him off and have him shut me out. Not that he needs a reason, I’m sure. Regardless, I need to keep him sweet, or I’ve got nothing. Refraining from tearing him limb from limb is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I wait a beat or two before answering, buying myself more time to simmer the fuck down and start behaving like a civilized adult.
“Gone where?”
“Australia.”
“What the fuck did you just say?” I growl. Who am I trying to kid? When it comes to London, I’m anything but civilized. Or adult. I swear to God, I’ll kill this son of a bitch where he stands and not even look back.
“You heard me. She’s gone to Sydney to be with her folks.”
I pace the living room like a prizefighter before a big bout.
“You’re lying. Where is she?” Despite my own gut feeling, I sweep my eyes around the room frantically, looking beyond Marko, hoping to work out where in the apartment London’s room is. I hear rustling coming from behind him, and my anger bubbles over to full-on rage. I’ve never been much of a footballer, but from nowhere, I shoulder charge Marko like an all-star linebacker. A raging bull has nothing on me. Luckily for him, but not so much for me, Marko’s reflexes are on point once again—damn that ballet training—and he jumps sideways as soon as he sees me lunging for him. I connect, but the majority of the impact is taken by the doorframe as I slam painfully into it. Fuck. I think I screwed my shoulder.
To his credit, Marko doesn’t punch my lights out like I probably would have if the roles were reversed. Instead, he reaches out to help steady me on my feet before putting both hands on my shoulders. Ouch. I’ve definitely fucked myself up properly.
He looks straight into my eyes.
“Listen, man, I’m not lying. She’s. Not. Here. Look.” He retrieves his phone from his back pocket, holding it out toward me. I reach for it.
“She knew you wouldn’t want to believe me, so she sent me this from the airport.” I look down at the handset and see that what he’s showing me is a photograph of London’s boarding pass. Photographic evidence. She’s gone.
“You’re lying. I just heard her moving around back there. You’re both fucking lying. You just don’t want me to see her.” Eyes wild, I get the strong urge to break something. Marko’s nose, for example.
Possibly reading my mind, Marko presses down harder on my shoulders—Jesus, that hurts—continuing to look me square in the eyes.
“You need to calm the fuck down, dude. Losing your shit isn’t going to help matters, not for you or for her. I’m holding back because she wouldn’t want me to hurt you, but if you carry on, I can’t promise not to take you out, okay?” I’d like to see him fucking try. He eases his grip a little. Thank fuck, because my shoulder hurts like a bitch.
“She’s gone. The sooner you accept that, the better.” His hold on me may have loosened, but he maintains a firm but even tone of voice.
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one whose baby she’s carrying. He’s not the one she left to wake up to an ultrasound photo on his pillow while she boarded a plane to the other side of the fucking world. He may have a point, but it doesn’t make me any less hell-bent on wringing his perfect neck.
Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I know I’m sure as shit not hearing things. Yet. I’m about to question him again about the sound from behind him, but he beats me to it.
“Jourdan!” he calls out in the direction of the noise. “Jourda—”
“Yeah?” A redhead pads toward us from one of the rooms down the hall. She’s wearing only an oversized shirt I’m guessing belongs to Marko, as it positively drowns her. When she reaches the living area, she stands at Marko’s side, looking indifferently between the two of us. She has sex hair, and a slight sheen to her skin and puffiness to her lips that screams “freshly fucked.”
Marko sighs. “This is Jourdan.” Oh. I vaguely recall London mentioning something about Marko and someone called Jourdan. The merest hint of a smile graces her lips for a fleeting moment, while she continues to look between us like a spectator at a tennis match. She’s so different from London. In fact, her air of aloof detachedness reminds me of Marnie. I ignore her.
“She’s pregnant. With my baby.” Fuck. It feels so… monumental to say those words. It’s fucking surreal.
“I know, man.” Of course he does. To find out I’m going to be a father after her best friend is an extra slap in the face. I get that they’re close, but this feels like a betrayal, pure and simple. I hate that this fuckstain knows more about my life right now than I do.
“She left this on the bed, then took off.” I pull the ultrasound photo from the inside pocket of my leather jacket and hold it toward Marko. He doesn’t look at it, so I guess he’s already seen it.
He speaks as though reading my thoughts again.
“She had to tell me. I was the one holding her hair back and bringing her soda water while she puked herself inside out for weeks on end. She’s been majorly sick. She could barely hold anything down. You saw how thin and frail she was, right? Now you know why.”
Oh man. With hindsight, that explains so much. Not just her appearance, but also the vomiting at
various points, and even the sudden switch to decaf—I remember Jake telling me once that women can’t drink coffee when they’re knocked up, and that his wife, Kris, was extra cranky through her pregnancies as a result. I can’t say I blame her; I would be the same without jitter juice in my life.
London said she had been more tearful than usual, which was something else I remember from Kris’s pregnancies. Jake tells a hilarious story about Kris crying for hours because he ate the last slice of pizza—still bawling her eyes out even after he had ordered more, and it had been delivered to their house.
I had thought London’s puking had been brought on by nerves or anxiety; with the show, and more recently, all my shit, she definitely had plenty in her life to stress about. But pregnancy definitely makes more sense now that I know. How did I not think of this? Not even a fucking clue. The information on the top of the scan tells me that she’s just shy of twelve weeks pregnant, which means this baby was conceived… in Paris.
Paris, where even though, at London’s insistence, our contracts stated that we were to keep things strictly business, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Paris, where we fucked morning, noon, and night, and where one time, in the heat of the moment, we got carried away and broke my “no bareback” rule.
As London is… was on birth control, we figured we’d be okay that one time, because what are the chances? Even so, we vowed to use condoms from then on, just to be sure, and we stuck to it. Until last night. Last night was a whole different ball game. Obviously she knew we couldn’t get pregnant, because we already are, but I had no idea, and again I hadn’t thought twice about foregoing a condom. In fact, it’s probably more accurate to say that the thought hadn’t even entered my mind. They say rules are meant to be broken, but I hadn’t just broken mine with London. I had taken a dump all over them. For someone who doesn’t trust easily, I went there with London in a heartbeat. I trusted her from day one.
