by MV Ellis
“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.
Chapter 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 intervention 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 supp
ly 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.”
At some point in my speech, the other guys realize I’m serious and go from mocking laughter to listening attentively. Now that I’ve got them, I drop the real bombshell.
“And if everything goes well, I’m going to be a father, so I guess—”
I have to stop speaking as Ryan erupts in a choking fit. He splutters coffee all over himself, causing him to wave his hands around like a lunatic. Bad move, considering one hand is still holding the cup of black coffee he’s choking on, which in turn makes him spill more burning hot liquid on himself, and on and on it goes. What a chump. This level of uncool is completely out of character for him.
Our bass player often seems to play the role of dispassionate observer, hanging back from the group slightly while carefully watching everything that goes down. He has a dry sense of humor, and his killer comments are the hilarious soundtrack to band life. He’s like a sarcastic sportscaster, quietly observing and reporting on life as it happens.
Apart from the obvious wit, he’s also seriously intelligent. He mostly channels his smarts into pointing out just how not smart the rest of us are, with hilarious consequences. On the other hand, with his tendency to hang back and take shit in, he was the first to realize that Stevie’s fun and games had strayed into addiction, and bring it to the attention of the rest of us, so it’s not all shits and giggles. Even then, because that’s the way Stevie had always been even at school, and because hell-raising is part and parcel of the rock star lifestyle, it was a long time before anyone took the problem seriously, and by then, it was too late.
People who don’t know Ryan well can sometimes find him shy or standoffish, but actually, he’s neither; he just doesn’t waste words on bullshit, or people who he doesn’t think are worthy of his energy. I guess that’s what people mean when they describe someone as having “hidden depths.” Musically speaking, they say that “the bass drives the band from the back of the bus,” and the same could be said for Ryan’s personality. He might not be the most upfront member of the band, but he makes his presence felt in other ways.
We all watch this ridiculous dance with amusement. By the time the coughing eventually subsides, Jake is laughing so hard, tears are streaming down his face and I think he’s having an asthma attack.
Ryan gets himself under control and looks at me again, eyes still watering.
“Man, I didn’t know whether to give you the Heimlich or treat you for third-degree burns,” I tell him, joining in with the laughter.
He pats his chest for good measure before speaking.
“Did someone put something in this coffee? One of you freakazoids wants me so bad you roofied me, and I’m trippin’, right? I thought I just heard you say that you’re about to be a father.”
“Nobody tried to roofie you, man. First off, there’s nothing you’ve got that we want, but if there was, we all know we wouldn’t have to waste good shit to get it from you.” Jake is on fire today, and he’s not even trying—the laughs just keep coming. I answer Ryan before he wigs out completely.
“Well at this point, it’s partially true, at least. London is pregnant, but the fact is, I haven’t seen or spoken to her at all since she dropped the bombshell. Her choice, not mine. By the time I even found out, she was on a plane headed for Sydney. As things stand right now, she doesn’t want to see me, probably doesn’t even want to think about me, let alone raise a kid with me.” I’m aware that my life sounds like the plot of a cheap daytime soap opera—it would be called Rock Hard and Restless.
Silence. You could have heard a flea fart in California.
Luke crosses the room in a few sleek strides. Sometimes I forget how similar we are, physically if not mentally. Then he does something like that and it’s like looking at myself in the mirror. When he reaches me, he’s beaming from ear to ear.
“Man, that’s awesome. The baby part. Not the whole Sydney thing. That part sucks. I’ll be honest, I thought I’d witness a snowman’s convention in Hell before I saw the day that you were ready and willing to be a father. How long have you known?” Before I can answer, he has me in a bear hug. “Seriously, congrats. That’s… beyond… I mean it’s wild, but it’s also fucking amazing.”
I disentangle myself from his embrace.
“Thanks, man. Yeah, I know it’s a total mindfuck. I still haven’t fully figured shit out in my head, and I can honestly say that the moment a few weeks ago when I found out was the most bittersweet of my life.”
“A few weeks? What the fuck, man, why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I didn’t know what to think, let alone say.”
“Hmm… I could see something was off, obviously even a fool could, but I couldn’t work out why you were so sideways. I mean I get it, you love her, but even so, it was completely out of character. Man, I was so wrapped up in my own shit….” I don’t miss the wistful, regretful tone of his voice. Before I can ask what’s going on with him, he carries on. “At least I know you’re not losing your mind.”
“Maybe I was for a moment there. I guess I needed that time in my head to deal with the shock, and let me tell you, it was a monumental shock. London had just broken it off with me over the whole video debacle. We had a farewell fuck, and when I woke up, there was an ultrasound photo on the pillow and she was long gone. She pretty much left my bed and immediately flew to the other side of the fucking world. I’m choosing to believe she just needs a timeout, but who the fuck knows? She could be gone for good, taking my baby with her.”
My words are received with stunned silence from the guys. Luke’s expression has clouded over, his ecstatic grin replaced by a deep frown. He cracks his neck, again reminding me of me, and goes back to his seat.
“Shit, man, that’s rough. I wish you’d come to me with this sooner, instead of carrying it all yourself. I could have… I don’t know, even just helped you sink a few bottles or something.”
He’s right, but I guess I just needed to do this my way and bring it to the group when I was good and ready. Besides, Luke has been keeping himself scarce lately—he hasn’t stayed at the house for weeks. I guess he thought I needed time.
“Yeah, I know, but I think this is something I just had to go through alone at first, to get my shit straight. Or straighter, at least. The only person I told was Mom.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I need to man up and get my girl. She’s right.”
“You’re going to Australia?”
“No. I’m giving her the space to do her thing. Cool off, get her head straight about the baby and me, spend quality time with her parents. All of that.”
“So that’s your ‘p
lan,’ to do nothing and hope she comes to her senses?” The bite in Luke’s voice surprises me. What’s eating him?
“No, you dumb knucklehead, that’s not my goddamn plan. Do I look like a fucking chump to you?” He opens his mouth as though to answer, but I shoot him a look that says, “If you value your teeth sitting in your head, don’t say a fucking word.” He closes his mouth again, choosing to remain silent. Smart guy.
“No, dude. When have you ever known me to sit back and do nothing? In any situation? If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. You know this. When she gets back here, I want her and our baby in my life, and while I have a pulse, I’m going to make sure that happens. But if this is going to work, she has to think it’s her idea—if she feels backed into a corner, she’ll take off again. I need to show her that she wants and needs me in her and the baby’s lives, or it’s all over. Jesus, I never thought it was possible, but that woman has a harder head than I do.”
“Bigger balls too!”
I think I may have to end Stevie, although he’s probably right.
“Suck my balls, then suck hers, you dick.” Everyone erupts into laughter, breaking the tension. One by one, the rest of the band approach to give me their personal congratulations—a bro hug and a wisecrack about how unbelievable the situation is.
“So, changes are coming. First, I’m going to try and maybe be a little less of a douche. But as Stevie so wisely pointed out, we’re talking about breaking a lifetime of habits here. I don’t know how well that’s gonna work for me. Baby steps. No pun intended.” The looks of disbelief on the guys’ faces are priceless. I think they think they’re being punk’d or something. Fuck them.
