by MV Ellis
“What now? I didn’t say anything.” He sighs, searching my face for clues, making no effort to hide his agitation.
“That’s exactly it,” I reply, equally agitated. “You said you wanted to talk, and so far you haven’t said a word. Just say whatever you came to say, or let me get on with my work.”
We’re standing almost nose to nose, our mouths a mere inch apart. I might be pissed off, but my eyes are still drawn to those deliciously full lips, and I crave the feel of them against mine.
“Yeah.” He sighs again, resignedly raking his hands through his already unkempt hair. “It was about what happened when we met,” he continues, his body language betraying the fact that he knows that this conversation isn’t going to go well.
“I don’t really see what’s to talk about. We both apologized for our behavior weeks ago, and we’ve moved on. Case closed,” I retort flatly.
He cracks his neck before continuing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous. I can’t explain why, but that sound does unnatural things to me.
“Despite how it ended between us, that first time, you can’t deny that we had mad chemistry from the get-go, and it’s been hanging between us ever since. We need to talk about it. That’s the elephant in the room.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Lie.
“Oh come on, babe, who do you think you’re fooling? Definitely not me, and probably not even yourself. Do you think I don’t see how you react to me whenever we’re together? How you responded to me when I kissed you just now? You’re as into me as I am to you. Why fight it? We’re grown-ups, we should just go to bed and get it out of our systems.”
What? His words have me bristling with anger. This guy really is a piece of work. I know that on one level, he’s got a point—the attraction between us is palpable, but I resent the implication that all he needs to do is proposition me, and it’s a done deal. He couldn’t be more wrong.
“Let’s get something straight, Arlo. I’m your housekeeper, not your ‘babe,’ and I’m definitely not one of the scores of women you can pick up just by shooting them a look. I don’t care how famous or how rich you are, or even how attracted I am to you, I’m not about to just climb onto your dick. I wasn’t going to when we first met, and you’re totally deluded if you think I’m about to now.”
The words tumble out of me with a force and volume not even I saw coming. One minute I can’t get enough of him, the next I’m raging. I guess I’ll be fired again after this, but by this point, I have zero fucks to give. In fact, being fired would kind of be a relief—at least I wouldn’t have to deal with the roller coaster ride of emotions I go through when I’m with Arlo.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, seemingly lost for words. I’m sure that’s a first. He steps back, finally putting some distance between us. Maybe now I’ll be able to think straight. Though he’s given me a bit of breathing space, he maintains eye contact, and I’m already starting to regret what I said. His eyes cloud over, brows knitted together, the color draining from his skin.
I read his emotions like a book. Confusion, hurt, and then anger, written all over his face. He scratches his head vigorously a couple of times, and I note his jaw tightening, and a vein throbbing at his temple. He rolls his neck from side to side—I’ve noticed he does that when he’s stressed out, angry, or under pressure.
“It’s not like that. I’ve been with a fuckload of women, and not one of them has made me feel the way you do. Made me want them the way I want you. I can see that I have the same effect on you.”
I roll my eyes inwardly at his reference to his sexual history. This conversation is going from bad to worse. It’s common knowledge that he screws around, but for some reason, I hate hearing about it. Arlo continues.
“I guess it makes sense that you’d fight what’s going on between us. I’m sure you’ve read all sorts of shit about me”—bingo!—”and I won’t lie, some of it’s true. Quite a lot of it, actually. But this is different. You’re different. I’m different with you. I don’t get how you can’t see that after getting to know me.”
“That’s just it. I don’t know you at all, and I’m sure this will come as a huge surprise, Arlo, but this is not about you, it’s about me. Right now, I’m just not interested in you, or anyone. No dating, no fucking, no nothing. I just can’t…” I falter, not wanting to reveal too much. I take a steadying breath before continuing.
“I’m focusing on work, photography that is, not cleaning. I’m all about achieving my goals and not letting anything or anyone distract me, or keep me from getting where I want to go. Especially not someone like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’m not down for becoming another notch on your overworked bedpost, only to be discarded moments later like a used condom.”
“You make me sound like some kind of monster.”
He looks at me searchingly, and I see none of the confidence that normally radiates from him. He looks uncertain. Vulnerable, even.
“If the cap fits,” I say simply, shrugging and letting the implication of my words hang in the air between us. He looks as though I’ve stabbed him, and then twisted the knife. Despite that, he keeps his gaze trained on mine.
He shrugs—a gesture that is designed to appear casual, but I can tell is anything but. He’s fuming. He steps away abruptly, turns on his heel, and strolls toward the hallway, leaving me staring at the tattoos on his rippling back. At the threshold, he turns to me once again.
“Oh, and you needn’t go resigning, or worrying about me hanging around, making you feel awkward, or anything,” he sneers. “I’ll make myself scarce from now on. You won’t know I’m here.”
“It’s your house, Arlo. You don’t need to feel inhibited on account of me—if anyone needs to not be here, it’s me.”
If he hears me, he chooses not to acknowledge it, and I watch his retreating back as it disappears down the hall. I turn and carry on with the dishes as though nothing has happened, but I’m biting my bottom lip so hard I fear I’ll break the skin, as I try to hold in the tears pricking at the back of my eyes. I lose the battle, and stand silently with tears streaming down my face and into the soapy water.
I consider telling Gloria that I quit, but I don’t want to let her down again. I made a promise, and I’ve already made so much trouble for her. Besides, I’m keeping my eye on the prize, and I want to save up as much money as possible so that I can get into a studio sooner rather than later. At this point, it can’t happen soon enough, and leaving now would be a financial setback that would delay that. The inflated rate of pay means that there’s no other work I could do right now that would pay as well. I decide to put my big girl pants on, and do what I have to do.
***
True to his word, while I see Luke most days, Arlo keeps a low profile around the house. In fact, a few weeks pass and I don’t run into him at all. He’s never awake when I’m there—or at least if he is, he’s ensconced in his room with the door closed, which is my cue to steer clear. This happens frequently enough that I take to mostly leaving a pile of clean bed linen outside the door every few days. This arrangement suits me just fine.
That’s not to say I’m not aware of his presence. He’s clearly partying hard most nights, if the litter strewn around the house is anything to go by. Part of me is wondering if he’s leaving clear evidence of his nocturnal activities everywhere to try to make me jealous, but then I remind myself that he’s just being who he is and doing what he does. All I can do is try my best to minimize the effects of his behavior on me. After all, what he does and with whom is none of my business.
That is until one Friday when I walk into the kitchen as usual, absentmindedly removing my headphones and shrugging off my jacket. I’m about to throw it over the back of one of the chairs when I stop in my tracks, taking in the scene unfolding in front of me.
The first thing I register is Arlo. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter
, the same way he was during our kitchen confrontation, a few weeks ago. He has both arms spread out, gripping the edge of the countertop, just as he did with me then, but this time it’s not me he’s holding, but possibly the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
Arlo’s pants are down around his knees, exposing his perfectly tight buttocks, and the girl is sitting on the edge of the counter with her legs spread as he leans between them. Her head, visible over his shoulder, is tilted back slightly in pleasure. She tilts her head forward and opens her eyes as she hears me enter the room.
As they meet mine, I note that her eyes are so dark as to be almost black. Her face is perfectly oval-shaped, and she has flawless ivory skin. Full, rosebud lips, huge wide-set eyes, and a tidy little nose complete the picture. Her hair is poker straight, jet black, and expertly sheared into a sharp, asymmetric bob. She’s like an exquisite porcelain doll.
She’s also pretty much my polar opposite. Where her skin is pale, mine is the color of a caramel latte. Where her dark eyes are almost opaque, mine are clear, and the color of liquid amber. My unruly mass of thick brown curls hangs down to my waist, and in the right light, it is tinged with almost-blonde streaks, whereas there’s not a hair out of place in her perfect ebony bob. Her face is all smooth curves and gracefully pointed chin, while mine is more angular and gamine. To top it off, from what I can tell, she’s almost as tall as Arlo, whereas I’m “petite” (aka a shorty). Given his track record, I’m sure she’s much more his type than I am.
She holds my gaze as Arlo rocks back and forth. His breath is a series of short, pleasured grunts as he pushes into her. She’s topless, and her full, pert, alabaster breasts barely move with the motion. For some reason, I’m rooted to the spot—even though it’s the last place on earth I want to be. I stand paralyzed and open-mouthed, watching the scene unfold before me. The girl, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease—she maintains eye contact and doesn’t flinch. In fact, on seeing my discomfort, her perfect lips curl into a small, tight smile. So it’s like that, is it?
Something tells me that Arlo is aware of my presence too, yet for the longest time, he shows no sign that that’s the case. Long moments pass before he turns to look over his shoulder in my direction, but when he does, he at least has the decency not to make eye contact. I finally come to my senses enough to turn on my heel and walk slowly and deliberately down the corridor, away from the awful scene. I purposely keep my pace slow and measured. I want to give the impression of being unmoved by what I’ve just witnessed, although that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I keep my head down, focusing on the floor, not daring to look back. I slam into the wall of muscle that is Luke, just as the screams of the couple’s joint climax ring out down the hall. The only thing worse than a humiliation like this is having someone else witness it, yet I’ve never been as relieved to see anyone as I am to see Luke right now. I don’t resist as he takes me by the arm, leading me into a nearby formal sitting room.
As soon as we are behind closed doors, I completely lose my composure, dissolving into tears. It’s stupid, really. I know Arlo’s no saint. I’ve read the articles, and heard it from the source, and if that’s not enough, I’ve been cleaning up his messes for months. What the fuck was I kidding myself he was doing every goddamned night, and why the hell do I even care? If I’m going to continue working here, I’ve got to stop behaving like a lovesick teenager around him.
My internal pep talk does no good; I can’t seem to get my shit together—the tears just keep coming. Luke slips his arms around me, and I relax against him, relishing the comfort of his embrace. I breathe in the delicious, and now very familiar, scent of his cologne. Neither of us speaks for a while, until I’ve calmed down and feel compelled to break the silence.
“Well, that sucked balls just a tiny bit.” I sniff.
“Welcome to life with Arlo, sweetheart. It’s nothing if not eventful,” he mutters wryly. He would know.
“I’m sorry, that was stupid. I don’t know what it is about your brother, but he seems to bring out the worst in me. You must think I’m a total loser.”
I pull back slightly, so I can wipe my eyes and pull myself together, but he seems to have other ideas, and tightens his embrace, keeping me close.
“Not at all,” he comforts. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I think you’re incredible. You had a bit of a shock, but you handled it pretty well, under the circumstances. At least you didn’t let them see that they got to you. That can be our little secret.” His tone is conspiratorial. “I was wondering when you’d run into Marnie,” he continues. “She’s been around a lot lately, so I guessed that it was only a matter of time.”
“She’s Arlo’s girlfriend?” I venture tentatively. Wanting to know, but not wanting to know.
“Girlfriend?” He laughs wryly. “Nah, that’s not his style, you know that. I suppose fuck buddy would be the best description of their ‘relationship.’ We’ve all known her since we were at school—she’s a few years younger than us—and she’s had a thing for Arlo pretty much since day one. He reckons they’re just friends with benefits, but I know she wants more.
“Their arrangement is that if they’re in the same country—she’s a model, so she travels a lot also—and are single, which of course he always is, they hook up. Apparently the sex is phenomenal, and it’s easier than dating.” He pauses. “Well, that’s how Arlo sees it, but it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that little Miss Marnie is crazy in love with him. I know for a fact that even if she’s not single, she’ll drop anything and anyone and come running when he calls. All he has to do is message her and she’ll be around in a flash to get him off any way he wants. She refuses to see the writing on the wall, which is that she’s a convenience.
“It’s a shame, because one-on-one, she’s lovely, and really she deserves better than this non-relationship limbo she’s in. But then when she’s around Arlo, she behaves like a cold, hard bitch, and I almost feel like she deserves what she gets. If she’s here, I try to make myself scarce—I really don’t want any part of that hot mess. I keep hoping she’ll lose interest in him, but she never does.”
“She’s stunning,” I say softly.
“Yeah, no doubt about that. She’s got a banging body too, but he’s never been that into her. Maybe it’s because she’s so hot for him—there was never any chase. It’s definitely a case of easy come—no pun intended—easy go for him.”
In the silence that follows, Luke relaxes his embrace, takes my hand, and steps back toward one of the sofas in the room, pulling me down onto it with him. We sit side by side, but with our bodies slightly angled so that we can easily see each other’s faces. God, he’s sweet. It’s just unfortunate that he’s not the brother that makes my pulse leap.
I spend the weekend doing some serious soul searching, and a whole lot of crying. I feel like I’m mourning Danny all over again. After several tearful SOS calls with Nic, I decide to cut myself some slack—it’s been over two years since Danny died, and I have needs. It doesn’t make me disloyal, or any of the things I’ve been beating myself up about since Arlo bowled into my life, it just makes me human. And horny. Really fucking horny
I can’t ignore my attraction to Arlo—he’s right about the effect he has on me—it’s undeniable and powerful. I need to stop kidding myself that it’s nothing, when quite clearly, it’s something. Given the chemistry between us, and his extremely cavalier attitude to sex, a little something something with him could be the best thing to get me back in the game. No strings attached sex with someone who fires my libido the way Arlo does sounds pretty fucking good to me right now. The best part is that from the get-go I know it’s just sex, nothing more, nothing less.
Chapter Five
Late one morning a few weeks later, I wander toward Arlo’s room, bedsheets in hand. I hope to be able to enter to make the bed and clean the room and en suite bathroom, but I’m also prepared to leave the sheets outside the door if Arlo is indisposed. I notic
e that the door is ajar, so assume he isn’t around. As I have my headphones on, I almost miss the melodic singing coming from inside as I move to enter. I stop in my tracks, pulling the buds from my ears.
It’s Arlo singing, but his voice sounds different to what I’ve heard before—it’s more mellow, but also more raw. He’s gently plucking at an acoustic guitar as he sings. It seems that he’s got the makings of a beautiful love song, but it’s not like the kind of stuff the Heartless Few are best known for. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but whatever the difference is, the effect is haunting. I pause, really listening to the lyrics.
I know I shouldn’t be spying on him, but I slowly push the door a little farther ajar anyway. Partly so that I can hear better, and partly so that I can sneak a glimpse of him. Holy. Living. Fuck. This man! He’s too beautiful. It hits me more now that I haven’t seen him for a while. It’s like someone took the blueprint for male perfection from my mind and made it real.
He’s clearly deep in thought. He looks so relaxed and immersed in doing what he loves, sitting on his bed, legs crossed, hair flopping into his eyes as he bends over his iPad. He’s wearing torn, faded jeans and nothing else. I can scarcely remember seeing him dressed above the waist. Not that I’m complaining. I love being able to look at his amazing chest, abs, and shoulders, and admire his tattoos.
Although it feels kind of stalker-ish, I’m enjoying being able to look at him without him knowing, and without him staring at me the way he does, like he wants to devour me. So often in the past, we’ve either been all over each other like dogs in heat, or going for the jugular like sworn enemies, with very little in between. I don’t recall ever seeing him this chilled. The absence of tension on his face and in his body is mesmerizing. It somehow seems to render him more attractive—if that’s even possible.
