PUSHING ARLO SAMPLE HEARTLESS FEW (#3)
MV ELLIS
Pushing Arlo Š 2018 by MV Ellis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. Pushing Arlo is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing. www.hottreepublishing.com Editing: Hot Tree Editing Cover Designer: Claire Smith Formatting: Justine Littleton ISBN: 978-1-925853-00-1
“Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.” ― Rumi
For Allens
PROLOGUE SIX MONTHS AGO, 5:00 A.M.
I PULL Marnie out into the parking lot with a sense of urgency, but once we get out there, I’m hazy as to why. It must have seemed like a good idea moments ago, but I’m buzzed as fuck, and right now, any possible logic to my thinking escapes me. I don’t waste much time trying to figure it out. Who cares about the past, even if it was only moments ago? I’m here for the here and now. Right here, right now, I have Marnie, and a stiff dick. That’s plenty to work with. More than enough, in fact—the two of us together is a recipe for a good time. Every time. The next thing I know, I’m fucking her from behind on the hood of somebody’s car. A Porsche, I think. Maybe Hunter’s? I make a mental note to apologize when I speak to him next, but all I can think about is the feel of Marnie wrapped around me. The sex is off the hook, as always. Emotionally detached and hotter than Hades. Just how I like it. That has always been what keeps us coming back for more. Well, for me anyway. I’m lost in the ever-pleasant feeling of being inside her; 1
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there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now than here. The world around me is a dim blur, screened out so I can focus totally on giving and receiving pleasure, but somewhere in the depths of my addled consciousness, I become dimly aware of a commotion overhead. What the hell is that? A plane? A UFO? The nuclear apocalypse? Wait… it’s a fucking drone. Damn the paparazzi. Just when you think you know what you’re dealing with, they find new depths to sink to. I lose my shit, yelling and screaming, even though I know it’s futile. I’m playing right into their hands, standing there with my dick on display, carrying on like a crazy person, but even knowing that, I can’t seem to stop. Someone—Hunter— intervenes, shoving me into my ride while I stuff myself back into my pants. Hunter is a legend. I make a note to thank him for saving my ass, as well as apologize for violating his luxury baby. Marnie follows me into the back seat, and as we speed off into the night, I try to put the pieces together, and work out how we got here….
SIX MONTHS AGO, 1:00 a.m. (Four Hours Earlier)
THE SLEEK TOWN car snakes through the gated lot and pulls up to the back door of my club, 12AM Mass (Mid‐ night Mass). As ever, I’m thankful for the private and 2
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secluded entrance, away from the baying crowds and paparazzi scrum at the front of the club. I’ll never regret the huge success I’ve had with this business, but sometimes the trappings of fame and notoriety can wear thin. Having just seen my bandmate, and one of my closest friends, carted off to rehab again, today is definitely one of those days. Dressed to kill in my trademark skintight black jeans, formfitting black T-shirt, black leather jacket, and dark glasses, I have one aim in mind. I’m on a mission to mourn the postponement of our Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour by getting as fucked up as humanly possible, and then getting as fucked as humanly possible. If I can swing both at the same time, even better. I like to be efficient. Admittedly, this is not my best thinking. In the cold light of day, even a monkey can see that. Knowing the tour issues stem from Stevie’s tendency to overindulge in every way possible at every given occasion, walking off a plane and doing the same thing is worse than stupid. It’s reckless, destructive, and irresponsible. But then, that’s me. In my defense, I’m borderline delirious with jet lag and physically and mentally strung out from months of endless touring and all Stevie’s drama. Most of all, though it’s rare for me to admit it even to myself, I’m fucking lonely. The last thing I want to do now is to head back to my giant soul‐ less pad alone—except for Luke, and he hardly counts—and look at the plain white walls. When I feel this way, my solu‐ tion has always been to get wasted and then get laid. Rinse and repeat. It’s worked for me so far, and if it ain’t broke…. We draw to a stop, and I head inside to quickly take care of some business, before I can take care of business. As I enter, I’m met by Hunter, my club manager. He’s expecting me—I called him from our jet and told him I’d be heading there directly from the airport. There are a few things I 3
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need to discuss with him before I can finally be off duty for the night. I also had some “requirements” I wanted him to take care of before I arrived. I don’t want to have to wait to get the party started once our work is done. As I approach, Hunter reaches out to give me a firm handshake before leaning forward for the bro hug. I’m genuinely glad to see him. He may be my employee, but the two of us are tight, which is why our shit works. I always enjoy his company, and with months on the road behind me, it’s been a while. Even when I’m not touring, living in LA means my visits to the club are the exception rather than the rule. We speak on the phone and FaceTime often, but there’s no substitute for seeing the whites of someone’s eyes in the flesh, especially when that person is good people. Hunter Campbell is 150 percent good people. I’d trust him with my life, and thinking about some of the shit I’ve done in the club, I literally have. He greets me warmly, as always. “My man, good to see you. To what do I owe this impromptu visit? Not that I’m not happy to catch up anytime, but you’re in the middle of a tour, so I’m guessing you’re not here for pleasure. What’s up?” He flashes his trademark grin. “Man, don’t even ask. Let’s just say that Stevie needed another ‘vacay’”—I air quote, even though he can’t see me on the other end of the line—“urgently. So the rest of us are on a forced break too. I’m not gonna lie—it wasn’t pretty out there toward the end. Not at all. If the label hadn’t pulled the pin when they did, I sure as shit would have. Anyway, enough of that. I have a few things I need to talk you through, and then I want to get lit. Big. Time.” Of all the guys, Stevie is the easiest to be around. He’s 4
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charming and affable, and he’s rarely seen without his trade‐ mark wide-mouthed grin. I challenge anyone not to feel like they’ve known him forever within minutes of meeting him. He radiates an energy the people are just drawn to. They say a great sense of humor is one of the top characteristics that women look for in men, and judging by Stevie’s strike rate, I’d definitely say that was true. Chicks fucking lap up his laidback vibe. The fact that he’s pretty easy on the eye just adds to the charm. Of course, being the “sociable one” in a band is synony‐ mous with partying. Our man Stevie wrote the book on working hard and playing harder. Too hard, in fact. He’s definitely always the member of the band most likely to need bailing out of some disaster scenario or other. In fact, any fucked-up situation you can name, there’s a good chance that Stevie has found himself in it at some point over the past fifteen years. Missed planes? Check. Passing out midgig? Check. Hitting on some guy’s woman and getting beaten to a pulp as a result? Check. Night sobering up in lock up? Check. Check. Check. Hunter and I make our way into the back of house area. It has the staff rec room, changing facilities, kitchen, bath‐ room, and offices for me, Hunter, and his brother Hendrix, our bar manager. My office gets used a few times a year, if that, given that I’m hardly ever in town, but it’s nice to have my own space when I am. Business quickly and efficiently dispatched with, I check that Hunter has met my requests for the night. He confirms he has and shoots me a quick wink, throwing over his shoulder almost as an afterthought as he walks away, “Be careful tonight, Arlo. It’s a jungle out there.” Yeah, and I’m the fucking king. Let the games begin. I head for the VIP area and silently praise Hunter. He has 5
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catered exactly to my needs, as I knew he would. It’s going to be a good night. From there on in, everything is a blur of snippets of time and activity flashing in and out of mind, small moments of clarity in a murky sea of confusion. It’s safe to assume that I indulged in the “gifts” Hunter left me, and then some. I remember women. Not specific women, but assorted women in various states of undress, various lewd positions, and various states of coital and postcoital abandon. I recall body parts and clothing flying. I have a dim memory of the lingering scent of mingling perfumes and bodily fluids. Can I recollect a specific face or name? No. I guess that’s the sign of a good time—the less you retain the next day, the better it was. By that measure, this one deserves a dedicated star in the “debauched night out” hall of fame. At some stage in proceedings—late, I think—Marnie appears. I have no idea how or why. She also came from the airport, straight from a modeling gig in… Prague? Berlin? Barcelona? I can’t remember. Anyway, there she is, in all her supermodel glory. She’s exceptionally beautiful and always has been. She also seems to have some sort of radar for knowing exactly where I am, then being there too. It’s weird, but then I guess our “thing” is weird to anyone viewing it from the outside. I see it as something similar to an addict going on a binge on their chosen poison. We use screwing each other’s brains out to fill a void. For me, being with her momentarily drives out the gnawing loneliness, replacing it with a high— even if it is short-lived. More often than not, as soon as I’ve come, reality kicks in and I want to kick Marnie out. It’s nothing personal, just the way it is. I love to fuck, and screwing Marnie is a whole lot easier than dealing with the hot mess that normally goes along with groupie sex. We 6
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know what buttons to push to get each other off every time, and we use each other to get what we need with no emotions involved, then move the fuck on. I haven’t figured out what it is Marnie needs, and I’ve never asked her—it’s sex, not therapy.
7
CHAPTER ONE
I LET myself into London’s studio, which is also doubling as the gallery for the launch of my coffee-table book, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless tonight. Not that she knows it’s her studio yet; that’s a surprise I’m planning to drop on her at the launch itself. As far as she knows, the space has been rented until the exhibition is over, and then she’ll have to move out and find herself new digs. Little does she know that as soon as I saw how much she loved the place, and how perfect it was for her needs, I approached the owner and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Strangely enough, they didn’t. I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her. I’ve always enjoyed the material benefits that my level of success in music and in business has brought me, but now that I have someone to share it with, instead of drinking, snorting, and smoking most of it, or buying myself obscenely expensive toys, I’m really seeing the true benefits of this kind of wealth. I’ve also realized it’s London’s natural inclination to refuse all gifts and other gestures I put her way. I think she 9
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has a complex about feeling like a gold digger, or not being able to stand on her own two feet or some shit. Little does she know that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that crap if I tried. Fact is, I’d give her my last dime if she needed it, or even if she didn’t, and not think twice. We weren’t even offi‐ cially a couple—at least in her eyes, anyway; in mine we were from day one, and have been for months—and already, what’s mine is hers, and then some. I know for sure that if I’d suggested buying the studio, she would have flat-out refused, so I went ahead anyway. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and now that it’s done, she’s hardly going to refuse the gift. Even if she tries, it’s been bought entirely in her name, so I pretty much have her over a barrel. I love the game of cat and mouse we have going on—it keeps me guessing. On the other hand, if I’m in something, I’m in to win, so I know how things will turn out, even if I have to wait a while for it to come to fruition. Still, London is the first woman to have even vaguely caught my interest, beyond the contents of their lingerie— the fact that I have to work for her affections is a large part of the attraction. I’m a sick bastard like that. Pretty much the first girl to have resisted my “charms,” and she had me with the first slap in the face. Go figure. It sounds sappy as shit, but seeing the shock and delight on her face when I surprise her with some new grand gesture is worth its weight in gold, and there are no lengths I wouldn’t go to to make her smile that way. Right now, she’s at a pampering makeup and wardrobe session I organized to help her de-stress, relax, and prepare for this evening. I knew she was freaking out about the launch—she had been for months, in fact—so I thought that a little lady time might help settle her mind, and give her a little more confidence. I have an ulterior motive for wanting her out of the 10
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studio for a few hours today, also—or more accurately, a couple of ulterior motives. First, it means I have access to the photos before anybody else. A few months earlier, I had given London carte blanche to select whichever shots she felt worked best from the photos she’d taken of me while on tour with the Heartless Few, and treat them however she saw fit. She has mad photography skills, and I trusted her implicitly to put together a world-class exhibition and book. However, curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I really want to see the images both before the rest of the world, and without London around to witness my initial reaction. Not that I thought I wouldn’t like them—quite the opposite, in fact. I knew I’d love them. We had been on a break at her request since she came back from the tour, and while she prepared for tonight. Having barely seen each other in that time, I wasn’t sure I could be trusted not to make an ass of myself over them in front of her. So here I was, sneaking around behind her back like a crazy stalker. Who knew being in love could make you do such dumbass shit? Nothing prepared me for the deep wrench to the gut I feel on seeing the photos. I’m literally fucking winded. I walk into the airy open space, and I swear to God, I’m dead. Like heart stopped, bury me six feet under, fucking chuck roses on my grave, then throw a big party and get high in my name. Dead. Mind epically blown. My future wife isn’t just good with a camera—she’s an actual fucking genius. She’s also majorly in denial if she doesn’t realize that she is as fucked up over me as I am over her. It’s all here in black and white. And color. And sepia. And negative. I know this, but I can’t help wondering if London real‐ izes she’s about to tell the world, albeit in pictures rather than in words. These photos would be big news regardless 11
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of their content or composition, simply because they feature me. Looking the way they do, and telling the story they tell, they’re going to set the internet alight, for sure. I briefly pause to consider whether I should warn her. She was fretting about not being good enough, or about the book failing, but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to her to worry about potentially exposing the most private and intimate details of our love for each other to the baying pack of press wolves, and then to the rest of world. You think you know what you’re going to see when someone launches a behind-the-scenes on tour book, and it sure as shit ain’t this. The serenity and love radiating from these photos are not what people expect to see from me. Not at all. When I recover my breath and my heart feels a little less like someone rode over it on a dirt bike, I laugh aloud to myself like the crazy fucker I’m obviously becoming. These photos scream “Sorry, ladies, Arlo Jones is officially off the market once and for all. Back the fuck up and get your hands off. He’s mine.” The irony of the fact that I’m about to give an exclusive interview to Rolling Stone where I spill my guts about London in words to the same effect isn’t wasted on me. As though reading my mind, just then there’s a small tap on the door. It’s the columnist who will be conducting the interview, and her accompanying photographer. A photographer to shoot the exhibition—and me, of course. They enter the space, and we quickly dispense with the introductions. I note the journalist—Jen Wharton seems vaguely familiar. In such circumstances, I generally assume that means we’ve fucked at some point, and judging by the deep flush spreading across her face, neck, and chest as we shake hands, I think it’s safe to say my assumption is correct. I feel for her. I’m long past the point of being embar‐ 12
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rassed about running into conquests, whether I recall the event or not. When you spread yourself around as much as I do—or did—you learn pretty quickly that it’s a very small world, and accept it as an occupational hazard. She looks around the room, eyes boggling, jaw dropping in amazement as she turns around several times. “Wow.”
13
ROLLING STONE INTERVIEW
Arlo Jones, Fallen Star Jen Wharton talks love, loss, and redemption with cold‐ hearted rocker Arlo Jones, the one that got away. I walk into the Chelsea warehouse where in a few hours’ time, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless, an exhibi‐ tion of photos taken from a coffee-table book of the same name, will be launched to the press and a select group of invited guests before its public launch tomorrow. The exhi‐ bition and the book feature photographs taken on tour with the Heartless Few. The band, with Jones at the helm as front man, has reached stratospheric levels of success since it formed fifteen years ago. The images were captured over the course of thirteen weeks at the tail end of the band’s almost ill-fated Cold, Hard, & Heartless tour—back on the road after being post‐ poned due to the band’s drummer, Stevie Knox, being admitted to a facility to be treated for exhaustion. The work represents a high-profile debut for fledgling photographer London Llwellyn, who has little commercial work in her 15
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portfolio, and for whom photographing rock stars represents completely unchartered territory. From my initial look around the room at the photographs, I know I’m witnessing something special. History-in-the-making special. I can also suddenly see why Jones, who is notoriously wary of the press, sought out Rolling Stone in order to give this interview. A cursory glance is all it takes for me to know that this is a pivotal moment in music history, and indeed in Arlo Jones’s life. I sum up my thoughts and feelings in one simple word. “Wow.” “Yeah, that pretty much covers it” is Jones’s understated response. Though possibly on the margins of professionalism, I’m going to say it anyway. Everything about Arlo Jones screams sex at ten thousand decibels. I’m not the only woman to say so. He’s been routinely voted “sexiest male” on the planet more times than most people have had hot meals. Fifteen years into his career, and there are no signs of his popularity waning. Today, as every day, he’s dressed in all black every‐ thing—stylishly ripped and form-fitting T-shirt perfectly showing off his toned and taut arms, chest, and abs; equally ripped ultratight jeans that leave nothing to the imagina‐ tion; and pointed, laced dress shoes. His thick glossy hair lies in artful waves that hover between shabby chic and outright messy, the long tendrils being kept out of his eyes by a pair of sunglasses on top of his head, which most likely cost more than my car. His broody good looks are a thing of legend, and in real life, they don’t disappoint—the chiseled jaw, the blazing green eyes, and intense artist stare could disarm even the most hard‐ ened of hearts. 16
Speaking of hearts, the shoes and the Le Smoking jacket
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Speaking of hearts, the shoes and the Le Smoking jacket slung across the arm of a nearby sofa are a definite departure from his normal relaxed rock star uniform, but then tonight is a big night. As well as the launch for his new book, it will also be the official public confirmation of his previously rumored rela‐ tionship with Llwellyn. Put another way, if the world was wondering and speculating about the nature of their relation‐ ship before now—spoiler alert, it was—that speculation will be over at the sight of these photographs. They seem to document not only the tour, but also the couple’s trajectory as lovers. This isn’t my first rodeo with Jones. I met him for the first time a number of years ago at an awards ceremony, and although the air of sex simmering just under the surface and his smoldering good looks are the same, a lot seems differ‐ ent. Albeit the ceremony was a nighttime affair and everyone involved was very “merry,” Jones’s vibe was completely different—darker, and not in a good way. He had the haunted look behind the eyes of a man who had yet to find his place in the world and was battling demons while trying. I don’t want to put words into his mouth, but I get the distinct feeling that Jones has some major news to share, and that maybe he’s found his place. Though I have a list of prepared questions I’d like to cover as part of the interview, something tells me that Jones will be leading this conversa‐ tion; though it’s not the way I tend to work as a journalist, today it seems like the right way to go. He stalks toward me with intent before throwing himself onto the charcoal couch. Patting the space next to me, he invites me to do the same. I sit, and we start the interview. Looking around the gallery, I can see now 17
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why you wanted do this interview. Looks like a lot has changed in your life recently? Yeah, I guess you could say that, and although I normally hate speaking to the press, I decided that this time around, I want to control the story for once, or at least input into it. I want to set the story straight and put the truth out there in my own words. And what is that truth? For a long time, I thought I could prevent myself from ever loving anyone. Like I was literally no longer physically capable of it. I figured I’d somehow managed to turn that function off. Romantic love, I mean—I loved my family, but obviously that’s platonic. I vowed never to allow myself to fall in love. Ever. As far as I was concerned, that part of me was broken and couldn’t be fixed. Why not? My dad died of cancer when I was fifteen. Losing a parent at that age fucks you up beyond belief. At least it did me. I was heartbroken, shattered, in pieces. I decided then that I was never going to willingly open myself up to feeling like that again. I just shut that part of myself down—closed it off to the rest of the world, and to me. My reputation is heart‐ less by name, heartless by nature, and it was true. I went out of my way to ensure it. Despite being with countless women, love was never on my radar, and as far as I was concerned, that was the way it was going to stay. You’re speaking in the past tense. Am I right in assuming that this is no longer the case? Basically, yeah. I thought my plan was working, and that I was in control of every aspect of my life. But it turns out that wasn’t true. Now I look back and think… I don’t know… like the past, all of that time, I was just in a holding pattern, 18
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like a TV on standby—never fully switched off, just waiting for someone to press the button and bring me to life again. Has someone pressed your button? Pressed the button? She’s activated the whole home cinema system, complete with 3-D imaging and surround sound. Shit, this thing even has smellavision. You’re in love? I guess that’s how most people would describe it. How would you describe it? I’m… saved. Saved from what? From myself. I feel like I’ve lived the past fifteen years under a thick black blanket of volcanic dust. It was gritty and suffocating. It smothered everything, dulling my thoughts and feelings, snuffing out life and hope. More and more dust piled on over the years, making it impossible to see the light above my head, or all around. Making it impossible to think, feel, or even breathe without it getting at me, getting into me, choking me. It was pervasive and destructive, but it was all I knew. Then London came along and just fucking blew the dust away, literally in one puff. I used to say that music saved me. And it did. If it hadn’t been for the band, and music in general after my dad died, who knows where I’d be right now. Probably dead myself. What I didn’t realize was that although I wasn’t dead, I wasn’t really living. London saved me again, and showed me what I had been missing. You’re talking about London Llwellyn, the photographer responsible for your new photog‐ raphy exhibition and coffee-table book, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless? One and the same. 19
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Interesting. How did the two of you meet and get together? It’s kind of a long story, some of the details of which we’d like to keep private, but what I can say is that London came into my life when I was least expecting it, but needed it the most. She was… no, she is like no woman I’ve ever met. She challenges me in ways I never thought possible, but I can’t get enough of. She sounds perfect for you. She is, but don’t get me wrong—she kicks my ass every day. Sometimes literally. Really? No, but she did famously slap my face once. I can’t tell you any more about it though, or she may do it again. He laughs for an extended time, before looking into the distance, an uncharacteristically goofy smile gracing his cheeks. He really has got it bad. Okay, so tell me about the photographs. London came on tour with us to shoot for the book and the exhibition. It had been a tough time—Stevie was receiving treatment, we had canceled dates, pissed-off fans, promoters, venues, and whoever else baying for blood, and I had this contract to fulfill with a publisher, which, to be honest, was the last thing I wanted to do. I don’t believe in fate or the planets, or anything I can’t see with my own eyes, and touch with my own hands, but for whatever reason, London appeared on the scene at just the right time to make this happen. As much as I hated the idea of being shadowed by somebody 24/7, I’m glad it happened, and I’m glad it was her. I think the images speak for themselves to a large extent, and for that reason, I’m a little nervous. They’re very 20
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personal and… intimate….They turned out so differently from my expectation. What was supposed to be a simple “behind the scenes on the road with the rocker” has ended up as much more of a photo essay detailing my path to redemption. It’s our love story, and we’re about to share it with the world. It goes against the grain of everything I normally allow in my dealings with the press—it’s no secret that I’m not a fan. No offense. None taken. You sound happy—what’s next for you? Maybe for the first time ever, I’m full of inspiration. More than I can handle, even. I’m harnessing it as best I can and turning it into music. Our next studio album, Fight[or]Flight, is currently in the making, and I’m already prouder of it than anything I’ve ever made, or in any way put my name to. Beyond that, I honestly don’t know, but as long as it involves London, I really don’t fucking care. You heard it here first, ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary humans: against all the odds, Arlo Jones is officially blissedout and off the market. Despite his own misgivings and best/worst intentions, rock’s coldest heart has thawed, and fallen in love. Hard.
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CHAPTER TWO
I RACK my brain trying to remember a time when I’ve been happier and draw a blank. Even signing our first record deal or getting our first platinum discs didn’t come close. Yeah, they were amazing in the moment, but nowhere near as good as knowing for sure that I’ve won London’s heart. I mean, I knew before today, but nothing beats hearing those words coming from her lips: “I love you, and I want to be with you. That is all.” She has made me the happiest man alive. I’m willing to bet that my grin is so wide, it’s one of the few things on Earth visible from space. As we approach the top of the stairs in the studio hand in hand, about to face the room full of family, friends, press, and other music and photography industry people, I stop dead in my tracks suddenly, pulling London to my chest, catching her unaware. Startled, she slams into me with an “Ooof!” and turns to me in mock anger. “Arlo, if this ‘thing’ between us is going to go the distance, you’re going to have to stop pulling me around like a rag doll. I’m not your toy.” I know she’s got a point, and it’s not that I do it on purpose, it just kind of happens. Besides, 22
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despite her effort to sound stern, she really doesn’t. I love when she does the mock indignation thing; it’s crazy cute. Hell, everything about her is cute. “I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t think. I was too focused on needing to do this.” I pull her sideways toward the wall of the mezzanine area and out of sight of the guests below, walking her backward until she’s leaning against the smooth white surface. “But—” I know she’s going to protest that we just finished fucking each other senseless over her new desk, just fixed her messed-up hair, clothes, and makeup, and just told ourselves we need to go downstairs and face the room of people who more than likely heard the whole thing through the paper-thin ceiling of her office. She’s right, but I don’t care. I give zero fucks what other people think at the best of times, but when it comes to this woman, it’s even less than that. I lay one palm flat on the wall above her head and pull the hand that I’m holding behind her back. I dip my head, dropping my impatient lips to her expec‐ tant ones. Moments later she’s kissing me as hungrily as I am her. That’s one thing about us—no matter how tumul‐ tuous things have been, and boy, have they been rocky, the sexual chemistry has been off the charts from day one. Moment one, really, and every day ever since. Even when she made it clear that she didn’t like me as a person, there was never any hiding the fact that she was as wildly attracted to me as I have always been to her. If there’s anything hotter than a man knowing his woman wants him more than she wants her next breath, I don’t know what it is. My woman. I love the way that sounds. My. Woman. I’ve thought of her that way for a long time, way before I had any right to, but today I’m totally justified in thinking of 23
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her in those terms. Today and always. London Llwellyn loves me, and she’s happy for the world to know it. I might just be the luckiest bastard alive. The thought has me pressing my lips down even harder and using my tongue to request entrance to her mouth. Despite her earlier protests, she opens to me without hesitation. I release the hand behind her back and slip mine into the deep V of her shirt. I love that her small, pert breasts are unrestrained. I use the fact that she is braless to my advan‐ tage, running my forefinger in circles over her nipple, knowing it drives her wild. As predicted, her nipple pebbles at my touch. London groans, pulling me closer to her. My dick goes from the semi I was still sporting as we left her office to diamond hard in the space of a few seconds. I want to fuck her again so bad, but I know it’s not an option right now. It takes all my willpower to resist kissing her again, this time rubbing my rock-hard cock against her clit instead. Pulling back a little, I look at her long and hard. The advice given to me by my grandfather months earlier plays over and over in my head. "If you want this girl, you’re going to have to work for it; it’s not going to come easy. Treat it like a hostile takeover. Find out what she wants most in the world, and then give it to her. Finally I say the words that have been playing on my mind since London admitted she loves me “Move in with me.” It’s a statement, not a question. London looks momentarily startled, but quickly schools her features, regaining her composure. “Umm… you live in LA. I live in New York. You’ve just bought me this studio, and honestly, even if you hadn’t, there’s no way in hell I’d be relocating. No offense.” “None taken. This has always been home, in the true sense of the word. The guys are here, my mom and Gramps 24
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are here, Brad and Justin too, not that they’re a considera‐ tion—but LA was only ever a means to an end. I needed out of the scene for a while, so I split. Home is where the heart is, right? There’s nothing keeping me there now, but there’s sure as shit something drawing me back here. Big-time. You could tell me you’re relocating to one of Saturn’s rings, and I’d be right there with you, babe.” Fucking understatement of the year. I followed Gramps’s advice to the letter, and then some. I knew she wanted to establish her photography career, so I offered her an opportunity to do that. It’s not every day a dude buys a chick an entire fucking building. Even still, I know it’s not enough. London is no easy nut to crack, by any means, and if there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that she’s not impressed by material bullshit. Although she’s admitted she loves me, I know her confidence in me and in us is fragile. Buying her a whole city block isn’t going to fix that. Not that I’m trying to buy her affections, but if I was, I’d go bankrupt before my plan worked. When we met, she’d all but given up on the idea of finding love again after losing her fiancé. Now that we have each other, I need to instill confidence in her that although she was unlucky once, lightning isn’t going to strike twice. She needs stability and security, and despite my crazy life‐ style, I know I can offer her that. I want to offer her that, and for the first time in my life, I want it too. With her. “Yes.” She stares me down. Wait. What? Surely I’ve misunderstood, or she has, or we both have. “Yes what?” I have to be sure. “Yes, I will move in with you, Arlo. It’s fucking crazy, but for once, I’m prepared to embrace the madness. Yes, I will be your live-in lover, or significant other, or de facto spouse, or ‘life partner,’ or whatever other descriptor you 25
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can think of. Yes.” She seems pretty clear, and with that response, so am I. “Ahh… okay. Yeah!” I don’t really know what to say. I had no hope that she would actually agree. Fuck me dead. “Well, now you don’t sound too sure. Did you really mean it? It’s okay if not, I won’t be offended. We can just pretend this whole conversation never happened.” The look in her gorgeous Bambi eyes tells me otherwise. “Of course I meant it. I mean it. I was just kinda expecting you to say no. Hoping you wouldn’t, but antici‐ pating you would. I had a game plan for that outcome, but not for you saying yes.” I figure that at this point, honesty’s the best policy. “You don’t need a game plan, my love, you just need to keep that hard-on on ice until we get home tonight and can put it to good use. I’m so horny right now, you’d better be ready to ride me all night.” Hell yeah, I love this woman. I don’t answer, just bend down again and plant a feathery kiss on her forehead. Anything more, and we’ll never make it downstairs. As we descend the stairs to rejoin the guests at the launch, a hush ripples through the room. Great. Without looking, I know London will be mortified, a deep blush just visible on her latte-colored skin. I squeeze her hand, silently conveying my strength and support. After so many years in the limelight, I’m used to being scrutinized and endlessly speculated about, but London’s new to this and already she hates being in the public eye. It’s weird given that in her previous career she was a dancer and often under the spot‐ light. I guess a lot has changed in her life since then, and she’s no longer comfortable taking center stage. As we reach the bottom step, I perform an exaggerated bow, causing our guests to chuckle but also take that as 26
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their cue that the Arlo and London Show is officially over. Hint taken, everyone returns to their conversations. Beside me, London relaxes instantly. I squeeze her hand a little tighter and whisper down to her, “Just breathe. You got this.” She nods mutely, relaxing a little more. She’s got this. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of anyone than I am of her right now. When I came up with the idea of asking her to come on tour with me, my reasons were twofold. Sure, I wanted to get into her pants. Actually, more accu‐ rately, I wanted to continue to get in her pants, more than I wanted to draw breath, and the prospect of three months on the road without being able to was like hell on earth. On the other hand, I genuinely believed she would deliver the goods, thus killing two very worthy birds with one stone. As it is, the end result has surpassed my wildest expectations— and everyone else’s. I had known she was ridiculously talented, and had been sure she’d nail this gig, but even so, when I saw the photos, I was shocked by her creative genius. I was present when each and every shot was taken, yet I had no idea what magic she was weaving. As front man of one of the most popular bands on the planet, I’ve seen tens of thousands of photos of myself over the years, but as I hoped she would, with these shots London brought something completely different and unexpected. The images are everything you wouldn’t associate with someone with a job and reputation like mine—they’re light, tender, intimate, raw, loving, and hauntingly beautiful. Yeah, the shots expose a lot more of the real me than I would have expected, or wanted, but I’m okay with that. The same can’t be said of London. Luckily for her, she has me to guide her. I’ve been doing this for almost as long as I 27
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can remember. It’s pretty much second nature to me at this point. I scan the room, watching the attendees as they look at the photos in rapt silence, or chat animatedly about their favorites. I’m looking for three people in particular. When I spot them, I pull London gently in their direction. “C’mon, you need to meet my folks.” Having already had the pleasure of her parents’ company for the first time just before we went upstairs to scratch our itch, I figure it’s only right and fair to return the favor and introduce her to my family also. As we approach, the tension returns to her body. Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all. Too late. I’ve already caught Gramps’s eye, so we have to go over or appear extremely rude. Gramps already thinks that of me, but I don’t want him to hold a similarly low opinion of London. He’s an ornery old bastard at the best of times without adding an imagined snub to his list of complaints. It’s now or never. I stop, pulling London close to my side and giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Mom, Pete, Gramps, this is London. London, this is Mom, Pete, and Gramps.” Gramps responds with a sarcastic snort. Not exactly the response I was hoping for. “What is it, Gramps?” I narrow my eyes in his direction. “We’re not stupid, young man. It’s obvious who she is, unless you’ve been upstairs for the past half hour banging a woman other than the one who has been making you miser‐ able for the past six months.” Oh. God. I squeeze London’s hand again, not daring to look at her. I’m already regretting the decision to introduce her to my peeps so soon after asking her to move in with me 28
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—this is going to shit real quick. What the fuck was I thinking? “Dad!” hisses Mom in a voice far louder than a whisper and more like a whisper-yell, causing the people nearest to us to stop their conversations and look on in interest. Just fucking great. Way to turn a shit storm into a shit blizzard. “What?” asks Gramps with a nonchalant shrug, his innocent expression totally downplaying the razor-sharp mind he wields like a knife. “Don’t be rude, is what.” She turns to London, apolo‐ getic on Gramps’s behalf. “I’m sorry about my father. He doesn’t get out much these days, and he clearly left his manners back in Brooklyn at the bottom of a bottle of beer. So nice to meet you, London. I’m Rebecca.” She smiles broadly. London returns the gesture and reaches out her hand. “Hi, Rebecca, so nice to meet you. Arlo has told me so much about you.” Mom beams, ignoring the outstretched hand and moving in for a hug instead. London looks a little like a deer in the headlights, but she plays along, allowing herself to be swept into the tight embrace. Mom turns to me and stagewhispers, “She’s stunning. Look at her beautiful skin. She’s positively glowing.” It’s true. Having worked herself almost to the bone to get the book and launch together, London suddenly looks radiant—probably with the relief of every‐ thing going according to plan. “She’s also standing right here, Mom, and not at all deaf, so….” Fuck my family. Gramps speaks up again. “Let’s get this over with. I’m not getting any younger over here. He’s Peter, the stepfa‐ ther”—he motions to Pete with his thumb—“but everyone calls him Pete. I’m Jack, but if you don’t want me to kick 29
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your ass into next Tuesday, you’ll call me Gramps just like everyone else.” Speaking of ass kickings, if Gramps carries on this way, he’ll be in line for one himself. He ignores my frustrated glare. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I mean, who wouldn’t want to meet the woman who almost broke this dipshit?” He elbows me in the ribs, and I wince. He’s on a roll tonight, and not in a good way. London smirks, in a vain attempt to keep a straight face. I’m glad she’s enjoying the show. That makes exactly one of us. “This kid of all of them was the toughest from the getgo. Always the first one to step up to a fight and the last to back down. Never cried. Ever. Never apologized. Ever. Heck, I was beginning to think he was a sociopath or some‐ thing and would never love anyone even half as much as he loves himself—he’s always been so big headed. Then you came along and blew the lid right off that theory, young lady —he’s been moping around like a dog with his balls cut off ever since he met you.” Kill. Me. Now. “Can’t say I blame him. You might have been a tough nut to crack, but you’re even more beautiful than he let on. If I were fifty years younger, I’d—” Oh. Hell. No! If he were fifty years younger, he’d be even more likely than me to be the recipient of a well-deserved slap in the face from her. If not that, I would have decked him for sure. “Gramps!” This time all three of us yell at him, causing everyone in the room to look our way yet again. Poor London. “What? What did I say? I only spoke the truth.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender. I wonder idly what the word is for murdering a grandparent. I know the words for killing your parents or siblings, but draw a blank on how 30
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to describe strangling your grandfather with his own ugly-ass tie. Pete steps forward, offering London his hand. She takes it, clearly grateful not to have to deal with Gramps any longer. “Hi, London, pleased to meet you. Listen, a word of advice, if I may. I know they seem a little crazy.” She beams his way, clearly still suppressing her laughter. “Well okay, they seem a lot crazy right now, but take it from one who’s been where you are right now and lived to tell the tale: these are good people. Mouths like sewers, but hearts of gold.” “Hi, Pete. Thanks for the advice.” I think she’s going to need it, but I keep that gem to myself, all the while silently praising myself for convincing her to move in with me before she met these crazies. There’s no way in hell she would have agreed to after this train wreck.
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OTHER BOOKS BY MV ELLIS
If you loved Pushing Arlo, you might enjoy the other hot, fierce and fiery stories and books MV Ellis has published.
LIST OF BOOKS Catching London Cold, Hard, & Heartless Pushing Arlo
CATCHING LONDON HEARTLESS FEW #1
He’s not looking to change his bad boy ways. Arlo Jones is a bad boy billionaire rock star with the world at his feet. He lives the “sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” lifestyle to the max, and believes in working hard and playing harder. He’s a man who always gets what he wants, especially when it comes to women. Until he meets London.
She’s a damaged dancer not looking to fall. All London Llwellyn wants is to rebuild her life following the tragic car accident that robbed her of her fiancé, and ended her career as a professional ballet dancer. She’s working two jobs to scrape together the cash to set up her own studio, and reinvent herself as a photographer. The last thing she wants is to get involved.
Arlo promises to always be there to catch her, but can London trust him enough to let herself fall?
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COLD, HARD, & HEARTLESS HEARTLESS FEW (#2 NOVELLA)
Billionaire rocker Arlo Jones is Cold, Hard, and Heartless, and he's all yours in MV Ellis's latest novella. Get up close and personal as he learns to live, love, and give a fuck. Cold. Hard. Heartless. If I don’t rise, I can’t fall. If I don’t give, I can’t take. If I don’t love, I can’t lose. If I don’t break, I can’t heal. If I don’t care, I can’t hurt. And if I don’t expose my heart, it can’t get broken. As a boy, Arlo Jones learned that hearts could literally be broken. His shattered into a thousand tiny pieces when his dad died, and he vowed to never let that happen again. He had to be cold, hard, and heartless. As a man, he has his shtick with chicks. He's never been in love, or even in lust. He gets horny, fucks, and sends them on their way. Rinse. Repeat. It ain't broke, so no need to fix it. Until London. Meeting her is the start of something big, like the first bump of coke or hit of the pipe. From day one, the only way forward is deeper in, and there is no easy way out. If this is love, he's never going to be the same again.
He vowed to protect the broken shards of his heart, until she etched herself on his soul. KINDLE UNLIMITED Amazon US: https://amzn.to/2NjbtI0 Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/2mlSFMX Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/2urum4u Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/2JsnYih
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thanks for reading Pushing Arlo. I do hope you enjoyed seeing him chase his happy ever after, as much as I enjoyed writing it. I appreciate your help in spreading the word, including telling a friend. Before you go, it would mean so much to me if you would take a few minutes to write a review and share how you feel about my story so others may find my work. Reviews really do help readers find books. Please leave a review on your favorite book site. Don’t miss out on new releases, exclusive giveaways and much more! Join my newsletter: https://mvellis.com/mv-ellis/ Visit my website for my current booklist: https://mvellis.com/ I’d love to hear from you directly, too. Please feel free to e-mail me at contact@mvellis.com or check out my website https://mvellis.com/ for updates. facebook.com/authormvellis twitter.com/authormvellis instagram.com/authormvellis bookbub.com/authors/mv-ellis
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Hot Tree Publishing opened its doors in 2015 with an aspi� ration to bring quality fiction to the world of readers. With the initial focus on romance and a wide spread of romance subgenres, we envision opening up to alternative genres in the near future. Firmly seated in the industry as a leading editing provider to independent authors and small publishing houses, Hot Tree Publishing is the sister company to Hot Tree Editing, founded in 2012. Having established in-house editing and promotions, plus having a well-respected market presence, Hot Tree Publishing endeavors to be a leader in bringing quality stories to the world of readers. Interested in discovering more amazing reads brought to you by Hot Tree Publishing? Head over to the website for information: www.hottreepublishing.com
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