Heartless Few Box Set Read online

  “Awesome,” I respond, smiling.

  “Yeah.” There’s that face again. The ‘I’ve just licked poop off a cracker’ face.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the house—I’ll take care of it, and I won’t use your shower while you’re away, I promise.” I’m laughing, but for some reason, Arlo doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

  He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room without another word, and doesn’t look back. Okay then. Our paths don’t cross again for the rest of the week, but I don’t waste much time thinking about it. Clearly the no-strings sex really was just that, and I’m relieved that I never kidded myself that it could be anything else. As I said to him at the time, we were on the same page from the get-go. We answered the “what would he/she be like in bed?” question, we can now move on without that elephant in the room, and nobody gets hurt.

  I next see Arlo in the middle of the following week. By that point, I’ve spoken to Luke a few times, and he’s filled me in on a bit more detail about the tour. Thank God one of them knows how to behave like a grown up. Apparently, they had about thirteen weeks to go on the tour when they had to pull out. All the canceled gigs have now been rescheduled, so they can put their disappointed fans out of their misery, plus appease the venues and promoters wanting blood—not to mention the tour crew who were all unexpectedly out of work due to the cancellations, journalists who are owed interviews, competition winners…. The list is endless.

  It’s funny, I worked at the house for all those months before the boys came back from tour, and didn’t mind that I never saw another soul; in fact, I considered it a bonus. But now that I’ve had them around breathing life into the place, the thought of it descending into quiet again when they leave depresses me a little. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was going to miss the two of them. Even Arlo, in all his pain-in-the-ass glory, bulldozing around, wreaking havoc. Especially Arlo, in fact. I had definitely gotten used to ogling his fine form as he moved about the house, and although I’m not emotionally invested in what went on between us, I can’t ignore the chemistry. Just thinking about him now has me wet and wanting.

  The sad fact is that for weeks now I’ve been getting myself off with my battery-operated boyfriend to the montage of images of Arlo’s body that plays in my head. I’m pretty sure B.O.B’s going to be getting a workout while Arlo’s away. I’d better stock up on fresh batteries. It’s even better now that we’ve sealed the deal—I’ve got actual memories to fuel the fire. Hotter than any porn I’ve ever seen.

  As my thoughts stray into XXX-rated territory, Arlo strolls into the room with a spring in his step that definitely wasn’t there during our previous encounter. Shoulders back, head high, he’s the epitome of the confident, sexed-up rock star. Dayum, that boy’s got swagger! And he’s clothed. Like, fully clothed—shirt and all, which is a rare sight. Though it’s not his shirt that is commanding my attention. His lower half has my eyes pretty much popping out of their sockets.

  He’s wearing tailored black pants instead of the sweats or loose jeans he normally wears around the house. These are not any old pants though. Nope, these are supertight. And made of coated cotton that looks similar to leather. God knows how he got into them. They look as though they’ve been sprayed on, which means they cling to every muscle and bump, particularly the most important bump. Holy living fuck—looking that good should be illegal!

  The sight of the fabric straining across the bulge between Arlo’s legs has me ready to jump his bones on the spot. On top of the criminally tight pants, he’s wearing a white tuxedo shirt, open almost to the navel, affording me a heart-stopping view of his abs and chest. I must be drooling or licking my lips or something, without even realizing it as, after a short while, Arlo interrupts my daydream.

  “Like what you see, eh, Tog?” he asks, a shit-eating grin on his face.

  I don’t even bother to be coy about it. He’s caught me shamelessly ogling him for the hundred millionth time, and I’m going to own it. He’s hot. He knows it, and so do I. He also knows I’m hot for him—I’ve proved that much by allowing him to screw my brains out several times, clearly loving every moment.

  “Is the Pope a Catholic? I’m not gonna lie—you look good enough to eat right now. And you’re wearing a shirt. What’s the occasion?” I quip lightheartedly.

  “Got a business meeting in a few minutes, so I thought I’d better make an effort.” It must be an important meeting—he’s gone all out. His hair is slicked back, not the sexily messy mop I’m used to seeing.

  “A business meeting, where?” If it’s starting in a few minutes, it can’t be happening too far away—maybe it’s a FaceTime thing, rather than face-to-face.

  “Here.”

  Shit.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gotten some catering or something.” I feel terrible for not being prepared, even though I had no idea the meeting was even taking place. “How many people are you expecting, and what time are you kicking off? I’ll at least rustle up some cookies, or pastries and make coffees. Where will you be, in the boardroom?” Because of course, every house has a boardroom.

  He’s barefoot, so I’m wondering what kind of meeting it could be that he’d get slicked up for, but not need to wear shoes. But then, when you’re Arlo Jones, you can do whatever the fuck you like. His house, his rules, I guess.

  “Nah, we won’t bother with the boardroom, right here’s fine. It’s a pretty low-key thing.”

  “What, in the kitchen?”

  I’m a little confused—he hasn’t had a meeting at home since he’s been back, but I don’t know why he’d have it in the kitchen when there’s the boardroom, his office, or even one of the formal sitting rooms that would be far more appropriate.

  “Yep, and it’s starting now.” A slow smile spreads across his face at about the same rate that panic rises in me.

  “Now? Um... okay. Sorry, you have me at a disadvantage—if I’d known you had a meeting, I’d have been better prepared. I’ll at least get those coffees. How many of you?”

  Crap. Even though it’s not my fault, I feel like shit for floundering around.

  “Just the two of us.”

  The way he looks at me has my heart flipping and my pussy clenching. Even in times of stress like this, sex is never far from my mind when I’m with Arlo.

  Although I should be rushing around, I’m rooted to the spot, staring into those eyes. I swear they’ll be my undoing. One look and I’d pretty much do anything for him.

  “Okay, no problem. Do you want a coffee? Do you know how your guest takes theirs?” I guess they’ll be arriving at any moment.

  I’m trying to remain professional, even while thinking about all the dirty things I’d like to do to him right now...

  “Earth calling London, come in, London.”

  He’s waving his arms in front of my face, a playful smile curling at the corners of his lips. Shit, I must have zoned out. Very professional.

  “Sorry, I lost my train of thought for a moment there.” No shit. “What were you saying?”

  “I was asking you how you like your coffee,” he repeats.

  “Hmmm? I mean… sorry… why do you want to know how I take my coffee?”

  I’m confused as all get out.

  “Because my meeting is with you, and you’re offering to make coffees, so I thought I’d ask you how you like it. Your coffee, that is. I know how you like it.” He chuckles, clearly enjoying my confusion.

  “I’m sorry, Arlo. I’m not following you.” I’m starting to get a tad irritated. I know he’s playing with me, but I’m not sure of the game.

  “Okay, I’ll break it down for you. I need to speak to you. Strictly business. Can you join me at the table for a while, please, Tog, and all will become clear.”

  “You want to have a business meeting with me?” I’m still all kinds of confused.

  “Correct.” He’s finding it hard to contain his growing mirth, I can tell.

  “H
ere? Now?”

  “Also correct.”

  “Okay, well then you can call me London, not Tog,” I say curtly. “I don’t think a nickname is appropriate for a business meeting.”

  And.... she’s back in the game.

  “Okay, Ms. Llwellyn.”

  Now he’s just being a dick to make a point. As opposed to the status quo of being a dick because he’s a dick. “London is fine, Arlo, and it’s Miss, not Ms, remember?”

  “Okay, London.” The meeting isn’t going well so far, but I’m not too surprised, given how most of our non-horizontal interactions have played out.

  “Sit.” He motions with his head to the chair opposite him at the table.

  Nine

  Despite being pissed about being spoken to like an errant puppy, I decide to do as I’m told. He is my boss, after all. I sit.

  “What was it that you wanted to see me about?”

  I sit up as straight as I can and level him with my best steely gaze, but it’s so hard to keep my composure while looking into those eyes. He stares back at me, unflinching and unsmiling, back to the closed-book routine he does so well. I brace myself, knowing this is going to be bad. Why else would he be so dressed up, and approaching this whole thing so formally? After what feels like an eternity, he speaks.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Not what I was expecting to hear. Oh God, he’s not going to pull some kind of Indecent Proposal or Pretty Woman shit on me, is he? Like ask me to be his concubine, or whatever. I’ll die if he does. Literally die. I would pay good money to be anywhere else right now.

  “Oooooohkaaaaaay…?” I say.

  I’m sure he can hear the trepidation in my voice. I must have good reason to be nervous—he’s shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and suddenly unable to look me in the eye. Fuck.

  “I want you to come on tour with us.”

  Sweet baby cheeses, he really is propositioning me!

  “What? Why?” Yeah, Sherlock Holmes I ain’t.

  “Don’t look and sound so outraged. It’s all legit so you can get your filthy mind out of the gutter. I want you to be our, no, my official photographer.”

  What? This is weirder than I had imagined. Is this some kind of kinky shit he’s got going on?

  “I’m sorry if I’m being really dense here, but I don’t understand what you’re asking me.” It’s true. I don’t have the faintest clue.

  “Relax, Tog. London,” he corrects, hastily. “It’s nothing crooked, I promise. About two years ago, Paul, my manager, pretty much conned me into signing a deal with a publishing house to produce a coffee table book basically about me. My travels, touring, partying, hanging with the band, and ‘the rest,’ if you know what I mean.” He winks. Oh, I can definitely imagine what the rest refers to.

  “Sorry, but how can someone trick you into signing a publishing deal? Don’t you have lawyers to look over stuff like that for you?”

  Plus I’ve heard him on the phone around the house, he’s a pretty shrewd operator where his businesses are concerned—he definitely doesn’t seem like the type to let anyone stiff him over a contract, or anything else, for that matter.

  “Of course I do, but unless there are major legal implications, they advise on whether a contract is sound, not whether or not it’s a damned fool idea. Anyway, let’s just say he caught me at a weak moment. I was partying pretty hard, and not as focused as I could have been. I agreed to it more to get him off my back than anything.

  “One small mercy is that I was at least compos mentis enough to ensure that I could nominate the photographer. Even half cut, I knew I didn’t want some asshole shadowing my every move. In the cold light of day, I couldn’t think of anything worse than months on the road in close quarters with a stranger.

  “I’ve been giving them the brush-off since I signed, with one excuse after another about why it’s not the right time, hoping that they’d get bored and back out. Which of course, they haven’t. They want their pound of Arlo Jones flesh too bad for that, and their patience has pretty much worn out. There have been heavy hints that if I don’t nominate someone to shoot the rest of the tour stat, they will. If I don’t play ball, they’ll take me to court for breach of contract.”

  A vein in his temple throbs as he speaks. If it’s one thing I’ve learned about Arlo in the time I’ve known him, it’s that he likes to be the one calling the shots. It’s clear he’s not happy about being strong-armed into upholding a contract, even one that he signed of his own free (if not sound) will. The look on his face as he speaks confirms my suspicions.

  “I was starting to think that I was going to have to concede, and was feeling pretty shitty about the prospect, when just in the nick of time you turned up in my shower, in all your birthday-suited glory. As fate would have it, you’re the perfect man for the job, Tog.”

  Looks like the new nickname has well and truly stuck.

  “Woman.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the perfect woman for the job.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Actually, I don’t. You may have seen me in my birthday suit, but you hardly know me, so how do you know I’d be the best person for the job? You haven’t even seen my work, I could be shit for all you know. Actually, I could just be some crazy stalker girl who made up the whole photography thing as a ruse to get into your pants,” I counter.

  “Touché, Ms. Llwellyn. Tou-fucking-ché.” Laughing softly, he gives me a slow, sarcastic round of applause. “However, you’re forgetting that not only have I done more than just see you naked”—he busts out his most wolfish smirk—“but I have seen your work. Those photos you took of me in bed are insanely good. They’re what got me thinking about you taking on this gig, actually.

  “Plus, you’re underestimating the power of Google. You’re not the only one capable of cyberstalking, you know. Just like you’ve snooped on me online, I may have done a little research on you in return. Remember when I called you to offer you the housekeeper job? I told you I got your number from your website, right? I’ve had a good look at your online portfolio. You’re an exceptionally good photographer.”

  Of course. I do remember him mentioning that he’d tracked me down online. I don’t know why, but my cheeks heat at the compliment.

  “I was mesmerized by some of your portraits. You’ve got a real talent for people and light. Taking good action shots at gigs isn’t easy, but your ballet shots show that you can handle the changes in light, pace, and mood. They want some good candid behind-the-scenes shots on the road, too, so your work backstage at the ballet is also perfect. You’re perfect. I even got dressed up for our meeting, so you know I’m serious.” His tone is soft.

  He’s beaming, and does genuinely seem excited at the proposal. This kind of effusiveness isn’t his usual style. I don’t quite know what to make of it, so I stay quiet, waiting for him to continue.

  “And for the record, just because the contract says I can designate the photographer, it doesn’t mean they’re going to let me hire just any clown. Ultimately, they have to sanction my choice. I’ve already floated the idea with the publisher, my management, and the record label. Everyone involved has seen your work, and agrees that you’re the right choice. They’re all pumped to finally get this happening, and now that you’re in the picture, so am I.”

  Although I’m inwardly glowing with pride at his praise, I still make no move to respond, so he continues.

  “As well as the book, there’s a launch event at a gallery, where the photos can be viewed, and prints sold, just prior to the book release. It will be amazing publicity for you—everyone who’s anyone in the industry will be there. Music people, photography people, music photography people, journalists, the full nine yards. This’ll be big news. Not to blow smoke up my own butt hole, but you know that anything that has my name on it will attract an insane amount of attention. It’ll be a massive jumpstart to your photography career. There’s no better way to get your name ou
t there—and bring in some decent coin to set up your studio. It’s win-win.”

  Holy shit, he’s actually for real. I almost thought he was pranking me, and that the person he was really meeting with was going to walk in at any moment, and they’d both have a good laugh at my expense. Stupid really, but it somehow seemed more likely than Arlo Jones offering me the gig of a lifetime. Literally. I’m momentarily floored, but have enough pride not to want Arlo to know what a big deal this is for me. I recover myself quickly and respond in a tone that totally plays down my shock and awe.

  “Win-win, apart from the whole hanging around with Arlo Jones 24/7 on the road bit,” I tease.

  “Yeah, there is that. And touring with a bunch of feral guys ain’t easy, either.” He smiles ruefully. “But other than that, it’s pretty much the perfect gig for you, so what do you say?”

  Nothing, it would seem. Literally. I’ve got nothing. Ummm… wow. It doesn’t happen often, but London Llwellyn is completely lost for words.

  Arlo seems to sense my unease. “You don’t have to make a decision now. The publisher’s lawyers have drawn up the initial draft of the contract. The terms are very favorable—a great overall package, and a percentage of all sales. Have a look at it, have your lawyer go through it, and then let me know what you think,” he says.

  He sounds like he’s really put some serious thought into this whole thing—maybe he doesn’t just want to put my pussy on the payroll, after all. I glance down at the contract as he slides it toward me, flicking through it as nonchalantly as I can.

  Holy. Fuckety. Fuck. I cannot believe what I’m seeing. I’m pretty sure that my eyebrows shoot up so far, they end up somewhere near the back of my neck.

  I don’t know much about publishing, but to me, this looks like a great deal. One that would allow me to make some life-changing moves long before I thought I could, and never look back. Arlo’s right—this could pretty much set me up for life, if I play it right. Arlo’s contract even includes an option for a follow-up book if the first one does well, so that’s reflected in my contract too. Holy shit! I can feel the blood draining from my cheeks as I meet Arlo’s eager gaze, and try to keep my cool.