Pushing Arlo: A Rock Star Romance (Heartless Few Book 3) Page 13

  They say that if a magician shows you their right hand, you should always look at their left. Well, I’m the right hand to Luke’s left. While all the world has been gawking at me, he has been busy fucking everyone over, including and especially me.

  “Maybe she should have thought about someone other than herself when she shot that video, and then there wouldn’t have been anything to protect her from in the first place. Man, I know we have our moments, but you’re my brother. My twin fucking brother, and you want to put her before me. Really? You’re meant to have my back, but you really dropped the brotherly love ball on this one, big-time. You know, I may not have always liked you at various points in our lives, but I always thought I could trust you. Turns out I was a fucking fool.” I guess that means my already small circle of trust is reduced to the other guys, Mom, and Gramps. Well, fuck. I pace the small space available to me, now that Ryan is blocking me off, my features set for a fight.

  “What kind of Judas motherfucker puts some chick before their own flesh and blood? Their twin?”

  “‘Some chick’? It’s not some chick, Arlo. It’s Marnie. She’s practically family. You’ve been sleeping with her since you were fifteen, remember?”

  “So? Who gives a crap? She’s still ‘some chick.’ I don’t care if I was fucking her for a hundred years. Apart from London, they’re all just some chick. Don’t you get that?”

  Luke’s face turns a pretty shade of crimson, and I see the rage building within him. A vein in the side of his temple tics as he cracks his neck from side to side. So different, yet so alike.

  The cherries on the slot machine of my mind finally unleash their jackpot, and realization slowly dawns on me. How can I have been so stupid and so blind for so long? It’s starting to be a theme lately.

  “Wait. Dude. How long?”

  “How long what?” It’s a piss-poor attempt at casual indifference, and it’s fooling nobody. Least of all me. I may have been in some kind of coma not to see what was going on right in front of my face before, but I’m sure as shit wide awake now.

  “Don’t play games with me, Luke. How. Fucking. Long?” My impatience comes across in my tone. Loud. And. Clear.

  He sighs heavily before answering. “Always.”

  “What?” The actual…?

  “You heard me. Always. From the very start. The first moment. Remember how she and I met when she was new at school? She transferred from out of state when her parents… died, and she had come to live with her grandmother. I was assigned as her buddy, which was a godsend—there’s no way I would have approached her otherwise. You were out for two weeks with… chicken pox, was it? Something like that. Another gift from the gods—no offense, but I had never been so glad to see you sick.”

  So his backstabbing tendencies went way back. This just gets better and better.

  “I felt something as soon as I laid eyes on her, and I know she felt it too. We just clicked from the very start. We had two glorious weeks together without you in the picture, and I was all in from day one. I fell for her like a sack of shit off a cliff. In all my clumsy teenage innocence, I wanted to make a move, wanted to do something more than just think about her 24/7, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. You remember how I was, right? Cripplingly fucking shy.

  How could I forget? As identical twins, obviously people used to find it difficult to tell us apart from our features, and even for the few who could see the minute differences, they’d struggle to remember which name went to which face. What really seemed to set us apart more than anything was our behavior—the massive differences in our personalities. We were often dubbed Arlo and the Quiet Twin.

  Everyone knew if you wanted to speak to Luke about something, you came through me. Likewise, if Luke wanted something negotiated or otherwise managed, he came to me. Although Luke was technically older—by thirteen stupid minutes, which he never let me forget—back then, I was the one who played the big brother role. Unless we needed the real big guns. Those were the times we called on Brad to step in. He always had our backs, without fail.

  That’s one thing everyone knew about the Jones boys. If you fucked with one, you’d better be damn sure you could take them all on, because that’s what you were getting. Even when we were dueling to the death in private, in public we were solid. Always.

  “Then you came swaggering back into school like you owned the joint, which you kinda did, radiating confidence and taking no prisoners, as ever. I’ll never forget the way she looked at you that first time, like you’d just hung the fucking moon. She was a moth to a flame. She never stood a chance, and neither did I. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “Man, I can’t believe you could keep this from me. Something this fucking major in your life. Why the hell have you never said anything?”

  “What do you mean, why haven’t I said anything? Don’t you wonder why you haven’t seen anything? How this could have been right here, under your nose, and you had no fucking idea?” He rakes his hands through his hair repeatedly.

  He has a point. My anger is directed at him, but I’m angry at myself as much as anyone. How could Luke have been harboring secret feelings for Marnie for half our lives and I’ve only just realized now? Even in the events of the past few months, let alone all the water under the bridge in the past between the three of us, how did I not see that Luke’s reactions and behaviors went well beyond concerned friend level?

  His dogged insistence for all these years that my arrangement with Marnie was going to end in tears should surely have been an epic red flag. How far up my own ass had I jammed my head not to have seen the angry flashing warning signs? What else had I missed? Not just with Luke, either. At this point I’m prepared to believe that everything I thought I knew about everyone is way off base.

  On the other hand, I’m not ready to assume total blame for this one yet. Luke obviously went out of his way to hide this from me, and clearly he’s a better actor, or liar, than I ever gave him credit for.

  “Were you ever going to tell me? More to the point, have you told her?”

  “No, and no. What exactly was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Marnie, I know you’ve been carrying a torch for my sociopathic twin brother since cavemen invented fire, but hey, what about me? I’m over here in love with you, and I’m not a self-centered asshole. Unlike him, I’ll treat you with the respect you deserve, not like you’re just some kind of rent-a-pussy. Why don’t you give me a try?’ Or what about ‘Hey, Arlo, you know that chick who is totally in love with you, whose cherry you popped like a fucking Tic-Tac? The one you’ve been ‘casually’ screwing since you were teens but actually give zero fucks about as a human being? Well, I’m in love with her, and always have been. Do you mind stepping aside so I can make a move?’” More hair pulling.

  “What was going to be the outcome of that conversation, exactly, pray tell, dear brother? We all know that everything in your life revolves around you—for you, and for everyone around you. You don’t share, you don’t compromise, and you don’t do anything unless it has a clear benefit for you.”

  Well damn. I started this conversation by saying my shit was out of control, and nobody—with the possible exception of Mom, and definite exception of Gramps—would tell it to me like it is. Now that Luke is hitting me with the real talk, and pulling no punches, I’m learning to be careful what I wish for. He’s firing truths from both barrels, no holds barred, and I don’t like what he has to say. It’s all true, of course—my life and the lives of those around me have been all about me for way too long. I knew something had to give, and in epic Arlo Jones fashion, it’s all giving at once. Luke, Marnie, London, Squirt. The whole house of cards is about to come crashing down around me if I don’t do something to stop it.

  “I’ve been telling you for years that her feelings go beyond the casual hookup, and you’ve been stonewalling me that whole time because ultimately you don’t give a fuck about anything unless it serves your agenda. Would it have been any different if I’d told you h
ow I felt? I highly doubt it, apart from the fact that I would have looked like a sad fuck, and you would never have let me forget it. Excuse me for wanting to hang on to at least a shred of dignity in all this. So here we are.”

  Would I have done anything differently if he had told me years ago? Probably not. Like he said, the arrangement with Marnie worked for me, and that was all that had mattered as far as I was concerned. If that meant telling myself that she was just as happy with the way things stood as I was, then I was fine with that. Knowing that in screwing Marnie, both figuratively and literally, I was also screwing Luke is unlikely to have been enough of a deterrent—there’s always a way to rationalize my behavior if I try hard enough.

  Ryan interjects, “C’mon, Arlo, you can’t seriously tell me you had no idea? I mean, I had an inkling and we don’t share DNA. Fuck, he may be your identical twin, but unlike you, his poker face ain’t for shit, even less so when we were kids. He looked like a kicked dog when you and Marnie started hanging out, then hooking up. You really must be high on your own supply to have missed that after all these years. Even as adults, the way he looks at her when he thinks nobody is watching, the way he talks about her, the way he talks to her. The way he’d walk to the ends of the earth across molten lava if she needed him to. It’s all there if you ever bothered to take notice, or give a fuck about something or someone other than yourself.”

  Ouch. I guess it’s open season on telling me what a dick I am. With everything that’s been going on, clearly it has been long overdue. I started out angry at Marnie for her betrayal, then at Luke for his, but then I cycled through a myriad of emotions: confusion, resentment, bitterness, guilt, regret. Now I’m feeling a weird sense of relief. Because pretty much everything except the band has gone to shit, I can start picking up the pieces of my life and putting it back together again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Now that I have relocated back to NYC, I move fully into the office at the club, using that as my business base. Like the rest of the house, my office at Rosemond House never really felt like my space, and still doesn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever used it. Besides, as I’m now working very closely with Hunter on the running of the club, it makes sense for me to be there, and I can put the space at home to much better use.

  One morning after we have been working together this way for a little while, I call Hunter into my office for a meeting. He saunters in five minutes early with two coffees in hand, passing one to me. That’s so Hunter, always one step ahead of the game. Except today.

  As hands on as I try to be in my businesses, I can’t be everywhere. Between the club, the tattoo house, touring with the Heartless Few, and the fact that I lived in LA for so long, I need people on my team I can trust to run shit the way I would whether I’m there or not. Thankfully I have that in Hunter. Same goes for Zed at the tattoo house. On top of that, Hunter has put together a crack squad below him, headed up by the bar manager, his younger brother Hendrix. Fucking dream team.

  Between the three of us—Hunter, Hendrix and me—our shit is as tight as a gnat’s asshole. It’s one of the main reasons 12AM Mass has been consistently rated New York’s top nightspot for anyone who’s anyone and everyone who wants to be someone, every year in the five years since launch. Our membership list has been closed since a few weeks before we even opened the doors for the first time, and the waitlist continues to grow at a rate far beyond our capacity to ever accommodate even a tenth of the people on it.

  At this rate, someone literally has to die before a new member gets a bite at the cherry. It’s an enviable position for any venue to be in, and I’m thankful that my hard work in establishing the club has paid off. More than paid off, in fact; we’ve consistently smashed all sales and growth targets, and we don’t see that situation changing anytime soon.

  As I stand to greet him, Hunter grins and reaches out to grab me in a bro shake, his grasp as firm as ever. We have the natural ease of people who have known each other for years.

  “Mornin’, bro. You wanted to see me?” The grin is firmly in place, showing off his dimple.

  It’s the stuff of legends and can part women from their underwear faster than he can say “drop those drawers.” It’s ironic that his name is Hunter, as he’s never had to hunt for anything in his life, especially not pussy. He’s much more of a gatherer—gathering women in his wake wherever he goes. When they were giving out genetic good fortune, he got more than his fair share, and he’s a nice guy to boot. If I didn’t love him like a brother, I’d probably hate him.

  “Yeah, man, take a seat.” I motion to the chair on the other side of my desk, moving around to my own. He frowns then, clearly surprised at the formality of the gesture. Usually when we meet, if you can even call it that, it’s a pretty casual affair—a quick chat here and there, sometimes not even bothering to sit at all. He sits, looking at me expectantly.

  Anyone who takes Hunter’s good looks to mean he has nothing going on up top—and it happens all the time—will be proven wrong within a few moments of meeting him. The guy is seriously smart. Book smart and street smart. He knows his way around running a company like nobody else I’ve met. This a major reason that our working relationship has been so successful.

  While I’m an ideas guy, about reaching for the stars, Hunter is all over the detail, down to the last bottle top and roll of toilet tissue. With him in charge of the day-to-day, I’m free to think one step ahead of the curve in terms of the next big thing. It’s the perfect combination. Hendrix, on the other hand, isn’t quite as cerebrally blessed, but he’s a damn fine mixologist and a total showman. People love that shit.

  “Why do I get the impression that something bad is about to happen or has already happened? What’s going on?” Hunter is sharp as a tack. Nothing gets past him.

  “Listen, as you know, the club has been going from strength to strength since it opened. I couldn’t be happier with the way things have grown over the last five years and are continuing to grow. We’re smashing targets and far exceeding expectations in every aspect of the growth of the business.” He knows all this, of course; he pores over the books, memorizing the numbers as though they hold the answers to the survival of humanity.

  “Obviously I don’t need to tell you that a lot of that positive movement is due to your input and skilled leadership. No doubt you have a talent for business, for management, and for generally running a tight fucking ship. I’m under no illusion that I owe the fact that 12AM Mass is the hottest ticket in town in large part to you—”

  “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming on?” It’s probably the first time I’ve seen him look even vaguely perturbed. He’s one of those people who even when the shit really hits the fan shows little or no outward sign of worry—the definition of cool under pressure. It’s one of the things that makes him so incredibly good at what he does. Even now, his version of worried looks like everyone else’s mild confusion.

  “But as you have probably worked out by now, I’m making major changes in my life. One of which is that I’m relocating back here to be with my girl. Now that I’m going to be minutes rather than hours away, I’m also going to be taking a more hands-on role in the club. I’m sure you’ve noticed over the past few weeks that we’ve been tripping over each other, figuratively and literally, and the whole dynamic of us both being here 24/7 just isn’t working. An octopus only has one head, and at the moment, the two of us are like some kind of ugly two-headed monster. We’re not playing to either of our strengths.”

  “Hey, that’s a bit unfair. I’m not ugly!”

  Ha! That’s another point against him. He has a great sense of humor even when the sky is falling. I carry on, sighing.

  “Clearly the club isn’t big enough for both of us, so one of us has to go. It’s my club, so….”

  “Wait, what? Are you seriously letting me go after everything you just said about how I contributed to the success of the club? Man, that’s rough.”

  “You’ll be more than fairly c
ompensated. I’ve been very generous with your compensation package, so I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry, but I am disappointed.” He frowns, and it’s as close to angry as I’ve ever seen him.

  “I mean, I really didn’t see this coming. I’m happy here, and I thought you were happy with me also. We’ve been getting on just fine, and you just said yourself that the club just goes from strength to strength, so I don’t know what to think. Has there been some kind of miscommunication, or is there anything I can do to change your mind? I—”

  I can tell he’s genuinely shocked, and rightly so.

  “No, man. I’m sorry if it comes as a surprise to you, but this is just the way it has to be. Someone needs to run The Confessional, and you’re the best man for the job.”

  “But I don’t understand. If there was a problem, why didn’t you talk to me about it before it got to this? I’m sure we could have worked it out. You know I’m a reasonable guy, and I thought we were tight. I’m not above taking constructive criticism and working on my… wait. What? The Confessional. What is that? What are you talking about?”

  I’m an evil bastard, but I’m really enjoying this.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” I raise an eyebrow as though in mild surprise.

  “Tell me what? You didn’t tell me shit except that I’m fired.”

  “Oh, I guess I should have started with that. My bad. The Confessional is the name of our new club. We have the building, but that’s pretty much it. I want you to be responsible for launching it—fitting it out, staffing, marketing, finding a permanent manager to run it once you’re back here, the full nine yards.”