Heartless Few Box Set Read online

  Well shit, now he looks thunderous.

  “Cute, London, real cute.” He must be annoyed if he’s using my proper name.

  “Cool. Have it your way. I’ll see you at the airport next week.”

  He turns abruptly on his heel and slams out of the room.

  Hmmm… I’m already beginning to question the sanity of going ahead with this. I hope Arlo doesn’t make me live to regret my decision.

  The last few days before we leave pass in a blur of publicity activities—interviews, photo shoots, radio and TV appearances, and last-minute details. I’m filled with excitement and panic in equal measure, but deep down I know I’ve got this. At least, I’d damned well better have it, as there’s no turning back now. After all the PR, London Llwellyn, Photographer—or just “Tog” to Arlo—is well and truly on the map. I just need for Arlo not to be a total ass pain about the whole thing, and I’ll be good.

  Nothing could have prepared me for life on the road with the boys, so I'm glad I didn’t have the time to even try. Wow! Just. Wow. I knew by that point that the Heartless Few were big, well, huge, globally, but nothing prepares you for the sight (and sound) of tens of thousands of fans screaming and shouting, waving signs, crying, laughing, fainting—the full nine yards. Hysteria doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m completely blown away.

  The aspect that I find hardest to deal with is the physical side of it. People seem to think that as celebrities, the band are public property, theirs. Everyone wants their pound of flesh. Literally. They grab, maul, pinch, shove, hug, and kiss the guys at will, without considering that they’re invading someone’s personal space—in fact, assaulting them. I definitely wouldn’t be able to deal with that day in, day out, wherever I went.

  In fact, personal space and privacy are huge issues for the band, all the time. If they’re not being papped and snapped at inopportune moments (or more accurately, at every moment), they’re being followed by fans, or someone is trying to hack their cells or e-mail, or interview anyone who’s ever known them in any capacity to mine them for information. Even on an uneventful day, they’re rarely without security guards, managers, PRs, or label execs. It’s physically and emotionally exhausting.

  The irony is that the adoring fans are “in love” with a dream, based on piecing together what they think the guys are like. They’re idolizing caricatures created from fragments of information gleaned from the press, social media, and endless hearsay. The men they think they know don’t actually exist; they’re just figments of the public’s hive mind.

  It’s quite surreal to me that anyone would be hysterical over the five of them. I get that they’re supremely talented, and overly genetically blessed (damn, are they some fine men!), but they’re just people—annoying, fallible people who act like overgrown teenagers a lot of the time. Once you’ve seen them burping, farting, puking, or sprawled facedown and hungover on the couch in yesterday’s underwear, you start to view them in a whole new light.

  Not that I don’t find Arlo ridiculously good-looking and near-on irresistible, regardless, because I do. But it’s a mutual attraction—something that we both feel compelled to act on. My desire isn’t based on some kind of abstract, perfect, fantasy version of him. It’s based on the real-life, gritty version, in all its infuriating glory. The one I want to throat punch almost as much as I want to fuck.

  Before boarding the plane for this adventure, I only really knew Arlo and Luke. Stevie was out of circulation, and then keeping a very low profile for obvious reasons. Ryan, the bass player, and Jake, the keyboard player, I’d met fewer than a handful of times each, very briefly when they’d been at the house to catch up with the guys.

  Jake, particularly, tends to make himself pretty scarce when not needed for work. As the only married member of the band, with a young family, he spends his time off catching up on much-needed quality time with his beautiful wife and kids.

  Both guys seemed lovely, though I did get the impression at the time that they were on their best behavior for my benefit. Seeing them on the road confirms my suspicions. Now I really understand the phrase “what goes on tour stays on tour.”

  Though I have my own experiences of show business from my former career in ballet, the sheer scale of this tour is like nothing I could have imagined. It’s mind-boggling. I’ve been part of some major productions, but they pale in comparison to this.

  I spend the first few days stumbling around in mind-melted amazement. It’s hard to comprehend that Arlo and the rest of the band are at the center of this huge machine. They have an army of people on the payroll: sound engineers, lighting technicians, guitar techs, roadies and riggers, wardrobe, catering, drivers, bodyguards, and assistants for miles. That’s not even taking into account the myriad record label staff in each country; A&R guys, producers, PAs, PRs, marketing people, and who knows who else.

  I can’t lie. I’m completely out of my depth amongst all this. Everything is so new that it’s hard to know what I should take in first, apart from Arlo. He’s definitely the main focus of each gig. As the lead singer and lead guitarist of the Heartless Few, he’s front and center stage, and not surprisingly, most of the female attention the band attracts is directed at him.

  I can see why, too; apart from the whole Adonis thing he’s got going on, he’s also an outstanding performer. The other guys are supertalented also, but they don’t have the same “thing” he does on stage—the combination of electric energy and raw sex, that’s so similar to what distinguishes Marko in the ballet world.

  The first few days on tour are used to set up, sound check, and get the band fighting fit again for the grueling weeks ahead. Even in sound check mode, Arlo performing is a sight to behold. For me, the process is a great opportunity to get a feel for the best shots and angles before I come to shoot the real thing. Some of the rehearsal shots I take will be good for behind-the-scenes content also, so it serves a dual purpose.

  The first show rolls around all too quickly, and I’m seriously nervous. Hideously so, in fact. It’s irrational, and out of character—I have performed in front of audiences all around the world, more times than I could hope to count, and this time I’m not even part of the show. It won’t be me scores of people (read: women) will be here to see, but I feel like I could lose my lunch any minute. I haven’t felt this way since taking my first few ballet recitals as a gap-toothed kid.

  I call on some of the relaxation techniques I’ve learned over the years, and hope they help to keep my spiraling nerves in check. I’m still in a state of calm(ish) reverie when there’s a knock on the door of the dressing room I’ve been allocated as a base to store my camera gear. I already know who it is before the door creaks open and Arlo saunters in. He looks supremely confident, and as ever, good enough to eat. He’s wearing leather pants and a fitted black T-shirt.

  Leather. Fucking. Pants.

  “Hey.” He sounds a little hesitant. Not so confident after all.

  “Hey yourself.” My tone is light.

  “Just checking in before your big debut. You cool?”

  “Yeah, all good, thanks.” It’s only partially true, but I’m sure the last thing he needs right now is to hear about my stupid nerves. He strolls across the room to stand behind my chair, and starts massaging my shoulders like a trainer giving their prizefighter a tune-up before the big clash.

  “You sure? You look a little like a deer in headlights.”

  Busted! I didn’t realize it was that obvious. I guess I’d better fess up.

  “You got me there. I’m a little nervous, but I’ll be fine once I get started. First night nerves is all.”

  He pulls me to my feet and turns me to face him, gently hooking a finger beneath my chin and tilting my head back.

  “Look at me.” His voice is gentle, yet commanding. I look anywhere but at him.

  “Look at me, Tog.” I do, and the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

  I read genuine concern and tenderness. It’s an intoxicating combinat
ion. I want to look away again, before I do or say something I’ll regret, but his gaze is so penetrating that I can’t. Besides, he’s still holding my chin in place, so I don’t have much choice but to look down the barrel of that stare.

  “Listen to me. You got this. You’ve got the skills, you’ve got the experience, and you’ve definitely got the gear.” He casts his eyes around the room. “Most of all, you’ve got the determination to nail this to the wall. You’re not the kind of person to let any situation get the better of you. I should know, I had the black eye to prove it.” He’s smiling at his exaggeration—trying to lighten my mood. “So c’mon, let’s both go smash this thing.”

  He sweeps a stray curl from my forehead and replaces it with his lips, in the gentlest of kisses, before turning on his heel and heading for the door. He turns again as he reaches the threshold, leaning casually against the frame.

  “Oh, and London?”

  I’m learning to be wary when he uses my full name. “Yeah?”

  “I know you were the one dishing out most of the rules before we left, but I’ve got one more I want to add to the list.”

  “Oh really?” I’m intrigued—and slightly irked, after the whole shorts debacle.

  “Really. It’s simple, but important, okay?”

  Hmmm….

  “On gig nights, I don’t want you out of my sight during or immediately after the show.” His voice is low but firm, and I feel a fight coming on.

  “What?” Arrggh! Just as I start warming to his charms, he goes and pulls a dick move like this. Every. Single. Time.

  “Arlo, that’s neither practical nor possible. Not to mention not necessary.”

  “It’s absolutely all of the above, especially necessary. You haven’t seen it around here during and after a gig. There are people every-fucking-where. Stage people, record label people, press, PRs, competition winners, hangers-on, and God knows who else. It’s totally crazy. I don’t want you walking around alone looking like that”—he sweeps his eyes very slowly over my body—“especially when I’m on stage, and can’t get to you if you need me.”

  “I won’t need you, Arlo. I’m a big girl, and you just said that I can look after myself. More to the point, I’m here to do my job while you do yours, so you need to let me get on and do that. I don’t need a fucking bodyguard, least of all you.”

  This man makes my blood boil. Even when he’s trying to be nice and look out for me—at least I think that’s what he’s doing right now—I just want to shake him by the collar. He’s maddening.

  I look down at what I’m wearing—ripped black jeans, black leather Chucks, and a black crop with a flannel shirt tied around my waist. My hair is piled up in a messy bun. Okay, so there’s a fair bit of side boob action happening, but my For Love and Lemons triangle bra is taking care of it pretty well. Other than that, it’s not exactly sexy.

  “I lost the shorts, like you asked. Not that I should have, because that whole thing was bullshit, and now I’m practically dressed like a nun. Looking like what, exactly?”

  “Christ, Tog, you’ve genuinely got no idea, have you?” He rolls his eyes heavenward, pacing the room agitatedly.

  “No, I haven’t got the first clue what you’re talking about, because you’re not making any sense.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes.

  “Let me break it down for you, then. It wouldn’t matter if you were wearing a garbage bag or a hessian sack—every guy in here would still want you, and try to get it on with you in a heartbeat. In fact, the only reason none of them has is because I threatened to break every bone in their bodies and then fire them if they did.”

  “What? Tell me you did not do that!”

  “I did. And I’ll do it again if I need to.” Holy shit. I can’t even deal.

  “You’re too much, Arlo. I have to work with everyone here too, you know. I’ve made some good friends in the crew, but how am I supposed to be considered a professional, or anything other than your latest ‘piece’ if you go around saying and doing stuff like that? You have no right. You might as well just have peed on me, and really marked your territory.” I’m fuming.

  “They’re on the payroll, don’t forget, and they’re being paid to do a job, not to perv out on my girl. Side note, if watersports are your thing, that can be arranged too.” Oh my God, I want to strangle him!

  Hmm… his girl? That’s news to me. It’s embarrassing, and way out of line for him to overtly lay claim to me to the whole fucking crew. I mean, I expected that Luke and the rest of the band would know about “us”—we haven’t exactly been careful or discreet around the house, so I assumed Luke knew. But even if he hadn’t noticed what was going on right under his nose, I was under no illusion that Arlo would refrain from just outright telling him. I also kind of figured that what one member of the band knows, they all know. They’re best friends, after all. But the crew is different, and I’m really not comfortable with Arlo discussing my sex life with a bunch of randoms. I wonder what else he’s been saying to people about me behind my back. Ugh.

  I’m on the payroll too. I wonder if he thinks that means I need to shut up and put up like everyone else? He’s got that stony glint in his eyes, and I know he’s not about to back down on this. Part of me wants to continue arguing, but the rest of me realizes that I have more important things to worry about. Besides, the damage is already done. Right now I need to get myself in the right mental headspace for what’s ahead, without fretting about Arlo’s crap.

  He plows on, clearly not expecting further response from me.

  “I want you where I can see you tonight and every night. End of. I need to go and tense up before I go on, and I’m sure you need to do the same. Let’s both knock six shades of shit out of this gig. Break a leg.” He tilts my head back and swipes his lips briefly across mine.

  I guess I should thank him—in a backhanded way, as all this raging about his bullheaded idiocy has made me forget my nerves.

  Eleven

  The feeling of walking out into the wings for the first time during a gig, watching the band take their places on stage, and the fans lose their minds, is one I’ll never forget. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever seen or experienced. Having spent so many years working in theatres; arenas and stadiums are definitely out of my comfort zone. The noise is beyond deafening, and the sight is something to behold, a writhing sea of screaming people.

  The atmosphere is electric—the tension and anticipation are palpable, which does nothing to calm my raging nerves. I feel like I’m just about to put all my chips on black, hoping against hope that the gamble pays off.

  I learned that by “tense up,” Arlo meant get in the zone to perform. From what I could tell, his method entails getting wound up and in a funk about any and everything, and bitching and barking at whoever is stupid enough to get in the line of fire. Then he downs copious amounts of sambuca, or tequila, or both, and continues to make the backstage greenroom area an uncomfortable place to be.

  You could cut the atmosphere before the show with a knife as a result, and anyone with a clue (or a choice in the matter) avoided Arlo like a case of the clap. He was like a tightly coiled spring. Watching him wreak havoc for no other reason than to suit himself, I questioned why the rest of the band would put up with his histrionics.

  Moments later, when Arlo walks onto the stage, I can see exactly why everyone suffers through his preshow bullshit, and all of his bullshit, in fact. The same reason people put up with Marko’s crap. He’s the best at what he does. The rest of the band is already in place on stage, but the moment Arlo appears, it’s almost as though everyone and everything else fades into the background. He is the clear focus. He owns the space, and has the audience eating from his hand.

  It’s kind of funny, but more a giant pain in my ass how similar he and Marko are. All raw talent, animal magnetism, and sex appeal. They can also both be first-class assholes when they feel like it, which is most of the time. Both men are a nightmare to manage—respect for authorit
y really isn’t their thing. Each has a terrible track record with women, yet they’re irrationally protective of me. Ugh. I’m beginning to wonder if they’re not twins separated at birth. They seem to be more similar than Arlo and Luke—in personality, at least.

  I’m openmouthed at the pure testosterone oozing from Arlo’s every pore as he literally makes the stage his bitch. This is what people mean when they say sex on legs. He channels the tension that he worked up backstage and pours it into his performance, and it’s a sight to behold. YouTube really doesn’t bring it to life adequately, and nor did the rehearsals and sound checks I saw. You have to be in the room for the real thing to feel it, and understand just what it is about him that drives the fans insane.

  All this, and he hasn’t sung a note yet. The audience is a rippling sea of faces aged nine to ninety-nine, all expectantly focused on Arlo, and whipped into a baying frenzy by his pacing and strutting. The first notes of his voice ring around the arena, taking my breath with them and leaving me winded. I’m so entranced that I can hardly tear my eyes away to set up shots. Luckily, Arlo’s a dream to photograph, and my practices at sound check mean that I already know what I’m doing, so I don’t have to work too hard. The pictures almost take themselves.

  My nerves soon evaporate as I get into my groove. Arlo—midsong, head thrown back, veins on his neck standing to attention. Arlo—staring out at the crowd, his face showing an emotion somewhere between lust and contempt. Arlo—tearing his shirt from his body, revealing even more of his perfect, buff chest. Arlo—licking his lips and smiling out into the crowd, sending them into waves of ecstasy. I know immediately that these are great shots. How can they not be, when he’s my subject? He was made for the camera. He’s just being Arlo, and that’s more than enough.