Cold, Hard, & Heartless: A Rock Star Romance (Heartless Few Book 2) Page 5

  Gramps has lived in the same Brooklyn brownstone since way before anyone thought Brooklyn was cool. Now that everyone is killing themselves to live there, Gramps is still there, doing what he’s always done—whatever the fuck he pleases. Change means nothing to him. He has been slowly surrounded by everything that epitomizes hipster chic, and yet there he sits, quietly doing his thing in the least hipsterish way possible. He has been offered the most absurd and obscene sums of money to sell up and ship out, but he won’t even consider leaving. Someone could offer him the moon on a stick dipped in gold, wrapped in a bow, and he’d turn it down.

  I pull the bike up to the curb and out of sheer force of habit, peer around the street to see if anybody’s watching. Nobody is. Then I remind myself that the days when you had to worry about who might be about to jack your shit if you left it in one place for too long are almost behind us in this hood. Now the biggest hazard is the likelihood of tripping over some tricked-out fixie bike left across the sidewalk by a local in a hurry for their chili spiced turmeric chai latte.

  Removing my helmet and unruffling my sweaty hair, I walk up to the stoop and glance around again before discreetly reaching under the welcome mat for the spare key. Our numerous pleas over the years for him not to leave it there have fallen on deaf ears. Gramps will do what Gramps will do—the stubborn gene is strong in our family—and one of the things he’s always done is leave the key right there. Nope.

  I open the door and carefully replace the key, stepping into the dimly lit hall. Gramps’s house has been the same for as long as I can remember. The whole place is a homage to sixties blue-collar living, despite us boys having offered to redecorate numerous times. The scratched orange Formica, and brown and yellow linoleum worn pattern-less in parts fill me with a reassuring sense of familiarity. Since the decor is one of his remaining connections to Grandma, there’s not a snowdrop’s chance in hell he’ll agree to decorate it now no matter how tired-looking it gets. This is it for this place until he croaks, although I know he has every intention of living forever.

  As I make my way down the hall, I see Gramps’s frame silhouetted against the kitchen window. The same spot he occupies in almost every memory I have of him. Helmet tucked under my arm, I approach.

  “Who the fuck’s there?” He’s as surly as ever, but I wouldn’t know what to do if he wasn’t.

  “It’s Arlo, Gramps.”

  “Arlo, huh?” He doesn’t turn around to see for himself, just carries on talking with his back to me. “To what do I owe this pleasure? It’s been a while there, young man.”

  Entering Gramps’s kitchen I go straight to the retro refrigerator—real retro, not retro-styled—and grab us both a beer, not even needing to ask if he wants one. He always does. I pop both caps and hand him his before lowering myself into the vinyl padded dining chair nearest to his ancient and worn easy chair. Only now does Gramps turn to face me, his whiskery face showing his displeasure.

  “You look like crap. What’s eating you?” He’s never been one to pull a punch.

  “Well, for starters, I’m hungover as shit. Last night was big, to say the least.”

  “Yeah, well you’re sure not gonna win any beauty pageants today, but that ain’t all. It’s in your eyes. Something’s troubling you. Something or someone.”

  He’s a perceptive old coot, and despite our vastly disparate personalities, he understands each of us boys better than we understand ourselves sometimes.

  “There’s this girl….”

  “Ha!” Gramps cracks the biggest shit-eating grin, and takes a noisy pull on his beer. “Now we’re getting to the heart of the issue, my boy.” Gramps is Mom’s father, and has been more like a surrogate dad to us than a grandfather—even before Dad died. He and Grandma were the ones who picked up the slack when Mom was an exhausted working single mother of four. He’s probably the person in the world with whom I feel most comfortable. I can let it all hang out and not worry about what he thinks, even more so than with Mom, Luke, or the other boys in the band.

  “So are you going to tell me what’s gotten up your ass, or are you gonna make me wait until I’m old and gray?” He’s old as fuck, and his hair has been 100 percent white for as long as I can remember. On the other hand, when I think of Gramps the word vital springs to mind, no matter how old he gets. He’s in possession of one of the sharpest minds I’ve ever come across.

  “I think maybe I like her.”

  Gramps gives an exaggerated snort of derision. “What do you mean you think you like her? What are you, in grade school?”

  This conversation is going to be tough.

  “Of course you like her, or you wouldn’t be here looking like someone took a shit in your sandwich and whining like a baby. That, I take as a given. If you didn’t like her, I wouldn’t expect to be hearing about her. You’d have banged her and sent her on her way like all those fans over the years, and like that little doll you’ve been hitting since high school. What was her name again?”

  “It’s Marnie, Gramps.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. She’s one hot piece of ass.”

  I briefly wonder under what circumstances it would be okay to take out your own grandfather, but quickly push the thought aside. I’d never do that. Probably.

  “What did you do?” He’s never been one for small talk.

  “How do you know I did something?” I’m stalling, trying to delay the inevitable.

  “Because you’re you. If you’re breathing, you did something. What. Did. You. Do?”

  I’m pretty sure I got my short temper and even shorter attention span from him.

  I recount the day’s events—every cringeworthy detail, down to the raging hard-on and the showdown with Luke. Gramps says nothing the entire time, just listens, soaking up every word. When I’m done, he waits a few beats before responding, taking a few drags on his cigarette and a long swig of his beer. Unusually, he seems to be choosing his words carefully. Either that or he has no intention of answering at all. It could go either way with him these days. Just as I am about to prompt him, he finally speaks up.

  “Well, I always knew you were a douche. So much like your father. But this is a new low, even for you. I thought your mother raised you better than that. I thought I raised you better than that.”

  The truth kinda, sorta hurts, but if I wanted someone to blow smoke up my ass, I wouldn’t be here. I already know my behavior earlier wasn’t my finest hour, even though I have consistently set the bar pretty fucking low. He continues in the face of my silence—there’s nothing I can say.

  “But she’s The One, so you want me to tell you how you can salvage the giant steaming turd you created, right?”

  “What?” The. Fuck?

  “Come on, son, we all know you’re not as dumb as you look, or even as dumb as you act most of the time. You have a successful band and a bunch of thriving businesses to prove it. You want this woman in your life, or you wouldn’t be here. You would write her off as collateral damage and move on to the next one. But here you are, looking like you lost a dollar and found a dime. So this is serious and you want me to tell you how to fix it.”

  He’s good. Maddening as all fuck, but good. I nod mutely. He rubs vigorously at his whiskery chin before continuing.

  “I don’t know what to tell ya that can undo the mess you’ve made, but I will pass on some advice that someone very wise told me when I met your grandmother. I was a good few years younger than you are now, and still playing the field like the bastard I was. Then when I looked across that ship’s ballroom from the stage to the area where your Grandma was waiting to come on and do her dance number, it’s like the whole world stood still. I was a walking hard-on from that moment until the day she passed.”

  Ugh. I’ve heard this story no less than a million times, but it never ceases to creep me out to even vaguely consider the idea of my grandfather getting hard for my grandmother for fifty-plus years.

  “She was sweet on another guy at the time, a gu
est on the cruise. He was older, better-looking than me, and had money to burn. When I wasn’t fantasizing about banging your grandmother, I was plotting the many ways I could smash that rat bastard’s head in like a dropped pumpkin and still get to be with her.” Yet he claims my problems stem from my father’s genes. People in glass houses….

  “In the end, one of my bandmates got sick of seeing me moping around and hearing me bitch and whine about my aching heart and achier dick. His advice to me was to treat winning your grandmother’s affections as a hostile takeover.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re in business, you know exactly what a hostile takeover is. I did everything I could to make myself seem like the best prospect and to take Mr. Perfect out of the picture. Of course, it would have been easy to cave his skull in, but I figured this way, I could still get my girl. I couldn’t do that if I was serving hard time. By the time we got off that boat she was putty in my hands and could barely remember the other guy’s name.”

  I’m struggling to see the relevance of this timeworn anecdote right now.

  As though reading my mind, Gramps plows on. “What this means for you is that if you want this girl, you’re going to have to work hard to earn her trust.”

  “How can I, when I don’t even know where she is? You heard what I said, she ran out of the house, and I’m pretty sure she won’t be coming back anytime soon. This isn’t Cinderella, I can’t just go knocking on doors until I find her.”

  “All of these modern tools at your disposal”—he gestures in the general direction of my phone, sitting on the tired-looking tabletop—“and you mean to tell me you can’t track down a woman who until today was working at your place?”

  I guess he has a point.

  “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. Make her an offer she can’t refuse. And for the record, I’m not talking about your stiff dick over here, capisce?”

  Chapter Eight

  On Gramps’s advice, over the next few weeks I formulate a plan to get London back into my life. Operation: Hostile Takeover. I start by retrieving the business card she gave me and calling the cleaning firm.

  “Hello, Marigolds, Gloria speaking, how can I help you?”

  “It’s Arlo. Jones,” I add hastily.

  “Oh, Mr. Jones, hello. To what do I owe this pleasure? There’s no problem, I hope?” She sounds nervous.

  “No problem. I just need to make some changes to the house cleaning situation.” I keep my tone casual, indifferent, even.

  “Oh? I’m sure we can accommodate whatever you need.”

  “I hope so. I want the new chick gone.” Again, my tone belies both my nerves and my need.

  “Sara? Did something happen?”

  “No, nothing has happened, she’s been doing a fine job. Good, in fact. My plans have changed. I’ll be in town longer than I first anticipated, so I’m going to need more of a housekeeper than a house cleaner, and for longer hours. In fact, I’ll need her here every day.”

  “Oh, that’s great. No problem at all, I’m sure Sara will be available to do that for you, Mr. Jones. I will confirm with her and get straight back to you. Wha—”

  “No. I want London.”

  “London. Llwellyn?” London Llwellyn. I like it. I like it a lot.

  “If that’s her name. The one who used to work here. I’m sure you remember her, she said she was your niece. Or do you have another house cleaner called London on your books?” Seems highly unlikely.

  “No. I mean yes, I certainly remember her, and she’s the only one. It’s just that…”

  I don’t miss the note of hesitation in her voice. “London. Five hours a day, every day, or no deal. I’ll pay quadruple her previous hourly rate. Starting from Monday.”

  “Well, I’m not sure….”

  Again with the trepidation. “Ask her.” As usual, I’m not taking no for an answer.

  “Bu—”

  I hang up the phone.

  I say a silent thank-you prayer to the gods of hostile takeovers for the gift of London’s surname, and promise them an offering in return. I’m thinking Luke would be the perfect sacrifice. In the meantime, I immediately google “London Llwellyn” and silently air punch when it yields numerous results. I click on the top result, London Llwellyn Photography. Huh? A few moments clicking around, and I have answers to almost all of my questions about her.

  The bio section on her website—complete with photo, so I know it’s definitely “my” London—tells me that London Llwellyn is an ex-pro ballet dancer-turned photographer. That makes sense of her physique, I guess—tiny, but strong. Something’s still not adding up for me, though. She’s an ex-dancer, working two jobs—I remember her mentioning when I found her that she had another job to go to—but then also a photographer. How and why is that even possible? I try and work it out as I browse around. Flicking through her portfolio, I’m floored by what I see. The vast majority of photos are ballet-related—performances, rehearsals, behind the scenes. I love her style. It’s intimate, yet the action shots are dynamic and vibrant at the same time.

  In another section she has portraits. She’s insanely talented. Each photo seems perfectly crafted to give the viewer a window into the person’s soul. They’re beautiful, haunting, and almost hyperreal. Every pore, hair, and freckle is there, nothing is hidden or beautified, and the effect is as though she’s caught a moment paused in time, but if someone pressed Play, each person would walk clean off the screen.

  I note that many of the photos feature one dancer in particular. A dude. The same guy, over and over. In flight, contorted into all sorts of crazy stretches, in repose. He’s good-looking to the point of absurdity and built like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. So many pictures of him. What’s the story, London? I’m surprised to find my jaw clenching involuntarily and an unfamiliar sensation sweeping over me. Jealousy? It doesn’t make any sense, but it’s there all the same, loud and clear. I work the knot in my neck, cracking it from side to side to no avail. I need to get my head straight and sort this shit out.

  I scan the rest of the site until I find what I’m looking for. Before long, I locate the Contact Us page, and there it is—manna from heaven, London’s cell number. It says For bookings, please feel free to call to discuss your needs. Well, this is a booking, and I have needs. Probably not the kind of needs she had in mind, but I’m not going to let a little semantics get in the way of what I want, and it’s clear that I want London Llwellyn. Really fucking bad.

  Hostile takeover. Hostile takeover. Hostile takeover. I punch her number into my cell. It seems to ring forever, but just as I am about to hang up, London answers.

  “Hello, London Llwellyn speaking.”

  Shit, she sounds as though she was asleep; no wonder she took so long to pick up.

  “Hi, London, it’s Arlo.” Silence.

  “Umm… Arlo Jones, from Rosemond House.” Dying. Dead.

  “Oh. Hello, Mr. Jones.” She’s polite but curt, her tone clipped. I guess it could be worse. She could have hung up.

  “Arlo. You can just call me Arlo.”

  “Hello… Arlo.” The silence extends between us again. I’m normally direct and to the point on the phone. I have neither the time nor inclination for idle chitchat, and every call is a transaction I want to wrap up as quickly as possible. Not so much today. I can tell London isn’t about to throw me a lifeline, so I need to get my head on straight.

  “I hope you don’t mind me contacting you directly. I found your number on your website.” I feel like I need to explain my stalking research. Ironic how the tables have turned. When we met, she was allegedly the one doing the stalking. Another pregnant pause.

  “So… I was calling because I need a housekeeper, and… I wanted to offer you the job.” I count backward in my head. Ten. Nine. Eight. She responds on seven, sounding more than a lit
tle flustered.

  “Pardon me?”

  Okay, I think I have her, now time to reel her in.

  “Due to unforeseen circumstances”—I give a silent snort of derision. Stevie’s midtour rehab stint was hardly unforeseen. Unfortunate and inconvenient, yes. Unforeseen, hell no. We had hoped to be able to ride out the entire tour before he was admitted again, but it hadn’t panned out that way. As much of a giant headache—not to mention a huge expense—as it was dealing with the canceled dates, in the end, his health and well-being were way more important than the disgruntled fans, concert promoters, venue owners, record label execs, and insurance companies left in our wake. They could chow down on a giant bag of dicks for all we cared. We just wanted Stevie well again—“the rest of the band and I are going to be in town for an extended period of time, so my home care needs have changed. I’m looking for more of a housekeeper, one who can be here every day. Your aunt has replaced you with someone else to clean the place, but I don’t feel she’d be up to the extra duties. Given you know the house and are clearly very capable, I’d rather have you back than bring in a third person.” I want to slap myself. Anything to end the rambling.

  “Umm….”

  “I’m offering quadruple your previous rate of pay.” Boom! Hostile. Takeover.

  More silence, but I know I have her. I have no clue what her story is, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that money is tight. Otherwise, why would an ex-dancer and clearly brilliant photographer be cleaning houses for chump change?

  “Hmmm….” Man, she has balls of steel. I know it’s an appealing prospect, but she’s totally playing it down.

  “Is that a yes?” I chuckle softly, knowing I have her right where I want her. Well, not quite, because where I really want her is sitting on my dick. But I’m working on it, and the first step is now in place.