Pushing Arlo: A Rock Star Romance (Heartless Few Book 3) Read online

  “I swear I haven’t slept with Marnie or anyone since you and I were first together. I told you that in Paris. It was true then, and still is. I don’t know how the fuck she made that video, or when she made it, but I’m going to find out if it takes a lifetime and every cent I’ve ever earned. If she thinks she can hurt you and get away with it, she’s deluded. After all these years, she obviously doesn’t know me at all. I’ll crush her like a bug without a second thought.”

  London tries to shrug away from my touch, attempting to speak, presumably to tell me to leave her alone. As she’s still barfing, it comes out as a strangled gurgle, causing her to cough and splutter. Having seen her puke once before, I’m yet again amazed how much she’s able to contain in such a small vessel. Unable to move out of my reach, she instead opts for swatting away the hand rubbing her back. I remove it, but keep my grasp on her hair. It feels like the very least I can do.

  When the bout of puking has receded to waves of dry retching every thirty seconds or so, London straightens up, pulling her hair from my hand. Looking me straight in the eyes, she speaks slowly and calmly.

  “I want to go home.”

  “You are home.”

  “No I’m not. I want Marko and my own bed.” It’s eerie how cold and robotic she is right now. It’s as though some kind of door has shut behind her eyes. She’s here, but not here.

  “No. We’re going to talk about this.”

  “No we’re not. There’s nothing to talk about, Arlo. I knew this was a mistake from the get-go. I fucking knew it, but I let you sweet-talk me otherwise, and I let myself believe this thing between us could be something other than my undoing. I don’t blame you totally for that, because I wanted it to be true. I really fucking wanted to believe that after everything that’s happened to me over the past few years, I could still have my happy ever after. It’s stupid, I know, but there it is. I’m over that now. I just want to go home.”

  “What do you mean? It’s not stupid. We can still have that. I can give you that. The happy ever after.”

  She laughs then, a hollow, brittle sound I’ve never heard from her before.

  “No you can’t, Arlo. You can’t give anyone anything apart from your toxic energy and the three-ring circus of your life that goes with it. Between the press hounding and speculation, the situation with Marnie, and God knows how many others, I just can’t deal. I’m out.” With that, she pushes past me and back into the bedroom.

  “Tog—”

  She whirls around so quickly at the sound of my voice, she nearly overbalances.

  “Don’t fucking call me that. We’re no longer a thing, so you don’t get to call me cute names or anything anymore, in fact.” Her voice is shaky, and her bottom lip trembles.

  What? Since we toured the world together, her as my photographer, I’ve called her Tog more often than I’ve used her name. It’s our thing. At least it was.

  As she slumps toward the bed, I catch her in my arms. “I’ll always be there to catch you,” I mouth silently, remembering the times I’ve promised her that in the past. In Paris. Before her gallery opening. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I rock her back and forth in my arms until the crying subsides enough for her to speak. She does. One single word.

  “Marko.”

  Sighing heavily, I reach for my phone and pull up Marko’s contact information. As I connect the call and pass her the handset, London looks surprised.

  “But how—”

  I shrug. It’s not the right time to tell the story of how I came to have her best friend’s number stored in my cell, especially since, as far as she’s aware, we’ve never met or even spoken on the phone. She was drunk, she had me come and collect her from Marko’s apartment, and I threatened to break every bone in his body if he didn’t give me his number in case of similar situations in the future.

  “I need you,” she implores into the handset.

  With those three tiny words, it’s as though the knife that has been hovering between my ribs, waiting for the right moment to strike, finally makes its move, driving right into my heart and then twisting.

  Chapter Six

  As the dawn breaks fully on the day, I go into what can only be described as beast mode, and God help anyone who dares cross me. Nobody does. I guess everyone likes their heads firmly attached to their bodies. In actual fact, in a weird way, I’ve never felt calmer in my life, but it’s an eerie and detached calm. Like an assassin or black ops soldier. I’m clear-minded, focused and determined, and I know that I have London to thank for that. I once told her, “I’m a different guy now to the asshole you first met, and that’s down to you. It’s cliché, but you really do make me want to be a better man.” It might be corny as fuck, but it was true then, and it’s true now. I’m better for having London in my life. Or should that be for having had her? Fuck.

  First things first, I need to know that London is okay. I call her cell a few times throughout the day, but predictably it goes straight to voice mail. As much as it kills me, I call Marko. The phone almost rings out before he finally answers.

  “Yeah?” His voice is hushed and muffled, as though he’s speaking in a closet.

  “It’s Arlo.”

  “I know. What do you want?”

  “What the fuck do you think I want? I just tried to call London, and she’s not picking up.”

  “Of course she’s not answering. What did you expect?”

  I hold my tongue, biting back the litany of curses I so badly want to rain down on him. I need to at least tolerate him—he’s a means to an end.

  He sighs. “Okay, listen, I know we’re never going to be friends, but we’re not enemies, either. We both want the best for London—we have that in common, at least, even if we disagree about what exactly that is.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” So much for Zen Arlo. I want to kill this motherfucker.

  “It means I don’t think you’re good for her. In fact, I think you’re bad for her. I mean, she’s only just gotten over the ‘break’ the two of you were on—you saw her, she was a nervous wreck—and now this.”

  “The break was her idea, not mine. I went along with it because I wanted to respect her wishes and give her the space she needed, and because I hoped if I did that, she’d come back to me. All along, it was the last thing I wanted. I even told her so. She told me she was stressed about pulling together the book and the show, not about us. I mean, what the fuck was I supposed to do? You can’t force someone to be with you.”

  “Whatever, dude. If you called to try and make yourself look good while you’re wrecking my best friend’s life, you can save your breath, because it’s not gonna fly with me. I should have ended you when she came home bawling her eyes out after your first encounter. And to think that for a moment there I was actually on your side. I even told her you were one of the good ones. What a crock that turned out to be. What the fuck was I thinking?”

  Ten… nine… eight… I count slowly in my head. It’s either that or lose my shit with this fucker so epically he won’t answer my calls. Seven… six… five… four… three… two… one…

  “I’m not trying to justify anything. I just wanted to check on my girl.”

  “She’s not your girl.”

  “I just want to know she’s okay.”

  “She isn’t. She probably won’t be for a long time. She’s heartbroken, but she’s not slitting her wrists, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I guess it kind of was, in a roundabout way. “Look after her for me. Please.” I try to sound humble, but even to my own ears my tone is rough.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do? You’ve been in her life all of five fucking minutes, and all you’ve done in that time is turn it upside down. You don’t need to tell me how to treat my best friend. Nic and I have been there for everything she’s been through in the last few years, and we’ll be right here when you’re nothing but a dim and unpleasant memory.”

  “I’ll be calling every
day to see how she is. You need to answer my call.” I’m keeping a lid on my temper only because I need to.

  “Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”

  “It’s not supposed to be anything. Just pick up when I call, that’s all.” I can just about make out his indignant response as I hang up.

  Next I send London a text.

  Me: I love you. Don’t push me away.

  There’s no reply. Not that I was expecting one.

  Next on my list is finding Marnie. Or at least tracing her whereabouts. Maybe for now it’s best that I don’t encounter her in person, I don’t want to make the situation worse than it already is, and I honestly can’t trust myself not to if I’m standing in front of her. First and foremost, I need to speak to her and try to get a handle on exactly what went down with the video—apart from her on me, and vice versa, that is. I call her cell, and of course it goes straight to voice mail. I leave her a short message, trying my best to control my rage.

  “It’s me. We need to talk. Call me when you get this.” I hang up before I say something we’ll both live to regret. I don’t want to spook her. I call her a few more times over the course of the next few hours, and send her a text, pretty much identical to the voice mail message.

  Where the fuck is she? She has very little family that I know of, if any. Her grandma was her guardian when she was a kid, and she’s been dead a number of years. I almost melt my brain trying to think of people I could contact in case anyone has any leads. I realize two things: firstly, she has very few friends—ones she talks about, at least. Secondly, after all these years of “friendship,” I know almost nothing about her except what she feels like wrapped around my dick and her favorite ways to fuck. Unfortunately, neither is of any use in my current situation.

  I call my attorney’s office and fill them in on what has been going on. They inform me that I have good grounds to sue on the basis that the footage was obtained without my knowledge or consent, and then worse still it was distributed far and wide, again without my permission. Revenge porn is a thing. This stunt is going to get Marnie into a lot of trouble. I tell them I want them to find her and throw the book at her. Whoever thinks they can fuck with me and mine, “friend” or not, has another think coming, and the results won’t be pretty.

  I head downstairs in search of Luke, figuring that he’s my best option for tracking Marnie down. They’ve always been close, the two of them, which is ironic, given that she and I were the ones fucking. Not for the first time, I envy the easy connection he has with people. As well as being good friends with Marnie, he established a comfortable vibe with London way before I could even be in the same room as her without saying or doing something to disgrace myself and anger or embarrass her.

  I find him sitting at the kitchen table, looking at something on his phone. He turns toward me when he hears me enter the room.

  “Well, this is a clusterfuck.” His mouth is set in a grim line.

  “That’s putting it mildly. How did you find out?”

  “Paul sent us all a text at the crack of dawn explaining what had happened and telling us not to speak to any journalists or anyone else about it. Haven’t any of the boys messaged you? My phone’s been pinging off the hook all morning.” As if to illustrate his point, his handset chimes, and I see a message pop onto the screen. My phone has been blowing up like a cheap firework also, but I’ve ignored anything from anyone other than London or Marnie—meaning everything, as there has been nothing from either woman. Normally in circumstances like this I’d just change the number again, to avoid the harassment, but this time I need to keep it in case either one calls.

  “Nope, I’ve had zip from the others. I guess they figure it’s better to get secondhand information from you than risk poking the bear by speaking to me.” Smart guys.

  Luke nods, looking down at his screen again.

  “It’s Stevie. He’s asking if he needs to reschedule today’s studio time. Shit. I completely forgot about that. Obviously it’s not going to happen. It’s funny, now that he’s sober he’s actually a useful, functioning member of the band. Not that he wasn’t before, musically speaking, but obviously he couldn’t be relied on for anything else. Now he’s remembering shit that we’re forgetting. It’s weird.” He starts typing his response.

  It’s not just weird for us. That unreliable guy was the old Stevie, pre-rehab. New Stevie is still finding his way when it comes to his role in the group now that he’s sober, and he struggles with that every day. Even more so when we were on tour. He was uncomfortable a lot of the time, and I’m not surprised about that—there are so many temptations. It’s hard to stay straight in that environment even for those of us without problems—I can’t imagine what it must have been like for a guy fresh out of rehab.

  “No, we don’t need to cancel it.”

  Luke’s head bobs up in surprise. “What?”

  “I said don’t cancel it. I need something to take my mind off wanting to incessantly call and message both London and Marnie until they answer. Plus, I’ve got ideas bursting out of my brain. I’ve gotta do something useful with them. The way things are going, we’re gonna have enough material for a double album. Who knew that being punched in the gut by love could be so rewarding creatively?”

  “Just about everyone who’s ever been in love,” retorts Luke. He pauses, frowning. “Wait. London’s not here?” He looks shocked.

  “No. Paul called before dawn to tell us, and while he was updating me, a text came through to her with the video. She watched it and lost her shit. Couldn’t get out of here fast enough. Didn’t want to talk to me or hear what I had to say, just wanted to be as far away from me as possible.” I wince at the memory of London’s face after she watched the video and every other time she looked at me before Marko arrived to rescue her. It cut me to the quick.

  “The timing couldn’t be worse. She just agreed to move in with me, and we didn’t even make it through one full night before it turned to shit. The most fucked-up thing about all of this is that I have absolutely no idea when or how that video was shot, but I’m certain Marnie shot it and sent it to London and the press. She even had it edited like some kind of highlights reel. I could kill her.” I don’t miss Luke’s almost imperceptible flinch at my words, though he’s quick to school his expression back to neutral. Interesting.

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t fucking know. She’s hardly going to tell me, is she? In fact, that’s what I came to ask you.” I’m trying to keep cool, but if anyone’s likely to push me over the edge, it’s Luke.

  He looks confused again. “Why would I know where she is? I only just found out she wasn’t here. You were the one who was with her.”

  “Not London. I know exactly where she is. I’m talking about Marnie. I came down to ask you if you’ve heard from her or know where she might be, or how I can contact her. She won’t answer my calls or messages, and I need to talk to her urgently.”

  “Oh. I was talking about London.”

  “Yeah. I got that now. Has she contacted you?”

  “Nope.” He won’t meet my eyes.

  “Luke?”

  “What?”

  I don’t miss the sharpness of his tone. “You will tell me if or when she contacts you, won’t you?” I can’t believe I’m even having to ask the question.

  “Of course. I haven’t heard from her since I dropped her off at her apartment last night. She wasn’t in a good way, as you know. I had to put her to bed, and she was basically out of it when I left. Maybe I should go back and see if she’s there? Maybe she’s asleep, not AWOL, which is why she hasn’t answered your calls.”

  “Yeah, please, man. I don’t think I should be face-to-face with her right now.”

  He says nothing, just nods solemnly. He’s right to be somber; this is a massive fuckup, but even so, something seems a little off with him. I can’t quite pinpoint what.

  “Wait. Did I hear you straight before? Did you say you as
ked London to move in with you, or am I tripping?”

  “That’s exactly what I said. Today should have been the start of our new life together, and instead, it’s a fucking shit show, thanks to our ‘friend’ Marnie.”

  “Oh, man, Arlo, that’s epic. I feel like congratulations are in order, even if it didn’t go so well in the end. I mean, that’s a huge step for you. Where is London anyway?” he questions again.

  “Where do you think? She ran to Marko. She had me call him, and he drove over like a knight in shining fucking armor to rescue her.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You got that right. The only saving grace is I know he loves her and he’ll look out for her. I have his number, and I’ll be calling him daily for an update on her. I guess it could be worse.”

  “True.”

  Things can always be worse, but there was a time when I had dared to hope they could be better.

  Chapter Seven

  The next few weeks pass in a blur. After beast mode, the only things that keep me sane are writing music and vodka, often at the same time. Okay, so maybe the vodka doesn’t keep me sane, but it keeps me medicated, and that’s the next best thing.

  I fight my way into the studio through the crowd of paparazzi bottom feeders. I wonder for the thousandth time when they’ll get bored of hounding me. It doesn’t look like it’s going to happen anytime soon. It’s stupid, and I don’t know what they’re hoping to see. Clearly London isn’t with me—nor is Marnie, for that matter—and I’m determined not to give them anything else of note to photograph or write about. Every day I resist the urge to respond to any of their dumbfuck questions—not even to flip them off, which is my standard response when my patience is low, so pretty much all the time. I figure the less exciting I make it, the sooner they’ll give up and fuck off to hassle the next poor schmuck to hit the headlines.