Heartless Few Box Set Page 8

  It’s the most intense sex of my life, and it wears me out more than any ballet

  I’ve ever danced. Still shuddering from the aftershocks of my epic climax, I decide to “rest” my eyes for a moment, to recharge my batteries, but Arlo has other ideas.

  “Hey, don’t pass out on me yet. I wanna talk to you.”

  His voice is gentle but firm, and I know he won’t take no for an answer. In fact, I get the feeling he never does. What Arlo Jones wants, Arlo Jones gets, including me, it seems.

  “I’m tired, Arlo. You just fucked me six ways to Sunday. Do you think maybe you could let me rest for a minute?”

  “So ladylike.”

  He raises one eyebrow mockingly. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.

  “Come on, princess, we can sleep when we’re dead. I want to get to know you a little, now I’ve fucked you ‘six ways to Sunday.’” He smiles wickedly, air quoting with his fingers.

  “Well it’s true, you did, and now I can barely hold my head up. What are you, some kind of sex robot? How do you have the energy for small talk after what we just did?”

  I just want to crash, but can’t help but laugh—his good humor is infectious.

  “Small talk? You should know me better than that by now. I’m not interested in passing pleasantries. I want to get to know you better.”

  Ugh.

  The whole time we’ve been talking, he’s been gently strumming his fingers up and down, back and forth across my ribs, circling my tattoo again. Something about the lightness of his touch, how gentle he’s being, really turns me on.

  “Talk to me about the feather, babe.” He’s referring to my tattoo. Shit.

  “What do you want to know?” I’m stalling. I really don’t want to talk about the tattoo. Arlo’s timing couldn’t be worse.

  “How long have you had it, why did you get it, what does it mean?”

  Straight in with the burning questions, huh? Though you’re right, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

  “Meaning?” He looks a little put out, but doesn’t halt the movement of his hands.

  “Meaning that you seem to do whatever you want, and not give a fuck about the normal social niceties the rest of us get bogged down with, like saying hello and goodbye when we speak on the phone, for example. Sometimes I admire your strength of character, while at other times it totally pisses me off.”

  “Whatever. Are you going to tell me about the tat, or carry on with the couch psychology, Ms. Freud?”

  “It’s Miss, actually,” I joke.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Okay, Miss Freud. Stop sidestepping the question, and spill.” His stroking movements get faster, a sign of his growing impatience, I’m sure. I sigh, knowing there’s little point in trying to wriggle out of it. Plus the feeling of him stroking my ribs is kind of hypnotizing—I’m putty in his hands.

  “Long story short, it’s a metaphor for life, well my life, anyway. The quote, ‘Strength through weakness’ is the idea that something or someone that seems weak, can actually be strong when the circumstances call for it. Feathers seem fragile, and yet they’re what make birds fly. I’m the same. I may not look like much, but I was a professional dancer, and in all my years dancing I’ve surprised myself with what my body can do, endure, and carry. Looks can be deceiving.” I take a few deep breaths, hoping to calm and center myself just the way I would do before a big performance back in the day. It doesn’t seem to work the way it used to then, and the anxiety builds in my chest. I really don’t want to keep talking about this. At all.

  “Nobody knows that more than me. I would never have figured you for the slapping type—you’re so tiny and delicate-looking, yet that slap really packed a punch. I had to ice my cheek for a few hours to get it back to normal after you left.”

  I can’t help but smirk.

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean ‘what else’?”

  “Well, what about these?” He moves his hands down to rest on my hip, fingering the map of small scars across it. They’re getting less prominent by the day, their delicate golden sheen belying the enormous impact they’ve had on my life, and the sadness that they represent. I sigh, but soldier on. I know that once something has piqued Arlo’s interest, he’s like a dog with a bone until he gets an answer. I may as well rip off the Band-Aid now. I take a deep breath, and start to speak falteringly.

  “They’re the other thing the tattoo is about. The main thing, in fact. I was in a devastating car crash just over two years ago, and was lucky to make it out alive. Not that I made it out unscathed. I was pretty smashed up—in a medically induced coma for a few days, and then in rehab for months after that. Of all the things to break, my right femur took a bashing. At one point I was told that I might never walk again, let alone dance.

  “Getting back on my feet was a long hard road, but I was fucking determined. I pushed hard, and never gave up, even when I felt like doing exactly that. That’s when I learned that as well as physical strength, I’m also so much stronger mentally and emotionally than I ever thought I could or would be. When my body wanted to throw in the towel, my mind never did, and that’s what got me through. That, and the thought that I was the lucky one. Unlike Danny, I got to be there fighting to get back on my feet, to live.”

  “Who’s Danny?”

  Only now do I take in his expression—I was so lost in what I was saying. He looks pale and drained, his brows furrowed. Worried.

  “Danny is… was… my fiancé.”

  I swallow back the lump in my throat, and continue talking, but it’s not easy. I pick at a nonexistent speck of fluff on the sheets, trying to distract myself.

  “He was driving the car when we crashed. We were on our way home from a party. He hadn’t been drinking, as he was the designated driver that night, but he lost control when the car skidded on a patch of black ice, and we hit a pole. He didn’t make it. He died from his injuries in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

  “It was six months before our wedding. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him, but we didn’t make it down the aisle. I didn’t even get to go to his funeral and say my goodbyes….”

  My voice cracks as the tears start to flow. For some reason, I feel compelled to carry on, quickly wiping them away with the back of my hand.

  “It was the end of my career, naturally. There’s no way I could have gone back to dancing after those injuries. But then dancers have a ‘use by’ date anyway, so from the outset you know it’s not going to last forever. I was already working on my exit strategy, and planning to move into photography when the accident happened, but it brought the end forward faster than I was planning—I’d thought I had a few years left to get my shit together, but that wasn’t to be.

  “But jobs come and go, even all-consuming jobs like ours, and much as I loved dancing, I would have given it all up in a heartbeat if I could have still had Danny.”

  Damn. It still hurts so much to have lost him, not just as a lover, but also as a friend. As soon as I stop speaking, I realize that the tears have started up again, cascading down my cheeks in hot, wet streams.

  “Shhh… babe, don’t cry. Shhh….” Arlo reaches out and wipes my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry… I….” My voice is halted by my sobs.

  “Don’t apologize, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have probed. I’m sorry I pushed you to talk about the accident, and everything you went through. I’m sorry about your fiancé. Shhh… come here.”

  He gently pulls me closer to him, and I bury my face in his chest. I’m surprised to realize that there’s no place I’d rather be right now than wrapped in his arms, letting him comfort me. Strangely, his embrace feels like home.

  I must have fallen asleep and been out for a while, because the next thing I know, I’m coming to in Arlo’s arms, and the light in the room has changed. It’s dusk, meaning we’ve slept for a good few hours. Arlo is still out cold—his arm is a dead weight sl
ung heavily across my shoulders, trapping me in place, which sucks, because I really need to pee. By a series of twists, turns, and contortions, almost dislocating my shoulder, I manage to slip out of his heavy grasp without waking him.

  I step back from the bed and steal a few moments to observe him. I love seeing him so unguarded. I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, mesmerized. I take in his long eyelashes as they flutter lightly on his cheeks. If he’s beautiful when he’s awake, he’s even more so now—no frown lines in sight, no nervous energy dominating his movements, seemingly not a care in the world.

  I quickly duck into the bathroom to avoid peeing myself. It’s almost weird being in there for any reason other than cleaning. It’s like I’m about to be caught out of bounds again, like I was in the basement shower. When I come out, wrapped in Arlo’s robe, he’s still asleep. The light coming into the room at this time of day is beyond beautiful—Arlo is bathed in the gorgeous ethereal glow of the sun’s dying rays. I’m desperate to photograph the scene—it’s just too perfect to miss.

  I tiptoe silently away to grab my camera from my bag, before creeping back into the room. I do a silent air punch when I find Arlo still asleep on my return. I fire off a few shots, and looking back through what I’ve done, see that they’re stunning—because of course, Arlo is stunning. You’d have to try pretty hard to take a bad photo of him, and the early evening light is an added bonus. I decide to take full advantage of the situation. Now that I’ve fully moved in to Stalkerville, I may as well make myself comfortable. I shoot from different vantage points around the room as the dusk light fades.

  Arlo is lying on his side with the sheet draped around his waist, so his chest, butt, and thighs are completely exposed. If I’ve ever seen a more erotic scene, I can’t remember it. That ass! His buttocks are firm, muscular, and rounded, and they lead down to taut, toned thighs. He’s got the male equivalent of a bubble butt. Fuck. Me.

  “You finished yet?” His question catches me completely unawares, startling me from my daydream, and I jump half out of my skin.

  Arlo notes my reaction and smiles lazily. That sleepily, chilled thing he’s got going on is sexy as anything, but yet again, he’s caught me behaving like a weirdo. It’s a running theme with us.

  “Ummm… yeah, I’m done. Sorry, the dusk light was so great that I just couldn’t resist. I thought you were still asleep though, or else I would have stopped. I hope you weren’t keeping still just for me.”

  “I was asleep, but after all these years of press harassment, I’m especially sensitive to the sound of a camera shutter. I woke up about ten minutes ago, but I didn’t want to ruin your shoot by moving.” He winks sexily.

  “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  Actually, I’m not embarrassed, I’m fucking mortified.

  “Why? You seemed like you were really into it, and I’ve got to tell you, the thought of having you as my personal pap is pretty fucking hot. A lot better than the ugly-ass dudes that normally trail me, for damned sure. Besides, I know photography is important to you, so I thought I’d let you do your thing. Can I see?”

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “Er… I guess.”

  I can’t exactly say no, under the circumstances. I sit down on the edge of the bed, handing him the camera. I’m prepared for the fact that he might ask me to delete the shots, and I’d completely understand if he did. If there’s one thing that working here while Arlo’s been in town has taught me, it’s that photos of him are big currency. Huge, in fact. These photos could cause a real stir if they were published, and I wouldn't want him to think I had an ulterior motive in taking them. I watch closely as he scrolls through, trying to gauge his reaction. His face is an inscrutable mask. I can’t read him at all.

  “You have to take about three hundred photos to get a handful of good ones, if that. That’s why there are so many,” I explain.

  It’s true, but I’m also rambling, trying to fill the dead air in the room. I shift nervously on the edge of the bed.

  “Most of them should probably be deleted—I haven’t had a chance to go through them. And of course, if you want me to bin them all, that’s fine. I’m happy to. I only took them because of the light, and you looked so....” Utterly fuckable. “It was more a technical exercise than anything. So yeah….” I need to shut up. Stat.

  “Hmm…,” he mutters noncommittally, his features still giving nothing away. I’m not a great poker player as it is, but I make a mental note never to play against Arlo. He has the poker face from hell—he’d whoop my ass for sure.

  Finally he speaks. “Damn, I have a great butt!” He chuckles, grinning cheekily again. “Nah, but seriously, these are really good, L. I like them a lot,” he continues. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m a fucking handsome devil with a perfect body. That’s true, evidently, but I can also see that you’re great with a camera. I’ve seen a lot of images of myself, so I’ve learned what works, and can tell good from bad from ugly. Okay, if they’re of me, they’re never ugly, but you get me? These are definitely good. Great, in fact.”

  I was not expecting that. I’m beyond uneasy now, squirming like a kid in the principal’s office.

  “Thanks, I’m glad you think so.”

  I can’t even look him in the eye, but I can still feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I speak. What’s with that?

  “Now that dancing is over for me, I’m focusing on photography as a full-time gig, rather than just a sideline. The plan is to set up my own studio. That’s why I’ve been cleaning houses and waitressing. I’m working my ass off to save for the bond and upfront rent, plus equipment and some cash to live on until I have enough work to pay a decent wage. It’s been a hard slog getting here, but I’m on track to make it a reality in a few more months—which is pretty exciting.”

  This verbal diarrhea is out of character for me. I’m normally pretty tight-lipped with people, unless I know them well. Arlo hardly fits into that category, yet here I am spilling my guts about my hopes and dreams. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the camera, still scanning through the shots.

  “There’s a few in here I really like. I’d love to get some of them blown up, if you don’t mind.”

  “Really?” Shocked is an understatement, and you can hear it in my voice.

  He nods, still transfixed by the screen in front of him.

  “That’s cool, I can organize that for you, you know, as your housekeeper.”

  “Yeah, great. Cool. Thanks.”

  His sounds far away, and I can tell that he’s preoccupied, not really concentrating on what he’s saying.

  “What’s up?” I ask gently.

  “Hmm…?”

  “You’re kind of quiet,” I prompt.

  “Oh… yeah… it’s nothing. Just thinking.”

  It’s clearly something. I guess he’s not as impressed by the photos as he made out. Maybe he was just being nice and sparing my feelings when he asked for prints. There’s no need for that, of course—I’m a big girl, and I can take criticism—or “constructive feedback,” or whatever you’re supposed to call it. As a dancer that’s what you get all day, every day. It takes a lot more than someone not digging my photos to upset me.

  “So now it’s your turn,” I say, wanting to move the conversation on.

  “My turn for what?” He turns away from the camera, fixing me with the full force of his emerald stare.

  I’m being purposely cryptic, hoping to catch his attention—it obviously works, which is no mean feat. I’ve noticed that Arlo lives in his head a lot, and he’s kind of like a little kid mentally, flitting from one thing to another. So often I’ve seen him instantly dismiss something or someone, and quickly move on to the next thing without a second thought. It’s as though in his mind, once he’s lost interest in something, it’s done, regardless of the other person.

  It occurs to me too late that maybe his distracted behavior isn’t about the photos, but about my presence in general. Maybe he’s w
ondering why I’m still here—hanging around like a bad smell. I’m sure he normally rolls his conquests out of his bed before they’ve had a chance to find their underwear. Shit! How could I be so stupid? Not much I can do about that now, though, without totally leaving him hanging, so I press on.

  “Well, I seem to remember spilling a whole lot of my guts earlier, and you telling me exactly nothing in return. Did you think I was going to let you get away with that? Oh H-I-L-L no!” I put on mock hillbilly accent as I spell out the word incorrectly. “You need to even up the scales and dish some dirt, mister.”

  I try to sound stern, but I don’t think I succeed.

  In my head I’m shouting at myself to shut the H-I-L-L up. He doesn’t seem to take me at all seriously—just quirks that sexy eyebrow before responding.

  “You know everything there is to know about me already,” he deadpans.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” My tone is heavily sarcastic.

  “Think about it. They talk about airing your dirty laundry in public—well, you wash mine. You’ve been here week in, week out. You know who comes and goes.” He grins.

  “And who stays,” I mutter under my breath.

  “And who stays,” he repeats.

  Doh! I didn’t expect him to hear that. I thought all musicians were half-deaf from years of smashing their eardrums on stage.

  “Right now, you probably know more about what’s going on in my life than anyone. Then there’s Google.”

  “What?”

  “Google. You know. It’s a search engine. When people want to find information on the World Wide Web they enter their question, and as if by magic, the answer appears.”

  He says all this in a mock scientific voice, and with a shit-eating grin all over his face.

  “Okay, thanks, Einstein, but save the science lesson for someone who gives a shit. I know you know that I know what Google is, so what’s your point? Do you think I’ve been cyberstalking you?"