I let myself into London’s studio, which is also doubling as the gallery for the launch of my coffee-table book, Arlo Jones//Cold, Hard, & Heartless tonight. Not that she knows it’s her studio yet; that’s a surprise I’m planning to drop on her at the launch itself. As far as she knows, the space has been rented until the exhibition is over, and then she’ll have to move out and find herself new digs. Little does she know that as soon as I saw how much she loved the place, and how perfect it was for her needs, I approached the owner and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Strangely enough, they didn’t.

I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her. I’ve always enjoyed the material benefits that my level of success in music and in business has brought me, but now that I have someone to share it with, instead of drinking, snorting, and smoking most of it, or buying myself obscenely expensive toys, I’m really seeing the true benefits of this kind of wealth.

I’ve also realized it’s London’s natural inclination to refuse all gifts and other gestures I put her way. I think she has a complex about feeling like a gold digger, or not being able to stand on her own two feet or some shit. Little does she know that I couldn’t give less of a fuck about that crap if I tried. Fact is, I’d give her my last dime if she needed it, or even if she didn’t, and not think twice. We weren’t even officially a couple—at least in her eyes, anyway; in mine we were from day one, and have been for months—and already, what’s mine is hers, and then some.

I know for sure that if I’d suggested buying the studio, she would have flat-out refused, so I went ahead anyway. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, and now that it’s done, she’s hardly going to refuse the gift. Even if she tries, it’s been bought entirely in her name, so I pretty much have her over a barrel. I love the game of cat and mouse we have going on—it keeps me guessing. On the other hand, if I’m in something, I’m in to win, so I know how things will turn out, even if I have to wait a while for it to come to fruition.

Still, London is the first woman to have even vaguely caught my interest, beyond the contents of their lingerie—the fact that I have to work for her affections is a large part of the attraction. I’m a sick bastard like that. Pretty much the first girl to have resisted my “charms,” and she had me with the first slap in the face. Go figure.

It sounds sappy as shit, but seeing the shock and delight on her face when I surprise her with some new grand gesture is worth its weight in gold, and there are no lengths I wouldn’t go to to make her smile that way. Right now, she’s at a pampering makeup and wardrobe session I organized to help her de-stress, relax, and prepare for this evening. I knew she was freaking out about the launch—she had been for months, in fact—so I thought that a little lady time might help settle her mind, and give her a little more confidence.

I have an ulterior motive for wanting her out of the studio for a few hours today, also—or more accurately, a couple of ulterior motives. First, it means I have access to the photos before anybody else. A few months earlier, I had given London carte blanche to select whichever shots she felt worked best from the photos she’d taken of me while on tour with the Heartless Few, and treat them however she saw fit. She has mad photography skills, and I trusted her implicitly to put together a world-class exhibition and book. However, curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I really want to see the images both before the rest of the world, and without London around to witness my initial reaction.

Not that I thought I wouldn’t like them—quite the opposite, in fact. I knew I’d love them. We had been on a break at her request since she came back from the tour, and while she prepared for tonight. Having barely seen each other in that time, I wasn’t sure I could be trusted not to make an ass of myself over them in front of her. So here I was, sneaking around behind her back like a crazy stalker. Who knew being in love could make you do such dumbass shit?

Nothing prepared me for the deep wrench to the gut I feel on seeing the photos. I’m literally fucking winded. I walk into the airy open space, and I swear to God, I’m dead. Like heart stopped, bury me six feet under, fucking chuck roses on my grave, then throw a big party and get high in my name. Dead. Mind epically blown. My future wife isn’t just good with a camera—she’s an actual fucking genius.

She’s also majorly in denial if she doesn’t realize that she is as fucked up over me as I am over her. It’s all here in black and white. And color. And sepia. And negative.

I know this, but I can’t help wondering if London realizes she’s about to tell the world, albeit in pictures rather than in words. These photos would be big news regardless of their content or composition, simply because they feature me. Looking the way they do, and telling the story they tell, they’re going to set the internet alight, for sure. I briefly pause to consider whether I should warn her.

She was fretting about not being good enough, or about the book failing, but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to her to worry about potentially exposing the most private and intimate details of our love for each other to the baying pack of press wolves, and then to the rest of world. You think you know what you’re going to see when someone launches a behind-the-scenes on tour book, and it sure as shit ain’t this. The serenity and love radiating from these photos are not what people expect to see from me. Not at all.

When I recover my breath and my heart feels a little less like someone rode over it on a dirt bike, I laugh aloud to myself like the crazy fucker I’m obviously becoming. These photos scream “Sorry, ladies, Arlo Jones is officially off the market once and for all. Back the fuck up and get your hands off. He’s mine.” The irony of the fact that I’m about to give an exclusive interview to Rolling Stone where I spill my guts about London in words to the same effect isn’t wasted on me.

As though reading my mind, just then there’s a small tap on the door. It’s the columnist who will be conducting the interview, and her accompanying photographer. A photographer to shoot the exhibition—and me, of course. They enter the space, and we quickly dispense with the introductions. I note the journalist—Jen Wharton seems vaguely familiar. In such circumstances, I generally assume that means we’ve fucked at some point, and judging by the deep flush spreading across her face, neck, and chest as we shake hands, I think it’s safe to say my assumption is correct.

I feel for her. I’m long past the point of being embarrassed about running into conquests, whether I recall the event or not. When you spread yourself around as much as I do—or did—you learn pretty quickly that it’s a very small world, and accept it as an occupational hazard.

She looks around the room, eyes boggling, jaw dropping in amazement as she turns around several times.

“Wow.”