Just as I am about to whisk London away in an attempt to avoid further mortification, we’re all distracted by a commotion, and the sound of glass shattering in the opposite corner of the room. I look over, dismayed to see that Marnie and Luke are at the center of the unfolding scene. Shit. This is going from bad to worse. I bend down and kiss London just above her ear, telling her to stay where she is while I go deal with the drama. As I walk away, I mouth, “Look out for her,” to Mom over the top of London’s head.

I catch Gramps giving me a knowing glare and shoot him a warning one in return. Careful, old man, I convey silently. My patience has just about run out with him tonight.

Speaking of dwindling patience… I snake my way through the crowd to the other side of the room, quickly assessing the situation.

“What the fuck is going on?” I hiss at Luke.

“Well, Marnie—” Marnie is unsteady on her feet, clearly having had too many glasses of complimentary champagne.

“Wait,” I interrupt, raising my hand traffic cop-style right in front of Luke’s face. The vein in his temple throbs. He’s pissed. Feeling the rage building in me, rising from my toes and making its way to the top of my head like hot water in a pan about to boil over, I silently dare him to say or do something in retaliation. Go on, buddy. Make my fucking day. Luke takes one look at my face and thinks better of saying whatever is on his mind. I speak instead.

“First of all, what is she even doing here? I sure as shit didn’t invite her.” This has been bugging me all evening, but for the sake of not ruining London’s night of nights, I decided to ignore her in the hope she’d take the hint and go the fuck home. So much for that plan. “In fact, how did she even know about it, unless she’s fucking stalking me?” Is she?

“I may have mentioned it to her in passing,” Luke fills me in. Fratricide pops into my head once again.

“What? Fuck, Luke. Inviting her here when you know what’s gone down between the two of us is a special kind of stupid. Are you really that dumb? ’Cause you always claim to be the smart one.”

It’s true. In the band, as well as playing rhythm guitar to my lead guitar, Luke’s the elder statesman, not necessarily in years, but definitely in attitude, much to my deep irritation. He’s the sage, always on hand to give advice, solicited or otherwise, and offer a listening ear. Not an offer I’ve ever wanted or needed to take up, but the other guys trust and respect his opinions. I guess if I tried to look past the whole twin-brother-conflict thing we have going on, I could see the value he brings from that perspective. Back in the real world, I’d rather eat pubes on a graham cracker than ask him shit about shit.

As I speak, I note Luke’s eyes darting back and forth to Marnie. He’s listening to me, sure, but the lion’s share of his attention is on her. I’m glad he’s at least trying to ensure she doesn’t turn the whole event into the train wreck it could be if she continues to make a spectacle of herself. On the other hand, something tells me that isn’t the only reason for his concern. There’s a vibe I can’t quite pin down. As twins, even ones as diametrically different in personality as the two of us, we’re pretty good at reading each other, but tonight it’s almost like Luke has closed the book. No, slammed it shut in my face. What’s going on? Suspicion niggles at the edge of my consciousness.

“Unless you knew that shit would get ugly, and that’s what you wanted. Is that it? Are you jealous of what me and London have, so you thought you’d take this opportunity to fuck it up? Is that what’s going on here?”

Luke rolls his eyes and glares at me menacingly. “For fuck’s sake, Arlo, will you listen to yourself for just a minute? You sound like a paranoid, self-absorbed asshole. When are you going to grow up, get your head out of your ass, and realize that you’re not the center of the universe? We all have lives. We all have shit going on, and newsflash: every fucking thing that happens around us isn’t about you. Right?”

Right. Yet here we are at my woman’s gallery opening of photos solely of me, arguing about the presence of my ex-fuck buddy. This is most definitely about me.

“So you told her about it, that’s one thing. But her name wasn’t on the guest list. I know, because I double- and triple-checked it myself. How the fuck did she get in here?”

“She was at the door carrying on and making a fuss. I didn’t want to leave her out there causing a scene in front of the paparazzi, so—”

“So your stupid ass thought it was better to let her in to make a scene in front of the invited journalists and all of London’s closest friends and relatives? Are you an actual moron? Not to mention a selfish dick. You claim to be London’s friend, but clearly you don’t have her back at all. Why didn’t you put her in a cab and send her on her fucking way like any sane person would? Remind me never to leave you in charge of anything of any importance, you fucking halfwit.” I see the rage building in Luke’s eyes.

As we face off, we have almost forgotten about Marnie, until she’s kind enough to remind us of her presence by hiccupping loudly and stage-whispering, “Who, or whommmmm doessss a girl need to screw to get a drrrrrrink around here?” She stumbles around on her colossally high heels. Oh hell no. I jab Luke in the chest. Hard. All the while wondering what the word is for murdering your entire family.

“You. Need. To. Get. Her. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here.” I punctuate every word with another poke. Luke grabs my finger and squeezes it hard. I leave it where it is, and he lets go in defeat. He knows how I operate: no retreat, no surrender, especially where he’s concerned.

“Take her home.” I’m about to walk away, but say almost as an afterthought, “To her house.” I add this last part to ensure that my intentions aren’t lost in translation. I want to avoid further scenes, and keep Marnie away from prying press eyes. Although she’s well known as a model, she’s not at the level where the press would be routinely stationed outside her house. The same can’t be said for us, of course, and the last thing I want is press reports of her retreating to my place after causing a ruckus here.

The mention of the word “home” triggers Marnie into concentrating on what’s being discussed around her. She grasps the hand that’s still firmly planted on Luke’s chest and kisses it. Jesus.

“Buuuuut the night is young, Arlo. Letsssss spend schome time together….” She fixes me with a cross-eyed stare I’m sure she imagines is alluring, and grabs on to my arm with her other hand. I glance over and see that London is watching all of this pan out. A swift look around the room tells me she’s not the only one. Though Luke and I have been speaking quietly enough that nobody except Marnie would have heard the details of the exchange, watching our body language and reading our lips and facial expressions would make it fairly obvious to onlookers what is going on. Shit. Shit. Fuck. I need to shut this shit down now, before it becomes front page news.

I shrug out of Marnie’s clutches and speak to Luke again. “Fix it. Now.”

As I turn on my heel and walk away, I hear the click-clack of Marnie’s stilettos on the polished concrete floor and her cry of “You can’t treat me thissss way. Arlo. Arlo… Arlo…?” fading toward the door, thank fuck.

God, I need a drink. I accost a server as she attempts to pass me, and down two glasses of champagne in quick succession. I would have gone for a third glass, but I look up and catch Gramps glaring at me again. He needs to get off my back about Marnie. What is it with him and Luke? Why don’t they just mind their own fucking business when it comes to her? Actually, why don’t they mind their own business, period?

The rest of the night passes in a blur of white-hot internal rage. On a normal day, I’d get the fuck out of here, but it’s not a normal day—it’s my girl’s big night, and I’m here to support her. Luke was right about one thing. This is not about me. Or at least it shouldn’t be. For once, I know I need to put someone else’s needs before my own. I just have to get through the rest of the event with the anger heating the blood coursing through my veins. I can do that. Just.

I’m raging at Marnie, at Luke, at Gramps, but most of all, I’m raging at myself. London and I don’t even live together yet, and already my crazy is leaking all over her, marring what should be the most beautiful night of her life. She hasn’t had much to celebrate for the past few years, and now even this is tainted by my bullshit. Between the dumb-as-fuck brother, the crazy ex-pound pal, and the loose-tongued grandfather, I wouldn’t be surprised or blame her if she backed out of the whole moving-in thing. I would probably do the same in her situation.

We don’t get to talk again for the rest of the evening, but while we mingle separately, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Even before the Marnie show kicked off, no matter where each of us was in the room, no matter who we were talking to, I found my gaze drawn to her. The pull she has over me is magnetic. Now, whenever she glances my way, which is often, the playful sexuality of her earlier looks is gone. Instead, she gifts me with a small, tight smile, as though even that’s hard to manage. It’s better than nothing, but she’s clearly holding back. Still, I can work with that, I just need time. I was enjoying the launch before the whole Marnie mess, but now I can’t wait for everyone to get the fuck out of here so I can talk to her alone.

The next few hours feel like the longest of my life, which in my line of work is really saying something. With so much travel, so many interviews and other publicity bullshit, we have some long-ass days. What is it about our relationship that seems to always have me waiting? Waiting for London to give me an inch. Waiting to tell her I love her. Waiting for her to admit she loves me too. Waiting to have her to myself once and for all. I’m not a patient man, never have been, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. The waiting is fucking killing me.

When we finally say goodbye to the last guests, I can’t wait to get her out of the studio, into the car, and home. I hustle her past the crowd of paparazzi, among the flashbulbs and mandatory jeers. “Arlo! Arlo! This way! Give us a smile. A wave!” “London, how did the show go?” “Are you two ‘official’ now?” “Where are you headed?” Standard procedure and pretty much a constant feature in my life, but London is like a frightened rabbit. She hates this shit at the best of times, let alone right now. It’s been a long and emotional day, and I can see it’s all starting to get to her.

As the driver pulls away from the sidewalk, I turn to her. She’s crying. Not big sobs, just slow, full tears silently cascading down her cheeks. She says nothing. My chest tightens like someone is squeezing it with a vise. I never realized love was such a physical thing, that I would literally feel my emotions in my organs and limbs, but I do. The love I have for this girl is instinctive and ingrained in me. I pull her into my embrace, but she doesn’t yield to me.

“I’m sorry.” It’s lame, but I am sorry, and it’s all I’ve got right now.

She stares dead ahead. “What for?”

“My shit. Gramps, Luke, Marnie. Me. All of it.”

She draws a ragged breath. “Why was she even there? ”

Good question. “A misunderstanding between her and Luke. It should never have happened, and trust me, I’m majorly pissed. I’ll be taking it up with him again tomorrow.” And by “taking it up,” I mean tearing him a new asshole and feeding the old one to the wolves.

“Why would she even want to be there? I thought you broke it off with her ages ago.”

“There was nothing to break off, but I thought I did too. I mean I did. The thing between us was never really a thing, but whatever it was, as far as I’m concerned, it’s ancient history. I don’t know what’s going on with her, and why she would want to crash something like that. But she is one of our oldest friends, so maybe she just wanted to be part of something so major in my life. As a friend, I mean. I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I genuinely can’t work out why the hell she would want to be anywhere near London’s launch. The whole thing is epically weird.

“I think Luke was right when he told me all those months ago that she’s in love with you. That it was never just sex for her, like it was for you.” Her voice is small and sad. Shit. I never want to admit that Luke might be right about anything, but I can’t deny Marnie’s behavior seems to point that way, even though I had previously denied it. Why couldn’t I see it before?

“I’m sorry I tainted your night, L, but I’ll handle the situation with Marnie, again. I swear.” She sighs and nods silently. I hate not knowing what’s going on in her head, which seems to happen often.

As we pull into the underground garage at Rosamond House, I’m thankful we don’t have to negotiate the paparazzi madness again. Still, I can’t get London into the house and upstairs to my bedroom—our bedroom—fast enough. I carry her over the threshold, new bride style, and whisper, “Welcome home,” into her hair. She looks up at me and smiles indulgently, her love for me radiating from her captivating caramel-colored eyes. I heave a huge internal sigh of relief. I’m forgiven.

In the bedroom, although part of me is desperate to be inside her right now—the sooner the better—another part of me wants to take the time to enjoy this moment. Though we’ve already fucked today, upstairs in the studio with a room full of people mingling below, it was fast and furious. It was also before London told me she loves me.

This time feels different. It is different. Not only do we not have to worry about two hundred people hearing every grunt and thrust, but this is also a first. The first time since we officially became a couple, in the bed we’re going to share every night, forever. My already hard cock stiffens further at the thought. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to take it slow. I want to appreciate every moment of what’s about to go down. No pun intended.

I lay London on the bed, spreading her legs, affording myself a stellar view of her pussy. If there’s a more perfect sight in the world, damn if I know what it is, especially when it’s gleaming wet and ready for me. My dick strains painfully against my pants, reminding me to remove them. Commando as usual, I spring free as soon as I get the zipper undone. A few swift movements and my pants are in a heap on the floor, followed by London’s.

I quickly kneel between her legs, lowering my mouth to her clit and taking a deep breath in. I can smell her arousal, and I love it. She squirms in anticipation of my next move. Not wanting to disappoint, I slide my hands under her butt and lower my head to bring her to my mouth. I flick her clit with my tongue, lightly at first, causing her body to jolt, then harder, applying just the amount of pressure I know will make her body sing. Sure enough, she pushes herself up to my lips, wanting more. Who am I to deny her? I oblige, flicking her clit a few more times before slipping my tongue inside her. Dripping wet, she tastes like heaven. I feel her walls tighten around my tongue immediately.

She’s close already. Damn. She pauses for a moment, clearly trying to collect herself, before pushing up against me again. I fuck her with my mouth for a little while, but don’t want her to come until I’m inside her. When I feel like she’s getting too close, I quickly pull back, causing her to groan her displeasure. The sound goes straight to my balls—they tighten painfully. I swear, this woman will be the death of me.

I straighten up a little and reach across her to retrieve a condom from the vanity. Now that we’re officially together, I hope we can go without them soon—we’re both clean. We haven’t discussed it yet and it’s definitely not the time for that particular conversation. So at least for now, I stick to the arrangement we made a few months ago—condoms as well as London’s birth control pills. Better safe than sorry, right? I get it on as quickly as possible and rest between her legs again. While I was sheathing up, London took the opportunity to take off her shirt, and is now lying on the bed in all her bare-breasted glory, playing with her nipples. Holy. Shit. I squeeze my eyes shut for a while and concentrate hard on not coming.

After a few deep breaths, I’m ready to go. London is still squeezing her nipples, alternating from one to the other and letting out little involuntary moans as she does. I need to be inside her right now. Her being so wet, as ever, makes it easy for me to slip between her slick folds as I lift her butt up to meet me again. Jesus Christ. It’s not that I’d forgotten how good it feels to be inside her; it’s just that the overwhelming sensation somehow takes me by surprise every time.

I’ve nailed a boatload of women, more than I could ever even hope to count or even remember, but one thing I know is that it never felt this way with any of them. Ever. It’s like all this time I’ve been gorging myself on cheap coke cut with baby milk and God knows what else, until one day, I get my hands on some true Colombian, and it’s a whole different class of experience. One from which I can never go back, nor do I want to. True story.

Just the thought of giving up London has me thrusting desperately inside her. I feel her clamp around me, taking every inch I have to offer. I push deeper still, and her breath catches as I reach the hilt. She takes a few more deep breaths to situate herself and acclimate to the feeling of taking me deep. Yeah, baby. Once she’s there, I bend her knees farther, allowing me to push deeper. We establish our rhythm again, rocking together, frantic but perfectly in sync.

I lean forward so my chest is covering hers, and for the first time slip my hand around the base of her delicate neck, applying a small amount of pressure. Her neck is sexy as all hell. She’s got that ballet dancer swanlike thing happening in spades. Her body bucks again—she’s shaking like a leaf, feverish with arousal. My girl likes a little rough play. Good. I thrust deeper, harder, and faster, aided by London who has reached around me to grab my butt, drawing me farther into her as though trying to mold the two of us into one.