I’m woken up at an ungodly hour by my phone ringing in my pants pocket. I leave it to ring out, three times, only attempting to answer it on the fourth, when a very sleepy London nudges me, mumbling, “Pick up.” I miss the call again, noting that it was Paul, my manager. Why the hell would he be calling me at this hour? Before I can ponder any longer, or call him back, it rings yet again.

“This better be fucking good.” I immediately start thinking the worst.

“It’s not good.” He sounds nervous.

“Tell me.” I don’t have time for niceties, but then I never do. I’m well aware that my attitude sucks, but I give zero fucks.

“So the reviews for the show and book have started to trickle through, and they’ve all been great, better than great. Outstanding, in fact. I think it’s safe to say that we have a runaway hit on our hands.”

Why is he telling me this? “You’re calling to tell me this when no self-respecting person without a plane to catch should even be awake because…?”

“That’s not all. Unfortunately, as resoundingly glowing as they are, I’m pretty sure nobody is going to be paying attention to them—good, bad, or otherwise. There’s a video….”

“Paul, have you called me at the butt crack of dawn to play riddle-me-fucking-this? I’ll ask you one more time before I lose my shit. What the hell is going on?” I’ve never been a morning person.

He exhales deeply. “Someone has released footage of you and Marnie.”

“Footage? Dude, it’s early. It’s been an epic twenty-four hours. Would you at least try to make some fucking semblance of sense, because right now, you might as well be speaking Japanese.”

“Sorry, Arlo, I’m just as surprised as you are, and literally still piecing it all together here. It’s footage of you and Marnie… uh….”

I start to wake up more fully as he speaks, and my mind kicks into overdrive. A vague recollection comes to me slowly. The memory is fragmented, and disjointed…

Jet. Coke. Gin. Airport. Car. Club. VIP. Vodka. Tits. Coke. Bathroom. Redhead. Ass. Body shots. Blonde. Table. Cristal. Tequila. Dance floor. Brunette. Shots. Booty. Ebony. Cristal. Rinse, repeat. Vodka. Dance floor. Marnie. Coke. Office. Body shots. Hall. Marnie. Lot. Lights. Camera. Action. Drone. Car. Coke. Marnie. Bed. Marnie. Marnie. Marnie. Fade. To. Black.

Drone. There had been a drone. Marnie and I fucked in the parking lot of 12AM Mass, and some paparazzi scum of the earth caught the whole thing using a drone. But that night was about six months ago. Before London. Before I called things off with Marnie. Before anything that I give any kind of a fuck about now. Half a year, but it feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it was. Things were different then, I was different, and I know for sure I’ll never be that guy again.

But that’s a good point. Why is it only just coming to light now? If it is newsworthy now, why hadn’t it dropped sooner? Press years are like dog years—they move a lot quicker than real time. Six months is beyond old news; it’s basically prehistoric. Why would anybody bother with that now? If it was going to surface, I would have expected to see it within the first twenty-four hours. Hell, I’d have expected to see it as breaking news within the first twenty-four minutes.

After that, I’d put it to the back of my mind and promptly forgotten all about it. So much so, I hadn’t even given Paul a heads-up. It hadn’t been relevant, and I’d had way more important things occupying my mind ever since. Like London. In fact, in one way or another, she was all that I had been able to focus on properly for the past six months.

“Paul, it’s early or late, depending on how you look at it. I’m tired, and maybe my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, but I fail to see what the problem is here. We were two consenting adults who’ve known each other for years fucking on private property. Besides which, it was months ago, before London and I—” I glance over to the bed now to see that London has propped herself up on her elbows and is regarding me curiously.

“The big deal is that it doesn’t look good. You look pretty ‘intimate,’ to say the least.”

I rack my brain back to that night again. Of course we were intimate; we have been fucking since we were kids. And…? “So some sad pleb releases ancient drone footage of me and Marnie screwing on Hunter’s car. Still I say so what? I was completely out of it, and she was pretty far gone too. But in any case, who cares? Maybe I should have given you a heads-up about it at the time, but to be honest, I’d completely forgotten about it until now. Apart from that, what’s the big deal?”

“Wait, sorry, Arlo. To be clear, the video isn’t drone footage. Far from it, in fact. It’s up close and personal of the two of you in bed. Well, in, on, and over the bed. You name it, you’re doing it in this video. It looks like it has been professionally edited. It’s pretty fucking graphic.”

“A sex tape? What the actual fuck? That’s impossible. Even in my most stupid moments, like the one where I let you talk me into doing a fucking coffee-table book, I have a few hard and fast rules. No bareback, no underage girls, and no photographic or video evidence of what goes on behind closed doors.”

As I say the words, it occurs to me that I’ve broken two of those three rules with London in the past. In fact, the very first time we screwed, I fell asleep and woke up to the sound of her snapping photos of me as I dozed. As creepy as it sounds at face value, by then I knew she was a great photographer and I was well on the way to being in love with her, if not there already. If it had been anybody else, I would have made them delete the photos, and had my lawyers slap them with a gag order in case there were any I didn’t know about. By that point I just trusted her implicitly. She really didn’t seem like the kind to kiss and tell.

In fact, she was pretty reluctant to kiss in the first place, let alone leak shots of me—I had the feeling at the time that she would rather forget anything had happened between us than have the moment forever recorded in the press. Then when I looked at the images—she was completely honest that she’d taken them, and willing to delete them if I told her to—I was floored by just how good they were. Those candid snaps were the beginning of a working relationship between the two of us that led up to last night’s launch.

More serious than that lapse of my rules, in Paris we both screwed up, forgetting the condom on one occasion, and almost a second time. In fact, it was London who had pointed out our near-mistake that time. Majorly stupid and risky behavior, but then, London brings out shit in me I never knew I was capable of. I’ve never even been remotely tempted to forgo a condom. Not when I’ve been out of my head on booze and God knows what else. Not even with Marnie. Nor when I’ve found myself in the kinkiest of hookups. Especially not then, in fact. Except with London. Crazier still, I can’t even bring myself to regret taking that risk in Paris. It felt so good to be inside her with nothing between us, and she was on birth control, so no real harm done.

“Look, even so, I fail to see what the issue is. It’s been widely noted that Marnie and I are ‘friends’ in the biblical sense. I can’t imagine the fact that we used to fuck is exactly revelatory, even for the IQ of the average tabloid reader. We’ve been papped together more times than some happily married celebrity couples.

“The general assumption is that if I’m in the same room as a woman, she has a pulse, and we’re not related, then we’re either fucking, have fucked, or are planning on doing so very shortly. So what am I missing here? Last I knew, there was nothing scandalous about two grown adults screwing, for fuck’s sake.”

As the words are out of my mouth, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. I know it’s a big deal to London, given my history with Marnie—actually our history with her. I’m so stupid. I want to slap myself in the face, especially after last night’s fiasco, starring none other than Miss Marnie Harloe herself. I love London, and I know she loves me, but to say the path to earning her trust has been bumpy is like saying that if you flew too close to the sun, you’d get a little burned.

I look across at London, expecting to see her looking like she wants to slap me in the face—it wouldn’t be the first time—but instead, she looks like the one who has been slapped. I can’t quite read her expression. It seems to sit somewhere between anger and hurt. Both would be justified, and neither is good. Timing is a bitch, but never more so than today. Less than twelve hours ago, I finally managed to earn London’s trust enough for her to admit her feelings for me, and to agree to take things to the next level and move into Rosemond House.

I realized months ago that she loved me, but getting to the point where she isn’t afraid to own that fact, and admit it to herself and to me, has been a long and hard road. We both carry scars from the past, but hers have prevented her from trusting me with her fragile heart, until now. Not that I’m blameless in that fact. When you have a reputation like mine, it stands to reason that people are going to assume the worst. The fact was, before London, they’d have been right. I didn’t have a rep like mine for nothing—I had earned my slut stripes fair and square. In fact, I had worked harder for them than most people, and I wore them like a badge of honor. Little did I know back then that even when I wanted to move on, they would come back and bite me in the dick time and time again with London.

We always seem to be taking one step forward and ten steps back, and it’s killing me that we can’t manage to catch a break. I know this video fiasco is just another hurdle for us to jump, something we can and will move past. That doesn’t stop me feeling like shit, to have another stain on the blank page of our relationship. Especially as I know that this will put another dent in London’s confidence in me, and put another brick in the wall she has built around her heart. There are so many things I’d do differently with hindsight, but she’s even more of a bitch than timing. Even six months ago, I didn’t expect to be where I am now. If anyone had told me then that I’d be asking a woman I was in love with to move in with me, and contemplating more besides, I’d have told them to lay off the hard drugs.

“Well, that’s true, but you know that any story about you is hot property. The press will try and spin whatever they have any which way they can to sell more copies or get more page views, and timing is everything. This video is a case in point. After the show last night and pretty public confirmation of you and London as a couple after months of feverish speculation, the timing is being made to look like you have a thing going with both women at the same time. It’s either being painted like some kind of harem situation, or that you’re cheating on one with the other. Unfortunately, after Marnie’s little performance at the launch last night, it appears to the uninformed observer that there’s truth to the rumor.”

Fuck. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

As well as all the speculation surrounding the photos, I had given that exclusive interview where I’d pretty much held my heart on a plate to the press for the world to feast on. It was meant to be a surprise for London—another grand gesture designed to make it clear that she was it for me, and I didn’t care who knew. Now even that would likely be tainted by a cloud of controversy, speculation, and rumor. Motherfucker.

“What? That’s ridiculous!” I crack my neck from side to side in a vain attempt to release some of the built-up tension. I fix London with a steady stare as I continue, talking as much to her as to Paul.

“Before last night, I hadn’t seen or even spoken to Marnie in months. I broke things off with her the moment I realized I had feelings for London. I even told her that I was falling in love with London, for Christ’s sake. It didn’t go so well. Not my finest hour, but it is what it is.” I speak slowly and deliberately, never breaking eye contact with London.

“At this point, the way I see it, we really have two options. We can ignore it like we always do, or to try to get on the front foot with the public by putting out a statement.”

“You know I don’t give a fuck what some lowlife paparazzo asshats and their gutter press ‘journalist’ cohorts think of me. I never have, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. I’m not playing into their hands by dignifying their bullshit rumors with a response. Let them think what they want, and publish what they want. All that matters to me is that the people I love—” I pause for a beat, making sure that London knows I’m talking to and about her. “—know the truth. Everyone else can go ass-fuck themselves with a ten-foot cactus.”

“Well, that’s the reason I’m calling. It’s not just about you anymore, Arlo. There’s London to consider too. She may have additional concerns, especially considering the book launch and her…”

I zone out a little. Why didn’t I think of that?

This whole relationship thing is so new to me. I still really have my training wheels on when it comes to taking someone else into consideration. My life has always been about me. Even in the band. Yeah, it’s the five of us, and that does require some level of cooperation, and coordination. But on the other hand, I’m well known for doing what the fuck I like, and expecting everyone else to fall in line. Invariably, they do.

That needs to change if I’m going to make things work with London. I am going to make things work with London. It’s going to be a steep learning curve to break the habits of a lifetime, but for her, I’m an old dog who’s more than ready, willing, and able to learn new tricks.

I stop listening to Paul altogether as I watch the scene on the bed in front of me. London’s phone dings with a message. At this hour, it can only be someone filling her in on the unfolding drama. Fuck, what a shit storm. I watch her open the message and then frown sleepily, turning her head from side to side as though to get a better look at something, or trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. Then still frowning, she sits deadly still. Too still. After a few long moments, her eyes widen, clouding over from their usual rich amber to a deep burnt umber. The color quickly drains from her skin. She jumps up, slamming against the wall next to the bed and throwing the phone down as though it’s glowing white hot in her hands.

“…hello…? Arlo…? Are you still there?”

Fuck, I had completely forgotten about Paul. I hang the phone up without another word and move toward London while she shrinks back farther into the corner of the room with every step I take. She’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second head, and the condition is contagious.

“L, come here. You heard me, I don’t know exactly when that video was taken, but I know for sure that it has to have been months ago. Before….” She’s shaking like a leaf, quivering even. She looks like she just saw a ghost, but she’s also eerily quiet, backed into the corner like a frightened animal. Her eyes, now wide as saucers, stare at me unblinkingly, filling with tears. As they brim over, she shakes her head, pointing to her phone discarded amongst the tangled bedclothes. I reach for it, not taking my eyes off her until the last possible moment.

The phone is still open to a text message from a withheld caller ID. I press Play on the video. The image is grainy but it doesn’t take me long to work out what I’m seeing. It’s Marnie and me in the very same bed I just shared with London on our first night together as an official couple. I watch the entire thing. I can’t actually believe what I’m seeing. It’s all there, Marnie with her perfect jet-black bob and her alabaster skin, me in all my tattooed and buck-naked glory. As Paul says, it seems to have been edited across the course of a night, cutting between positions, even zooming in at certain points and on certain parts.

My vision goes white with rage. Fucking Marnie. She’s the only person who could have done this. I can’t remember the night in question, but who else could have taken that video? We’ve never had a threesome—I’m pretty partial to the idea, but they were never her jam—so I can rule out that possibility, and I’m fairly certain the house isn’t bugged, so unless I’ve been sleep recording, that just leaves Marnie. I’ve never been good with temper—I mean, I couldn’t even live in the same house as my own twin brother for the majority of our teenage years for fear of killing him—but I’m angrier now than I have ever been.

My mind swims, a thousand thoughts flowing through it at once. So much so that I momentarily forget London is there at all—until she sprints past me to the en suite bathroom. I fling the phone back onto the bed and race after her, reaching the threshold just in time to see her lurch for the pedestal and vomit violently into it. Oh God. I dash over and pull her long thick curls out the way of the stream of puke spilling from her. Once I have all of her hair bunched in one hand, I use the other hand to rub her back, speaking to her softly.

“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.