Chapter Eleven
The feeling of walking out into the wings for the first time during a gig, watching the band take their places on stage, and the fans lose their minds, is one I’ll never forget. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever seen or experienced. Having spent so many years working in theatres; arenas and stadiums are definitely out of my comfort zone. The noise is beyond deafening, and the sight is something to behold, a writhing sea of screaming people.
The atmosphere is electric—the tension and anticipation are palpable, which does nothing to calm my raging nerves. I feel like I’m just about to put all my chips on black, hoping against hope that the gamble pays off.
I learned that by “tense up,” Arlo meant get in the zone to perform. From what I could tell, his method entails getting wound up and in a funk about any and everything, and bitching and barking at whoever is stupid enough to get in the line of fire. Then he downs copious amounts of sambuca, or tequila, or both, and continues to make the backstage greenroom area an uncomfortable place to be.
You could cut the atmosphere before the show with a knife as a result, and anyone with a clue (or a choice in the matter) avoided Arlo like a case of the clap. He was like a tightly coiled spring. Watching him wreak havoc for no other reason than to suit himself, I questioned why the rest of the band would put up with his histrionics.
Moments later, when Arlo walks onto the stage, I can see exactly why everyone suffers through his preshow bullshit, and all of his bullshit, in fact. The same reason people put up with Marko’s crap. He’s the best at what he does. The rest of the band is already in place on stage, but the moment Arlo appears, it’s almost as though everyone and everything else fades into the background. He is the clear focus. He owns the space, and has the audience eating from his hand.
It’s kind of funny, but more a giant pain in my ass how similar he and Marko are. All raw talent, animal magnetism, and sex appeal. They can also both be first-class assholes when they feel like it, which is most of the time. Both men are a nightmare to manage—respect for authority really isn’t their thing. Each has a terrible track record with women, yet they’re irrationally protective of me. Ugh. I’m beginning to wonder if they’re not twins separated at birth. They seem to be more similar than Arlo and Luke—in personality, at least.
I’m openmouthed at the pure testosterone oozing from Arlo’s every pore as he literally makes the stage his bitch. This is what people mean when they say sex on legs. He channels the tension that he worked up backstage and pours it into his performance, and it’s a sight to behold. YouTube really doesn’t bring it to life adequately, and nor did the rehearsals and sound checks I saw. You have to be in the room for the real thing to feel it, and understand just what it is about him that drives the fans insane.
All this, and he hasn’t sung a note yet. The audience is a rippling sea of faces aged nine to ninety-nine, all expectantly focused on Arlo, and whipped into a baying frenzy by his pacing and strutting. The first notes of his voice ring around the arena, taking my breath with them and leaving me winded. I’m so entranced that I can hardly tear my eyes away to set up shots. Luckily, Arlo’s a dream to photograph, and my practices at sound check mean that I already know what I’m doing, so I don’t have to work too hard. The pictures almost take themselves.
My nerves soon evaporate as I get into my groove. Arlo—midsong, head thrown back, veins on his neck standing to attention. Arlo—staring out at the crowd, his face showing an emotion somewhere between lust and contempt. Arlo—tearing his shirt from his body, revealing even more of his perfect, buff chest. Arlo—licking his lips and smiling out into the crowd, sending them into waves of ecstasy. I know immediately that these are great shots. How can they not be, when he’s my subject? He was made for the camera. He’s just being Arlo, and that’s more than enough.
The Heartless Few were never much on my radar before now. I’d heard of them, but I didn’t know much about them, and only now can I truly understand their stratospheric success. The chemistry I’m witnessing is the stuff of legend. It’s not just Arlo, either. Sure, he’s the driving force, but the band is tight musically, and that comes from the group dynamic. They’ve been together since they were kids, grew up together in the limelight, and have a unique shared history as a result. They’re brothers, even those who aren’t actually related, and it comes across in their playing.
I’m moving around on stage and down on the stadium floor, on a roll. I’ve gotten loads of great shots when I have an idea that will change things up a bit with a different lens. I go back to my camera bag at the side of stage, only to realize that I’ve left the lens in question in my dressing room, so I decide to quickly run and grab it. I won’t miss much, and there will be many opportunities to get shots later in the tour. Right now, I’m excited to see if the technique I have in mind will work.
As I head down the empty winding hallways, I can hear the thud of the music blended with the din of the roaring crowd. A few moments later, the volume of the music dips, though the crowd is still yelling at full throttle. What I’m hearing, or more accurately, not hearing, doesn’t fully register in my mind, as I’m too busy thinking forward to the shots I have planned.
I’m immersed in my thoughts when I’m startled out of my reverie by someone grabbing me by the wrist and yanking me backward. Hard. I smack into solid muscle, and know straight away who it belongs to. That doesn’t stop me from screaming in shock—it all happens before my brain registers that I’m in safe hands.
“I. Said. Stay. Where. I. Can. See. You.” Anger drips from every word.
I quickly turn to face him, furious too.
“Arlo, are you fucking insane?” I hiss. “You scared me half to death, grabbing me like that. Did you really just walk off the stage in an arena full of screaming fans to tell me that?”
“Yeah, I did. So what?” The venom in his voice is palpable, as is the wild fury in his eyes.
“So, that’s nuts, is what. You can’t just do that. People are waiting for you.”
The crowd noise has morphed from an indistinguishable din into a distinct chant.
“Arlo! Arlo! Arlo!” over and over again.
“I can, and I did. I’ll do it again if you can’t follow a simple instruction. I don’t give a fuck. I asked you to do one thing for me this whole tour, and—”
“Two.”
“What?”
“You asked me to do two things —lose the short shorts, and not to leave your sight. But look—neither of those things are in the contract, so I’m under no obligation. I’m a grown-ass woman, and you don’t get a say in what I do or what I wear, no matter how much you throw your weight around. You’re my client, not my keeper,” I add, for good measure.
“So that’s all I am to you, is it…?”
I roll my eyes. ”Basically, yes.” Lie. Lie. Lie. “What else would you describe us as, Arlo? We’ve hooked up a bunch of times, and yes, the sex was great, but that’s all it was—mind-blowing sex. Now we’re here, and we’ve agreed to keep it strictly business. So yeah, I’m a contractor, you’re my client, we’re free agents, and you need to get back to your job and let me get on with mine, before we’re both in a lot of fucking trouble.”
At those words, Arlo drops my arm as though it’s red-hot, and begins pacing the hallway like a caged animal. I can tell he’s livid—I’ve seen him in a temper before, but this is something else. Clearly I know how to push his buttons, but this isn’t the response I was hoping for. I figured simply telling him to go back on stage wasn’t going to cut it. In fact, it probably would have prompted him to do exactly the opposite, but I thought my scorn would be enough to get his mind off me, and back to the concert in progress, and the thousands of people waiting to be entertained.
I misjudged the width of his stubborn streak. Internally I’m starting to freak out—surely the brown stuff is about to hit the fan in a major way if Arlo doesn’t get his ass back out there stat? Unfortunately, I’m now all out of ideas to make that happen.
The chanting in the arena is getting louder and more frenetic—”Arlo! Arlo! Arlo!”—and they’re clapping now too. It sounds like they’re going for blood. He’s a brave man—there’s no way I’d risk riling those women up like this.
I’m completely thrown off guard when he suddenly stops pacing, grabs my arms, and pulls them above my head, pushing me against the wall at the same time.
“Arlo, I think you should go—” I start.
“Shhh….”
“Bu—”
His lips crash down on mine, stealing the rest of my protestation. Despite my reservations, my treacherous body yields to him immediately, and I kiss him back ferociously.
It’s been a while, due to the impropriety clause, and although we’re technically in breach of contract, kissing him feels too good to stop. I’m trembling within seconds, allowing him to push my legs apart with his knee. He still has my hands up above my head, held in one of his, while the other hand undoes the top button of my jeans. He is just about to reach inside them when a voice booms down the hall at us. Shit! Here comes the cavalry.
“ARLO! What the FUCK? Motherfucker! We’re in the middle of a fucking gig. Thousands of people are waiting for you, and you’re out here getting your ever-fucking rocks off. Jesus man, you’re not some sexed-up teenager, so stop acting like one for once and get your fucking ass back out there!”
So the temper runs in the family. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone use as many variations of the word fuck at once before, and I live with Marko. Although of course, Luke’s anger and frustration are completely justified under the circumstances. I’d be the same if I were him, and I’m deeply embarrassed by the whole fiasco. We’re adults, and supposedly professionals, not silly young horndogs.
Arlo seems to share none of my remorse—sometimes it’s as though he completely lacks a social conscience. Zero fucks given, as always. He casts Luke a glance so withering it could kill, and holds it for a few long beats. There’s obviously an unspoken warning in that look, because Luke instantly relaxes his combative stance, shrugs, turns on his heel, and walks away without another word.
Wow! The whole twin thing is something else—it’s as though they just had a silent argument, which Arlo clearly won. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this go down between them, but it spins me out every time. Arlo watches Luke’s retreating form for a few moments, before leaning down and kissing me again. Hard.
“Just stay where I can see you, or there will be trouble.” Like there wasn’t trouble this time. With that, he winks and saunters back on stage.
I’m pretty shaken up by the whole episode as I watch Arlo disappear from view. I don’t even know how he could have noticed me leave—I was moving all over the wings and arena floor, in and out of the shadows, and apart from the red in the plaid shirt tied around my waist, I’m head-to-toe in black. He also seemed completely absorbed in his performance—which of course he should have been.
As much as I think his rule is utterly stupid, I know I’m going to have to abide by it in future, at least during the show, if I want to avoid another crazy scene. Fuck. Arlo Jones is one big bag of trouble I just can’t seem to avoid. The irony is that I find him equally exasperating and irresistible.
The rest of the gig goes without incident, though my heart’s not in it as much as it was before our backstage tête-à-tête. I don’t even make it back to my greenroom to get the lens that started the drama in the first place, so I soldier on without it. I have some great shots in the bag already, and this is only day one.
As soon as the boys play the last note of the encore, I scuttle away, determined to make myself scarce. There’s no way Arlo can reasonably expect me to stay where he can see me after the show as well. I know reasonable isn’t in Arlo’s vocabulary, but I need to put some distance between us, which is hard given my job is to shadow him for the next three months. I will, however, be making a concerted effort to make myself scarce whenever possible.
At least if he throws a hissy fit now, it won’t disrupt the show. Besides, I discover that there’s no way he’d be able to keep track of me once the show is over, even if he wanted to. Just as Arlo said it would be, the backstage area is now teeming with people. Apparently it goes with the territory of being ridiculously famous. People just want to be in your sphere all the time, and there’s rarely a private moment.
Ironically, I’m technically one of the people in Arlo’s sphere, wanting a piece of him too. I remind myself that the difference is I’m here to achieve a goal, which has everything to do with getting my photography business up and running, and nothing to do with chasing the celebrity lifestyle. Besides, he sought me out for the job, not the other way around.
I wander the corridors of the venue in search of much-needed wine, but it’s such a rabbit warren that I’m not exactly sure where I’m going. I decide to follow my nose, but then I make a wrong turn and stumble in on the band having what looks like a post-gig mop-up session. The door of the greenroom is ajar, and from where I’m standing, it doesn’t seem to be going too well.
“Fuck, man, what the hell was that?” Luke’s face is red with rage as he squares up to Arlo, pretty much nose-to-nose. If I were the type to gamble, I’d put money on this ending badly. Very badly.
“What was what?” Arlo spits, equally enraged.
“You know what the fuck I’m talking about. Storming off stage in the middle of a gig, following your fucking dick. Could you be any more unprofessional? People paid good money to see a show—a show already fraught with cancellations and delays, no less—no offense Stevie, but it’s true.” Stevie shrugs casually, not seeming too offended by being called out. “They didn’t pay to look at a blank spot on the stage where your fat ass should be.”
His words are one thing, but if looks could kill, we’d be arranging Arlo’s funeral right now. The two of them have the death stare down pat—they have that in common, at least. Arlo, being Arlo, is not about to back down anytime soon, though. Never mind that in everyone’s interpretation of the situation except Arlo’s, Luke’s fury is totally justified.
“Eat a bag of festering dicks, Luke. First off, those people are putty in my fucking hands, no matter what. I could take a dump on stage and nobody would give a crap, no pun intended. Secondly, I wasn’t following my dick, I was following London. Thirdly, if I was going to spew my hungover guts up, or snort a line, you wouldn’t have batted an eyelid—and let’s face it, it wouldn’t have been the first time.”
Luke bristles visibly, but somehow manages to (more or less) keep his cool. Years of going head-to-head sparring with Arlo have clearly taught him when to attack and when to retreat. The dynamics of the whole exchange are fascinating, especially to an only child like me.
“Whatever, dude. Admit it, you were thinking with your Johnson as usual. Running around backstage after a camera-wielding pussy like a snatch-seeking missile. You must realize that you’re a laughingstock around here, right? The great Arlo Jones, whipped by a pussy he’s not even tapping right now. How the mighty have fallen.” I guess not only is the rest of the band aware that Arlo and I were fucking, but they must also know about the impropriety clause. This just gets better and better.
I thought Luke knew how to handle Arlo’s hot head, but now I’m not so sure. He must know that what he just said is like throwing a gallon of kerosene over the bonfire of Arlo’s rage? Although there’s often tension between the guys, it’s completely out of character for Luke to be intentionally antagonistic. He must be really pissed. He’s not the only one—the camera-wielding pussy comment was out of line, and I’m not happy about it. At all.
I wait for the fallout I know is inevitable.
Sure enough, before Luke can continue, Arlo launches himself across the room and tackles him to the wall. He slams his forearm against his brother’s windpipe and shoves hard. Clearly winded, Luke is bug-eyed and struggling for breath as Arlo leans in even further, speaking in a menacingly low and deceptively calm voice.
“If I ever hear you talk about London the way you just did, I will tear off your balls with my bare hands and shove them so far down your throat you’ll choke on them. Then I’ll rip the rest of you apart limb by limb and feed you to the pigs, brother or not. Got it?”
Not surprisingly, Luke remains silent and glassy-eyed. Determined to get a response, Arlo leans in closer, putting more weight on Luke’s throat. His bare chest is still wet with sweat after the show, and his biceps ripple as he dominates his brother. Ouch. That’s got to hurt. I find it strange that Luke doesn’t fight back, as I’m sure he could if he wanted to. I’m about ready to give up even trying to understand the weird dynamic between the two of them—clearly there are rules to their interactions that I’m not aware of. Twins really are something else.
Stevie, Jake, and Ryan don’t twitch a hair. In fact, they seem pretty unmoved by the whole episode—it’s water off a duck’s back, clearly. I’m guessing they’ve seen it all a thousand times before, and know better than to get between the brothers when they decide to throw down, especially when Arlo is as riled up as this. I’m really loving being a fly on the wall—I’m learning so much about the band dynamics in this small but mighty interaction.
“Got. It?” Arlo probes again. Luke’s eyes are beginning to water, but he manages a small nod.
Ryan clears his throat and speaks for the first time since the altercation started.
“While we’re on the subject, Arlo, I tend to agree with Luke—that was a dick move you pulled out there tonight. Not only did it reflect badly on you, but it made us all look shabby. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it again. Mkay?”
I just love Ryan’s dry sense of humor; the South Park reference is the perfect thing to break the tension, and it’s totally Ryan’s style.
“Choke on a dick, Ryan,” Arlo quips dismissively, the note of anger gone from his voice. If anything, he sounds cheerful now. Inexplicably, it seems that a pep talk from someone other than his brother has improved his mood. Go figure. He steps back, releasing Luke from his grasp and allowing much-needed air to reach his twin’s lungs. Luke coughs and splutters, no doubt relieved to be able to breathe again.
“Gladly, hombre, just before I ram it up your ass!” retorts Ryan jovially.
The equilibrium seems to have been restored.
I don’t even pretend to understand whatever it is these guys have going on, and I resolve to stay out of it as much as is humanly possible. I’ve been developing friendships with each of them individually, but don’t want to encroach on their group dynamic.
Ryan interjects again.
“And ladies, I was enjoying the show, really I was, but you need to put your handbags away. It seems we have company.”
He nods towards the door, and eight eyes swivel to look at me.
Arlo turns to Luke, patting his back. “No hard feelings, bro, you know I love you, but when it comes to this girl, I will fuck a brother up. Even if he is actually my brother. You’d do well to remember that.” Arlo’s tone is light.
“And you’d do well to go home and polish your vagina. You’ve quite clearly grown one in the past few months,” Luke retorts. He’s still got his sense of humor, which is good going, considering that he was all but choked to death a few moments earlier.
I laugh out loud, reminding the guys of my presence, as they seem to have momentarily forgotten me. Now that I have their undivided attention, I speak up.
“Ummm…. thanks for that epic display of dick swinging, guys. It was most entertaining. I just wanted to apologize about earlier—not that it was my fault. In fact, I specifically didn’t want it to happen. But as you all know, Arlo will do what Arlo will do. For the record, I’m here on a purely professional basis, and just doing my job. Unfortunately, that job is to be Arlo’s shadow-slash-camera-wielding pussy”—I glare pointedly at Luke as I say this, and he at least has the decency to look sheepish. In fact, he can’t make eye contact, choosing instead to pick imaginary lint from his immaculate black jeans.
Good. I’m glad he’s embarrassed. He should be, after what he said about me—especially given that we’re meant to be friends. I’ll be having words with him about his chauvinism in private at a later point—”but I’ll try not to get in anyone else’s way while I’m doing it. Oh, and Luke? I don’t know what kind of vaginas you’ve come across—pardon the pun—but as far as I’m aware, unless there’s something drastically wrong, they don’t need polishing.”
The boys obviously appreciate my sense of humor, as they all burst into laughter. I turn on my heel to leave the room, but am prevented from going by Arlo grabbing my wrist again. He needs to stop doing that. I yank my hand free of his grasp.
“Just leave it, Arlo. Your overbearingness is what got us here in the first place. It’s been a long day, and I’m bushed. I just want to get back to my room and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I turn again to leave but hesitate just as I get to the door.
“Congrats, guys, that was an awe-inspiring show. I’m really looking forward to the rest of the tour,” I comment as I leave the room.
Back at the hotel, I’m pretty wired after the events of the night. If this is day one, I honestly don’t know if I have the stamina to survive the months ahead. All I can think of right now is having a hot bath, climbing into clean pj’s, and relaxing in front of the TV with a mug of hot chocolate.
Soaking in the huge spa bath, I think long and hard about the earlier events, reflecting on the fact that when I’m away from Arlo, I’m determined to maintain a professional distance, but when we’re together, it’s another story. When faced with the whirlwind of testosterone that is Arlo Jones, it’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience where my brain leaves, my carnal desires take over, and professionalism goes out the window. When he kissed me in the hall, clearly the correct response would have been to put a stop to his advances, but instead, I immediately gave in to the attraction. I wonder for the millionth time if I’ve made a huge mistake taking on this project.
I get out of the tub and call room service, ordering a deluxe hot chocolate with whipped cream, drizzled with chocolate sauce and topped with chopped nuts, marshmallows, and chocolate sprinkles. When I finish, I feel a little sick, but I’m definitely in better spirits.
Although it’s kind of late when I’m done, and I should really get to bed, I decide to FaceTime with Marko or Nic instead. A chat with one of them is the perfect tonic after such an eventful day. I hunt for my iPad Pro for a few minutes before remembering that the last time I saw it was in Arlo’s suite, while I was shooting the guys doing press interviews earlier. I must have left it there. Weird for me to be without it for so long and not even notice—clearly I was preoccupied prepping for the first gig.
I’m in just a cut-off sleeve Rolling Stones T-shirt, with no bra or panties for bed, so I quickly pull on a pair of shorts and pad barefoot down the hall to Arlo’s suite. It’s only as I knock on the door that I realize how stupid I’m being. Who the hell am I kidding? I’ve just knocked on the hotel suite of one of the music industry’s most prolific Casanovas. Am I expecting to find him in there playing solitaire or reading War and Peace?
I probably should have gotten properly dressed before heading to Arlo’s room in the middle of the night, too. What the fuck was I thinking? I guess the stress and confusion of the first show have clouded my judgment more than a little. This whole thing was a bad idea. I hear what sounds like a party in full swing coming from inside, so I decide to abort mission before it’s too late.
I turn on my heel, hoping to tiptoe away unnoticed. Nobody would have heard me knocking above the din, and I can just as easily collect my iPad in the morning. I make it a couple of steps back toward my own room before the door swings open, the noise from the party suddenly spilling out into the hall. Crap. I stop in my tracks and turn around