Chapter Fourteen
Many of the cities we pass through on the tour aren’t new to me, as I’ve visited them with this production or that. Those trips were generally brief, and even on the few longer stints or holidays, my exploration was pretty much limited to the tourist traps and usual landmarks. Eiffel Tower and a crepe in Paris? Check. The Colosseum and a gelato in Rome? Check. Big Ben and fish and chips in London? Check. All great fun at the time, but you could Photoshop someone else into my photos, and not notice the difference.
Travelling with Arlo, I get to see a different side to all these places. In fact, I feel like he has the keys to the city. Every city. I guess when you’ve been as shit-hot famous as he is for as long as he has, you get to see and do a lot that isn’t on the table for most people. He knows the most exclusive eateries, bars, and shops at one end of the scale, while at the other he’s welcomed like the prodigal son at the places you’ll never read about in any tourist guide. Those unassuming holes in the wall where you’ll find the best food made to secret family recipes, or bespoke shoes and tailoring to rival the world’s top brands—Arlo knows them all.
I notice that when he chooses to, he has an easy rapport with people that sees them eating from the palm of his hands. Totally different to the rude, surly version of himself he so often presents to the world. Arlo in full charm mode is a thing of beauty. I can see how he could so easily have parted scores of women from their underwear. Although by all accounts, the majority are putty in his hands even when he’s at his most obnoxious—I get the impression that he hasn’t received as many slaps as his behavior deserves.
Although Arlo has unrivaled access to everything any city has to offer, we’re unfortunately never far from baying crowds or telephoto lenses. It’s a frenetic lifestyle of rushing to and from cars, hotels, music venues, media outlets, airports, restaurants, nightclubs, bars, and beaches, while trying to maintain some semblance of a private life. I realize early on that privacy and time are big currency in celebrity circles, and though Arlo is undeniably cash and experience rich, he’s definitely privacy and time poor.
This abnormal way of life has become normal for the band, and they mostly take it in their stride, accepting the craziness as part of the job they adore, and the lifestyle that comes with it. In this digital age where information flows across social media faster than water from a faucet in one of their luxury hotel suites, you can’t have success at the level they do without all the trappings of fame, both good and bad. Endless exposure is part of the pleasure and pain of living at the top.
It’s eye-opening for me, and with every passing day, I’m glad that my job is to observe and document the circus, rather than fully take part in it. Even then, it encroaches on me, given that my role involves shadowing Arlo. It’s hard to take decent photos when both you and your subject are running, or they’re constantly shrouded in a baseball cap and hoodie.
As time goes on, I gain a newfound respect for Arlo’s ability to cope with the craziness and still keep his cool most of the time. Publicly, anyway. I sometimes find myself gazing at him admiringly when he’s not looking, wondering how he keeps it together as well as he does. The travel, the interviews, the press, the insane fans, the constant intrusion into, and speculation about his personal life. All of it.
On one occasion in Paris, I stare at him a little too long, and he catches me in the act. We’ve been walking for some time, and have gone seemingly unnoticed on the quieter streets off the tourist track. I love that about Europe. While the Heartless Few seem to be as popular here as anywhere, and receive a lot of unwanted attention, it also seems possible at times for Arlo to blend unnoticed into the crowd, as long as he’s away from the chaos that ensues when the band and entourage travels together.
This is especially so if we steer clear of the more obvious tourist spots. This approach suits my aims from a photographic perspective. I’m not looking for the tried and tested cliché images of the famous cities. I’m looking for visually interesting surroundings that help me tell a story about Arlo that has never been told before.
We wander down a particularly deserted, but incredibly beatific street that is stunning in its old-world charm and decadent decay. Candy-colored cottages, each one different to the next, and each one exhibiting its own special kind of shabby chic are framed by an eclectic mix of greenery—some have creeping foliage adorning the outer walls, some are joined to the adjacent house by leafless creeping vines, others are flanked by grand and ancient looking trees. It’s all so wrong, it’s right. I fall in love with the place on sight, and I know right away that the shots we take here will be amazing.
“Busted!” Arlo beams, a gleeful glint in his eye.
“What do you mean?” I say, feigning nonchalance, and hoping to sound casual.
“Don’t give me that crap, Tog. I saw you with my own eyes!”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.” I think I have him convinced.
“You’re a shit liar, babe. You were giving me the look, for sure.”
“What look?” I don’t have to pretend now, I really am confused.
“That look that chicks get when they want to marry you and have your babies. The look.”
“Shut up,” I splutter, slapping him gently across the ribs. He doubles over in mock agony.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I was just doing my job, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is to take great photos of you. I need to get to know your features, and to use that knowledge to capture you well on camera. Look around you. We’re in one of the most beautiful streets I think I’ve ever seen. I was thinking of ways to make this incredible backdrop work for me, and you, in fact, in the shots I’m about to take.
“I want to portray you in a way that people have never seen before. I was thinking about angles, not mooning over you. What do you think I am, fifteen years old or something?” More importantly, after everything I’ve been through with Danny, I’m not sure I see marriage in my future. Even very far into the future. I just don’t think I can go there again. With anyone, but especially not Arlo.
“Bravo! Bravo!” He gives me a slow round of applause. “That’s great, Tog, an Oscar-winning performance. If I didn’t know you better, it would have totally convinced me, but I do, and it didn’t.”
“You’re an arrogant shithead, Arlo Jones, do you know that?”
His lips stretch into his inimitable grin.
“It may have been mentioned by various people once or twice in the past.” He winks, then grabs my hand suddenly, grinning from ear to ear. He looks so boyish and carefree when he’s overexcited like this—I find it hard to resist his cheeky charm.
“So we’ve established that you love me—”
“Arlo! We have established no such thing, because it’s not actually—” I interrupt, horrified, but he presses on as though he hasn’t heard me.
“—but do you trust me?”
“Huh?”
“Do. You. Trust. Me?” He hasn’t broken eye contact the whole time. I’m drowning in his intense gaze,
“What? I guess. Yes…?” I’m not sure what he’s asking, or why.
“You don’t sound too convinced. C’mon, it’s a pretty simple question.” He’s intensity personified.
It’s not a simple question at all. Context is important. Do I trust him with what, exactly? My worldly possessions? My life? My heart?
“Yeah... I do.” I hold his gaze unwaveringly.
It’s true. For some reason, I do. I don’t know if it’s due to fact that we’ve been spending time together purely focused on work, which has allowed me to see unexpected facets of his personality—the caring, thoughtful, generous, charming guy who laughs freely and smiles warmly. Or how fiercely (and irrationally) protective he is of me and the people he loves.
Or it could be the fact that he seems to have put his sex life on hold throughout the tour—even now that the two of us are keeping things strictly above the belt. As far as I’m aware, he has been going to bed alone despite having women throw themselves at him backstage, and at restaurants, clubs, and bars every night.
Maybe it’s a combination, but in actual fact, I trust him with everything except perhaps my heart.
Now he breaks into a bigger grin, if that’s even possible.
“Right answer! Come with me.”
He drags me back out onto the main street, and toward the door of a nearby building. I thought we’d been walking aimlessly, and shooting opportunistically, as usual, but obviously not—Arlo clearly had a destination in mind all along. He pushes the door open, revealing a red-carpeted flight of stairs leading downward.
“Arlo, where are you taking me?” I pull on his hand, trying to stop him from walking down the stairs.
He turns and looks over his shoulder at me. “Didn’t you just say you trust me?”
He’s got me there, I did just say exactly that.
“Well yeah, but—” I can’t keep the hesitation from my voice.
“No buts, just come with me. Don’t worry, I’m not about to lead you into a dungeon and chop you up into tiny pieces.” He has a warped sense of humor, this guy.
The thought hadn’t even entered my mind. Much.
“It’ll be fun. I promise,” he reassures me, reaching out for my hand. I let him take it and decide to roll with the punches. This is what trust looks like, apparently.
We walk down the stairs hand in hand and are soon standing on the threshold of a large, opulently furnished circular room. Round tables are draped in crisp white tablecloths and set with silver cutlery and cut-crystal wine glasses. Red velvet drapes hang around the outer walls. Everything is trimmed with gold brocade, and there are more Louis XIV chaises dotted around than I’ve seen in my entire life—it’s like a poor man’s Versailles meets prohibition-era underground speakeasy.
“What is this place, and why are we here?” I hiss under my breath.
Whispering is probably unnecessary—as far as I can see, we’re alone, but I still feel like I’m trespassing.
It turns out that I was right to whisper, because seemingly out of nowhere, someone appears at our side. I let out a startled yelp, jumping about a foot in the air. Arlo chuckles at my surprise, which kind of makes me want to throat punch him.
Once I’ve regained my composure, I turn to look at the woman who has joined us. She’s exceedingly beautiful, in a 1950s screen siren sort of way. Her thick, slick blonde hair is teased into a complicated updo, and her makeup is immaculate, complete with fire-truck-red lips, flawless foundation, and perfectly shaped eyebrows. She’s wearing a stunning black lace corseted bodysuit and fishnets, but no shoes. Odd. Even taking into account the waist-cinching effect of the corset, her body is to die for. She’s all long limbs and beautifully defined muscles, but she also has an impressive bust. Some women have all the luck.
She smiles at Arlo and greets him fondly with the customary French double kiss.
“Arlo, my darhleeng,” she drawls. He voice is throaty, as though she smokes forty a day, and her English is heavily accented, though she sounds more Russian than French. The combined effect is supersexy. “Soooh good to see you. You are too much of a stranger these days.”
“Angelique, lovely to see you too. Have you missed me?”
He flashes her his most mischievous grin. I wonder if he was born flirting.
“Mais oui. Of course.”
She flutters her eyelashes coquettishly and looks out at him from beneath them in a way that suggests the two of them are more than just old friends. I guess I have to assume that unless they’re related, Arlo’s been with every woman he knows. I shift my weight from foot to foot, embarrassed. The movement reminds them of my presence, and she suddenly pulls away from Arlo’s embrace and turns to me.
“And you must be Arlo’s London. Enchanté, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she purrs. Arlo’s London. Am I?
She gives me the double kiss too, before turning back to Arlo. She talks in a stage whisper, her raspy voice still clearly audible in the echoey room.
“Oh, cheri, look at ‘er.” They both do, as she continues. “She is even more boootiful than you described. Look at zis gorgeous skin and all of zat curly hair. But of course, you should want to make her dreams come true.”
I’m embarrassed, but curious about what exactly he’s told her about me, and even more so about what the hell is going on. A thought suddenly occurs to me. Maybe he’s brought me to a swinger’s club! That would kind of make sense of the surroundings and Angelique’s attire. I said I trust him, but if that’s what he’s got in mind he can forget it. That’s not my bag.
“Pleased to meet you… um… Angelique.” I try my best to smile through my confusion. I turn to Arlo. “What’s going on? Is this some kind of swingers thing? If so, no offense, but we should leave now. That scene’s really not for me.” I’ve lowered my voice, but know that Angelique can likely hear every word.
“Yep, there’s definitely swinging involved,” he whispers back, a hint of mischievous laughter tingeing his voice.
“What?” My voice is definitely above a whisper now. I positively yell.
He turns toward me with eyes glinting more than usual, and a sheepish grin on his face. God, that is some heart-crushingly good-looking shizzle right there, even as I contemplate throttling him. I try to focus on what he’s about to say, instead of swooning over him. You’d think that after the past few weeks of upholding the impropriety clause, and the thought that he’s brought me to an underground dungeon for a three-way, I’d be over the “oh my god, this man is beyond stunning” phase, but apparently not.
In fact, if anything, spending so much alone time with him, and photographing him 24/7 without the sex is increasing the attraction, not lessening it. Poor Bob is getting such a workout every night that I fear he’ll hand in his resignation, or go to his union for compensation. Right now, my desire for Arlo feels like a powder keg that’s one tiny spark away from detonation. I concentrate on burying my feelings. I need to be clear-minded to take in what he’s saying.
Arlo is staring at me intently, and I squirm. He’s the one person who can make me feel both turned on and uncomfortable at the same time. He furrows his brow and bites his bottom lip before speaking—clearly nervous about whatever it is. I’ve seen him this way a few times now, but it never fails to take me by surprise. It’s so different from the way he normally carries himself.
He starts talking, hesitantly at first.
“Remember that time we talked about what we dreamt of doing when we grew up?”
“Hmmm….” I do remember the conversation, but can’t quite see where he’s going with this.
“Well, something you said got me thinking, and I wanted to make one of those dreams come true for you. Today. Right now, in fact.”
“Okay…?” I’m still not on the same page as him. I definitely didn’t want to be a swinger when I was a kid.
“Look up,” he coaxes.
I do as instructed, and for the first time notice a series of ropes and wires above my head. How did I miss that before?
“Umm… it’s a trapeze.”
“Ten out of ten for observation, Tog. It is indeed a trapeze.”
I’m glad my confusion is a source of amusement.
“When you mentioned the trapeze, I immediately thought of this place and Angelique, and I wanted to make it happen for you. So you know earlier when you said you trusted me?”
“Yes…?”
“Well, it’s time to put it to the test. Up there. Just like you’ve always wanted to, you’re going to swing on that trapeze this afternoon. With me.”
Oh. Crap. Crap and piss. Only now do I properly register the configuration of the room. The beautifully laid tables are arranged in a circle, and the center of the room where we’re standing is completely clear. The ceiling is domed, and draped with sumptuous silken fabrics in rich shades of red, fanning out from a central point to the outer walls. They form a billowy canopy above our heads, giving the room a high-end Big Top feel.
“Angelique is going to teach us a routine, then we’re going to perform it on our own. I may have snuck off a few times this week, and come here to practice it with her. Funny, I resented those gymnastics classes at the time, but I’m grateful for them now. Sometimes Mom does know best, but if you tell her I said that, I’ll deny it.” That makes sense of a couple of unexplained absences this week. I just put it down to Arlo being Arlo, but it turns out there was a real reason. He continues.
“For this to work, there needs to be complete trust between us, so let me know now if you want to back out, and I promise I won’t hold it against you.” He raises an eyebrow questioningly. I remain silent.
“Last chance…?” There’s a teasing note in his voice, as though he’s calling my bluff.
“Christ, Arlo, this is crazy,” I gush. “I do trust you. Let’s do it!”
It turns out that we couldn’t have had a better person showing us the ropes—pun very much intended. Angelique happens to be one of the world’s top trapeze artists—she’s unbelievable, which shouldn’t surprise me, given that she’s a contact of Arlo’s. He’s definitely a “nothing but the best” kind of guy.
After kitting us out with all the necessary safety gear, Angelique puts us through our paces. Thanks to Arlo’s gymnastics training, their secret sessions, and my background in ballet, we take to it like ducks to water. That’s not to say it’s easy, because it’s really quite grueling, especially on the upper body—I’m definitely going to need a long hot soak in a mineral bath later.
After the warmup, Angelique begins teaching us the short series of moves we will perform as a routine to music. I honestly can’t believe this is happening—that Arlo remembered a comment I made in passing, and that he’s brought me here to the best trapeze artist in Paris to realize my dream. It’s amazing, and crazy, and thrilling, and so Arlo. I literally do not know anyone else who would do this.
As it gets closer to the moment of truth, my confidence begins to wane. I’m stunned to think that I’m about to do what I am, and with Arlo Jones of all people. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I silently tell myself over and over that I’ve just got to trust that when I make the leap at the end of the routine, Arlo will be there to catch me, because I definitely used up all of my nine lives in the car crash.
On the other hand, if there’s one thing that the accident and losing Danny has taught me, it’s to grab life by the balls, because we never know when it will all be over. So that’s what I’m doing right now. That and hoping for the best.
Performing the routine with Arlo is the single most thrilling moment of my life. The fear is electrifying—a heady mix of adrenaline and endorphins that I can’t recall experiencing before. That’s one thing I’ve noticed since I met Arlo—there’s always some new emotion or sensation to deal with, good, bad, or ugly. There have been so many firsts that my head is spinning.
Right now, the breath rushing in and out of my nostrils and lungs tastes different, the colors flashing past my eyes in a blur look different, the music pounding through my ears sounds different, and the air flowing over my electrified skin feels different. I feel different. What is that?
The point in the routine when Arlo needs to catch my hands as I fly through the air toward him suddenly feels like the most significant moment of my life. Like everything that has come before now has been somehow leading to this. It’s also the exact moment that I realize I’m in love with Arlo Jones. Not in lust. Not “into” him. Not just attracted to him. Not infatuated by him.
No. I’m ass-over-apex, batshit crazy in love with him. Somewhere amongst all the craziness that is part and parcel of being around him, I’ve lost my heart to this man. He owns me, lock, stock, and smoking barrel. He was right when he said he saw it in my eyes earlier. He’s obviously wiser to my own emotions than I am.
The realization hits me like a sledgehammer to the head, just as my hands meet his, and we swap from two trapezes to one. The only thing stopping me from slamming painfully into the net below is his strong, tattooed grip on my wrists. In that split second, I mentally will him to let me fall. I don’t want to be connected to him in any way, neither physically, nor emotionally, and especially not by my heartstrings. I may be smitten, but I’m not too far gone to realize what an unenviable position that is—one that will inevitably end in a broken heart. Mine, not his.
Arlo doesn’t do relationships—he’s made that clear no less than a billion times since we met. Beyond that, it’s the single most reported aspect of his personal life. Monogamy is his kryptonite, and love is a four-letter word. After the heartbreak of losing Danny, loving Arlo equates to signing up to have my heart trampled on a daily basis. Despite the words engraved on the feather tattoo that serve as a reminder to me of everything I’ve been through, and how strong I’ve had to be to get this far, I’m really not sure I’m strong enough to handle that. If Arlo broke my heart, I honestly think it would break me.
How could I have let this happen? I’ve done nothing but attempt to avoid any kind of emotional intimacy with him since the first time we met. Yes, the attraction is off the scale and always has been, and the sex is better than anything I’ve experienced, but I was able to convince myself that it was just chemistry, or lust—a good lay, and nothing else. It was just “getting back on the horse” after losing Danny. I honestly believed I could fuck and run, and not get emotionally attached in the process. I guess I was wrong.
When did it happen? I was deeply in love with Danny, so I know what that feels like. Why didn’t I notice it happening this time around? When did I allow Arlo to get so far under my skin? I mentally scan through our time together in my mind’s eye, as though watching a movie on rewind, but can’t trace it to a specific point. Clearly while I thought that I was being cool, calm, and in control, I was actually gradually going under. I’m a walking cliché—falling for the baddest of bad boys while thinking I could beat him at his own game.
Despite the shock of discovering my true feelings, I’m euphoric when we make our way down from the trapeze. It’s such a thrill to do something that’s been on my bucket list for so long—especially something as exhilarating as this. After bidding Angelique a fond farewell, I turn to Arlo to thank him, my words spilling out almost faster than my brain can keep up.
“Oh my God! Thank you so, so much. That was amazing. One of the best things I’ve ever done, and I still can’t believe you organized it all. Unreal! The rush was like nothing else!”
“It was nothing, babe, honestly. I’m just glad you enjoyed it.”
We’re facing each other, and he takes a step closer to me, reaching out to tilt my chin, forcing me to look at him. I squirm uncomfortably, so sure that if I meet his gaze, he’ll see my feelings for him in my eyes.
“Imagine what would have happened if you hadn’t caught me.” I’m babbling, desperate to lighten the intensity of the moment.
“But I did catch you. Like a boss, might I add.” He winks. “And you need to know that I’ll always be there to catch you, no matter what. Okay?”
I nod mutely, unable to tear my eyes away from his, but wishing I could.
“Hey, are you okay? You’re shaking like a fucking leaf. Are you hurt?” Concern is written all over his face.
He’s right. I hadn’t even realized it, but I’m quivering uncontrollably.
“Nah, it’s all good,” I say, trying to sound bright and breezy. “All of this is a lot to take in, that’s all. I think the adrenaline’s catching up with me, and maybe I’m just a bit tired and overemotional.”
“Yeah… maybe….” He speaks so deliberately that I know he doesn’t believe a word. I can practically see the cogs of his mind turning as he puts together the pieces.
“Thanks again,” I say, reaching up on tiptoes, gripping his shoulders to peck him on the cheek.
At first he seems to accept the chaste gesture, but at the last second, he swiftly turns his head so that his lips collide with mine. Moments later, we’re locked in a brutally passionate kiss. I don’t know if it really is the adrenaline or the realization that I love him, but I literally can’t get enough. I’m savage, clawing at him, grabbing him by the neck, pulling his hair, biting his bottom lip—my self-control is hanging by a thread. I didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on by Arlo, but it’s as though acknowledging my feelings has taken the attraction to a whole new level.
He’s quick to match my ferocity, snaking one hand into my hair and tugging my head back to deepen the kiss. The other hand grabs my butt, pulling my body to his. Minutes pass, and I feel his growing erection press into me. He’s hard as rock, as ever. I’m about to start tearing our clothes off where we stand when Arlo pulls his mouth away from mine to whisper hoarsely in my ear.
“Listen, the building above is a great hotel. We’re getting a suite, right now, or I’m going to rip your clothes off and fuck you senseless over one of these tables.”
Little does he know I’m already senseless.