Chapter Eight
When I get home for dinner with Marko, he’s in a typically jovial mood.
“Hey you, how was the rock god? Huge schlong?”
Classic Marko in fine form—he goes straight in for the kill, no pleasantries, no holds barred. Just like a certain rock star I know.
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, feigning ignorance, although I know he won’t be convinced for a nanosecond.
“Don’t give me that crap. I’d know that freshly fucked look anywhere—I’m a master at putting it on women’s faces, remember? I can smell it on you, too. You’ve got dick emanating from every pore. Plus, that’s the only reason you’d almost stand me up for date night at the last minute, right?” He quirks his brow questioningly.
“Okay, busted.” I sigh.
There’s no point trying to hide it, he knows me too well.
“Yes, we slept together, and yes, he’s hung like a freaking Celtic warrior. Not only that, but he knows how to use that shit.”
“Wait, how do you know how a Celtic warrior is hung? How many of them have you bedded?” he says with a wry smile.
“Stop being a dick, you know what I mean. He has more than enough to work with, and then some.” I can’t keep the grin from spreading across my face.
“So by the smitten schoolgirl look, am I to gather that you’re serious about this guy? I mean, like long-term serious?” Marko probes further. My mood goes south fast.
“Nah, it’s not like that. It was a one-time, no-strings thing, to get me back in the game. But now I have a mixed bag of emotions to deal with, you know? Even though it meant nothing, and I mentally prepared myself for the fact that it was okay to have sex again, I still have lingering guilt about Danny. Not so much about the fact that I’ve slept with someone else, because I’ve kind of made my peace with that. But obviously he’s my first since Danny, so it’s still a pretty big deal.
“What I feel worse about is who it was. This guy who couldn’t be more different from Danny in just about every way, but with whom I have this crazy chemistry. I mean, obviously Arlo is the wrong guy in so many ways. In all ways apart from the phenomenal sex, in fact. But then why am I so ridiculously attracted to him? And why was what I had with Danny so different? I mean how can I want someone so much, when I don’t even really like them?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy, sweets. You know me—I have the emotional maturity of a six-year-old. But you’re saying that this is no big deal, just a passing cock, right?”
“Absolutely. You and Nic have been saying for the longest time that I need to get back on the horse, and I finally agree with you. What better way than with a man whose reputation rivals even yours? No strings, no complications, no dramas.” Marko doesn’t look entirely convinced, so I carry on.
“Besides, great sex is great sex, and that, my friend, was some great sex, with a capital F-U-C-K. I know this isn’t leading anywhere, but it was worth it just for the way he went down on me. He’s a demon!” I think that has done the trick.
“You dirty little minx. I always thought you were a bit uptight. I never figured you for the type for hot, no-strings sex with rock stars. And not just any rock star, but the musician equivalent of me. Who cares that he’s the polar opposite of Danny? In a way, that’s better, right? It’s not like you’re trying to replace Danny, but they say the best way to get over one is to get under one, and that’s what you’re doing. From that perspective, Arlo Jones is the perfect dude for the job.” He’s laughing his ass off.
“Well, I’m glad my sex life is a source of amusement for you, Marko. You’re right though, casual sex isn’t normally my thing, but hey, for once I decided to seize the day.”
“And Arlo Jones’s dick.”
“Yeah, that too.” I’m cackling like a schoolgirl now too.
Before I know it, I’m doubled over with laughter, clutching at my sides, tears streaming down my face. I’m pretty sure it’s nervous hysteria rather than genuine laughter. I mean, what’s the “funny” side of this scenario? I hooked up with the only person on the planet I know for fact is as big a slut as my best friend, and despite knowing it’s not leading to anything, I really liked it. Even worse, I now kind of feel like I was cheating on my dead fiancé. Definitely nothing to laugh about.
After a few minutes, I manage to get myself together and stand up straight again—just a few stray peals of laughter escaping from me every few seconds. When I finally fully recover my composure, I notice for the first time that there are no food smells in the house, and no signs of imminent dinner. I frown.
“What’s up, wifey? You look confused,” Marko says.
“Well, it’s date night, right?”
“Right.”
“So where’s dinner? I’m famished. Screwing rock stars works up a real appetite, you know.” I chuckle softly.
The deal with date night is that we take it in turns to “host” the date, and therefore to provide the meal. Cooking’s not really my thing, so I normally order something in, but Marko, despite his extreme bachelor lifestyle, is actually a stellar cook. Pretty much any cuisine you can name, he can knock you up a tasty meal.
“Something came up, and I was kind of distracted, so didn’t get a chance to shop or cook. We can just order takeout. What do you feel like?” He has the decency to at least look contrite.
“I feel like a home-cooked meal, made by my bestie’s own fair hands. I can have takeout any night of the week, but I look forward to your cooking, you know I do.”
I’m whining now and pouting a little, but I don’t care. I really do love Marko’s cooking. I give him my best puppy dog eyes—he’s a sucker for that shit.
“Okay, okay, don’t look at me like that, you know I can’t handle it. I’ll see what I can conjure up.” Yes! Never fails.
I find it pretty funny that Marko has a reputation for being a badass with women, which is totally true, yet he’s putty in my hands. He’s never been the tough guy with me.
He strolls over to the refrigerator and sticks his head in, hemming and hawing over the contents.
“So what’s her name?” I say, as casually as I can, hoping to squeeze the truth out of him before he registers what I’m doing. He’s generally a huge blabbermouth, sharing every gory detail of his latest conquests, but I’ve noticed that lately he’s been uncharacteristically quiet about his sexploits.
“Hmm? Who?” He’s clearly distracted, still puzzling over the contents of the fridge. Perfect.
“Whoever is important enough to keep you from cooking date night dinner.”
He didn’t say it was a work thing that came up, so I figure there must have been someone that kept him, rather than something. Normally he’d kick a girl out the door with her underwear around her ankles for date night with me, so this someone must be special.
“Jourdan,” comes his muffled reply.
“Aha, so there is someone special. I knew it!”
Mission accomplished. I’ve got mad skills.
“What? No, there’s nobody. I mean, nobody special. I mean… fuck!”
He pulls his head out of the refrigerator, but avoids making eye contact. Another first. In all the time I’ve known Marko, he’s never been this coy and fumbling over a woman. This may be more serious than I first thought.
“Ha! Sounds like it’s somebody special to me. Tell me about this Jourdan—I want to know all about the woman who almost came between me and a home-cooked meal.”
“Oh yeah, she came all right.” The smug smirk is back as he licks his lips lasciviously.
The stuff he’s told me in the past about his conquests would make Dirk Diggler’s toes curl. He’s my best friend and I love him, but when it comes to women, he can be kind of a pig sometimes, and that’s not a side of him I like to see if I can help it.
Something about this feels different, though, so I persevere in squeezing a few more sketchy details from him. He grudgingly divulges that Jourdan is a fiery journalist who kicks his butt in and out of the bedroom. According to him, the thing they’ve got going is complicated. Unusually, that’s pretty much all he’ll say.
I make a mental note to question him about it some more, as soon as I get another chance. Right now, I’m distracted by the delicious breakfast-as-dinner he has pulled together for us—rich and creamy scrambled eggs with chopped chives and a drizzle of truffle oil, served with smoked salmon and warm buttered croissants. Yum. Marko knows the way to my heart. I swear if he wasn’t a huge slut, I’d totally put a ring on it. We finish our dinner, and a couple of glasses of wine each, before retiring to our separate rooms.
***
The next day, I make my way into work through the back door as usual, with relatively little fanfare. After the first time I was papped entering the house, there were a few articles touting me as Arlo’s “mystery woman.” I was mostly described as a “petite, exotic beauty,” which pissed me off. Why is every non-blond portrayed as exotic? It really gets my fucking goat. As far as I’m concerned, exotic should be reserved for tropical fruit, birds of paradise, and topless dancers. Last time I checked, I was none of the above.
Then came all the speculation about when and how I met Arlo, and the exact nature of our relationship. I don’t know how it passes for journalism when it’s almost entirely fictional. There were suggestions that I was a call girl, that I was involved in a love triangle with Arlo and Luke—and many references to the fact that I’m one of a number of women “keeping Arlo company” while he’s in NYC.
A few days after the initial slew of articles, another one surfaced quoting “a source close to the band” revealing the truth—even divulging my name, and mentioning Marigolds. To spill that level of detail, it would have to have been someone very close to the band. Arlo swears that neither he nor any of his people had anything to do with it. But if it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t him (and it sure as shit wasn’t Gloria, Marko, or Nic), who the hell else could it have been? It doesn’t really matter now, and in some ways, it’s a relief to end the speculation, but in others, it kind of made matters worse.
It’s funny to read about yourself in the tabloids and blogs when you’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant being in the limelight—funny weird, not funny ha ha. It’s actually kind of crap, in fact. Now that my name is out there, I’ve had to lock down the security levels on all my social media accounts, as I was getting hounded with so many inappropriate comments, messages and random friend requests.
On the other hand, showbiz is fickle, and the public seems to have a shorter attention span than the average goldfish. Now that the mystery has been solved, and it’s clear that despite numerous offers I’m not about to sell my story, I seem to be old news already —I’ve well and truly had my fifteen minutes of “fame.” I enter my code, and hurry inside, closing the door firmly behind me.
I don’t know what to expect from Arlo when I see him. I hope I made it clear that I’m happy to continue with my job as before, and that the last thing I want is any kind of drama. Nor am I expecting chivalry, or to be swept off my feet. Having broken my cardinal rule of “don’t shit where you eat” (aka don’t get involved with people you work with, or worse still, work for), I’m ready to write off our tryst as nothing more than outrageously good sex between consenting adults, and a step in the right direction toward rebuilding my life without Danny, and never speak of it again.
I’m humming my way around the kitchen when Arlo finally makes an appearance. Not that I’m waiting for him, or monitoring his movements, or anything as lame as that. He looks a little rough, like he hasn’t slept, but of course, it suits him—he’s sex on legs, even when he has a face full of stubble, and bleary eyes. Even his bed hair—thick, dark, and sticking up at odd angles—is sexy as fuck. He’s topless as usual, wearing loose cotton lounge pants slung low on his slim hips, revealing that V-muscle that I could just bite.
Stop. It. My conscious mind admonishes my subconscious. Now is not the time to be drooling over him, especially as he’s standing there looking like he’s been up for three nights straight, probably fucking other women, and is glowering at me with a face like thunder.
It’s constant with him, the spoiled toddler routine. Maybe I would have been better off taking a job as a nanny—at least I’d know what I was in for with the mood swings and temper tantrums. Although I couldn’t hack the whole cleaning up poop thing, so I guess that’s one advantage of working for Arlo. Plus, the eye candy and the “perks” that go with it wouldn’t be as good as a nanny.
“Morning, Arlo.”
I decide to remain cheerful, even when faced with someone who looks about as cheerful as the average serial killer. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible for men to have PMS.
“How are you?” I continue lightly.
“We’re going back on tour.” He says this in the same tone he would use to reveal that the entire band has herpes.
“That’s great!” I look up with a smile on my face, only to have it disappear when I meet his stony glare in return. ”Isn’t it...?” I can’t think why it wouldn’t be.
He sighs, running his hands through his hair.
“Whatever. Stevie’s been out of rehab for a while, and his doctors have given the all-clear to work again, so it’s time for us to get back to the grindstone.”
Actually, I think he would sound chirpier if he did have herpes. What am I missing here? They’re a world-famous band. Their job is to tour, and they’re losing obscene amounts of money by being here instead of doing the gigs that they had booked all over the world. Why be so shitty about it?
“We’ll be away a couple of months, starting at the end of this month.”
“Awesome,” I respond, smiling.
“Yeah.” There’s that face again. The ‘I’ve just licked poop off a cracker’ face.
“Oh, don’t worry about the house—I’ll take care of it, and I won’t use your shower while you’re away, I promise.” I’m laughing, but for some reason, Arlo doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke.
He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room without another word, and doesn’t look back. Okay then. Our paths don’t cross again for the rest of the week, but I don’t waste much time thinking about it. Clearly the no-strings sex really was just that, and I’m relieved that I never kidded myself that it could be anything else. As I said to him at the time, we were on the same page from the get-go. We answered the “what would he/she be like in bed?” question, we can now move on without that elephant in the room, and nobody gets hurt.
I next see Arlo in the middle of the following week. By that point, I’ve spoken to Luke a few times, and he’s filled me in on a bit more detail about the tour. Thank God one of them knows how to behave like a grown up. Apparently, they had about thirteen weeks to go on the tour when they had to pull out. All the canceled gigs have now been rescheduled, so they can put their disappointed fans out of their misery, plus appease the venues and promoters wanting blood—not to mention the tour crew who were all unexpectedly out of work due to the cancellations, journalists who are owed interviews, competition winners…. The list is endless.
It’s funny, I worked at the house for all those months before the boys came back from tour, and didn’t mind that I never saw another soul; in fact, I considered it a bonus. But now that I’ve had them around breathing life into the place, the thought of it descending into quiet again when they leave depresses me a little. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that I was going to miss the two of them. Even Arlo, in all his pain-in-the-ass glory, bulldozing around, wreaking havoc. Especially Arlo, in fact. I had definitely gotten used to ogling his fine form as he moved about the house, and although I’m not emotionally invested in what went on between us, I can’t ignore the chemistry. Just thinking about him now has me wet and wanting.
The sad fact is that for weeks now I’ve been getting myself off with my battery-operated boyfriend to the montage of images of Arlo’s body that plays in my head. I’m pretty sure B.O.B’s going to be getting a workout while Arlo’s away. I’d better stock up on fresh batteries. It’s even better now that we’ve sealed the deal—I’ve got actual memories to fuel the fire. Hotter than any porn I’ve ever seen.
As my thoughts stray into XXX-rated territory, Arlo strolls into the room with a spring in his step that definitely wasn’t there during our previous encounter. Shoulders back, head high, he’s the epitome of the confident, sexed-up rock star. Dayum, that boy’s got swagger! And he’s clothed. Like, fully clothed—shirt and all, which is a rare sight. Though it’s not his shirt that is commanding my attention. His lower half has my eyes pretty much popping out of their sockets.
He’s wearing tailored black pants instead of the sweats or loose jeans he normally wears around the house. These are not any old pants though. Nope, these are supertight. And made of coated cotton that looks similar to leather. God knows how he got into them. They look as though they’ve been sprayed on, which means they cling to every muscle and bump, particularly the most important bump. Holy living fuck—looking that good should be illegal!
The sight of the fabric straining across the bulge between Arlo’s legs has me ready to jump his bones on the spot. On top of the criminally tight pants, he’s wearing a white tuxedo shirt, open almost to the navel, affording me a heart-stopping view of his abs and chest. I must be drooling or licking my lips or something, without even realizing it as, after a short while, Arlo interrupts my daydream.
“Like what you see, eh, Tog?” he asks, a shit-eating grin on his face.
I don’t even bother to be coy about it. He’s caught me shamelessly ogling him for the hundred millionth time, and I’m going to own it. He’s hot. He knows it, and so do I. He also knows I’m hot for him—I’ve proved that much by allowing him to screw my brains out several times, clearly loving every moment.
“Is the Pope a Catholic? I’m not gonna lie—you look good enough to eat right now. And you’re wearing a shirt. What’s the occasion?” I quip lightheartedly.
“Got a business meeting in a few minutes, so I thought I’d better make an effort.” It must be an important meeting—he’s gone all out. His hair is slicked back, not the sexily messy mop I’m used to seeing.
“A business meeting, where?” If it’s starting in a few minutes, it can’t be happening too far away—maybe it’s a FaceTime thing, rather than face-to-face.
“Here.”
Shit.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gotten some catering or something.” I feel terrible for not being prepared, even though I had no idea the meeting was even taking place. “How many people are you expecting, and what time are you kicking off? I’ll at least rustle up some cookies, or pastries and make coffees. Where will you be, in the boardroom?” Because of course, every house has a boardroom.
He’s barefoot, so I’m wondering what kind of meeting it could be that he’d get slicked up for, but not need to wear shoes. But then, when you’re Arlo Jones, you can do whatever the fuck you like. His house, his rules, I guess.
“Nah, we won’t bother with the boardroom, right here’s fine. It’s a pretty low-key thing.”
“What, in the kitchen?”
I’m a little confused—he hasn’t had a meeting at home since he’s been back, but I don’t know why he’d have it in the kitchen when there’s the boardroom, his office, or even one of the formal sitting rooms that would be far more appropriate.
“Yep, and it’s starting now.” A slow smile spreads across his face at about the same rate that panic rises in me.
“Now? Um... okay. Sorry, you have me at a disadvantage—if I’d known you had a meeting, I’d have been better prepared. I’ll at least get those coffees. How many of you?”
Crap. Even though it’s not my fault, I feel like shit for floundering around.
“Just the two of us.”
The way he looks at me has my heart flipping and my pussy clenching. Even in times of stress like this, sex is never far from my mind when I’m with Arlo.
Although I should be rushing around, I’m rooted to the spot, staring into those eyes. I swear they’ll be my undoing. One look and I’d pretty much do anything for him.
“Okay, no problem. Do you want a coffee? Do you know how your guest takes theirs?” I guess they’ll be arriving at any moment.
I’m trying to remain professional, even while thinking about all the dirty things I’d like to do to him right now...
“Earth calling London, come in, London.”
He’s waving his arms in front of my face, a playful smile curling at the corners of his lips. Shit, I must have zoned out. Very professional.
“Sorry, I lost my train of thought for a moment there.” No shit. “What were you saying?”
“I was asking you how you like your coffee,” he repeats.
“Hmmm? I mean… sorry… why do you want to know how I take my coffee?”
I’m confused as all get out.
“Because my meeting is with you, and you’re offering to make coffees, so I thought I’d ask you how you like it. Your coffee, that is. I know how you like it.” He chuckles, clearly enjoying my confusion.
“I’m sorry, Arlo. I’m not following you.” I’m starting to get a tad irritated. I know he’s playing with me, but I’m not sure of the game.
“Okay, I’ll break it down for you. I need to speak to you. Strictly business. Can you join me at the table for a while, please, Tog, and all will become clear.”
“You want to have a business meeting with me?” I’m still all kinds of confused.
“Correct.” He’s finding it hard to contain his growing mirth, I can tell.
“Here? Now?”
“Also correct.”
“Okay, well then you can call me London, not Tog,” I say curtly. “I don’t think a nickname is appropriate for a business meeting.”
And.... she’s back in the game.
“Okay, Ms. Llwellyn.”
Now he’s just being a dick to make a point. As opposed to the status quo of being a dick because he’s a dick. “London is fine, Arlo, and it’s Miss, not Ms, remember?”
“Okay, London.” The meeting isn’t going well so far, but I’m not too surprised, given how most of our non-horizontal interactions have played out.
“Sit.” He motions with his head to the chair opposite him at the table.