by L. B. Dunbar
The two men faced off, until Arturo turned away. Tristan pushed back.
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean that,” Tristan said. “Well, I did mean it, but I shouldn’t have said it.”
Arturo remained against the wall. Still looking away, his face going blank, he replied.
“I deserved it.”
The room was heavy with silence. It was awkward and I sensed I should not be present. However, I didn’t trust to leave Tristan and Arturo alone.
“You really want to go on the tour?” Arturo asked, glancing back at his friend.
“I do,” he said again without a thought. “And I think I have a solution for your guitar playing.”
“I’m not using that attachment thingy,” Arturo snapped.
“Not that,” Tristan laughed. “Remember Canyon Blaze from Arizona?”
Arturo stared at Tristan, recognition crossing his face.
“What about him?” his eyebrows pinched.
“He’s in New York. Or, well, he was, but I bet I can get him back here.” Tristan’s voice rose with excitement. “I know just who can help us.” He clapped his hands once, rubbed them together, and then placed them on Arturo’s shoulders. “Trust me. I have a plan.”
To both our surprise, Tristan leaned forward and kissed Arturo’s forehead. It was so fast and childlike; I had to stifle the laugh rising up in me with my hand.
“Love you, man,” he blurted as he walked away, and we heard the soft click of the front door.
Arturo was still plastered to the wall when dark hooded eyes looked at me. I recognized that dangerous stare.
“You owe me,” he said, his voice low and gravely.
“What do I owe you?” I teased.
“Sex, if I told you what was wrong.”
I changed the subject.
“What’s the attachment?”
“Some ridiculous thing your father found. I can put it on my wrist and it works the strings.” Out of habit, Arturo’s arms raised and he air played the guitar, minus a hand. I watched in wonder for a moment.
“Why won’t you try it?” I questioned, tilting my head to try to better understand. It sounded like the perfect solution to me.
“It sounds stupid. I’ll look ridiculous.” At that comment, I could no longer contain myself. I laughed loudly.
“What?” he growled.
“You are so fucking stubborn,” I hooted.
He made it across the room in three steps, and I found myself flattened to the couch. I was still giggling.
“Stop laughing,” he said angrily, but he was losing his fight.
“Why don’t you try it? Maybe it won’t work for the tour, but for the future.”
“The future?” he puzzled.
“Yes, the future. When you start to write more songs and record another album.”
“I don’t need to play, Guinie.” He was straddled over me and we glared at each other.
“Yes, you do.” I paused before adding with emphasis, “Arturo?”
“What I need is sex,” he spit.
“Promise you’ll try it.”
“I already have, and I really like it.” His hand was making work of lifting my shirt. The roughness of earlier gone. The palm of his hand spread wide over my stomach as he stared at my skin. My shirt rose to expose my bra.
“The guitar, Arturo. Promise to try the attachment.”
He closed his eyes. The way his hand curved over my breast, I assumed he was no longer listening to me. He had blocked me out, or so I thought, when he replied.
“Fine. I’ll try it.”
The smile that broke across my face was contagious and he smiled wide, as well. His dark eyes actually sparkled in response and the hardness of his face changed. It softened.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile like that since we’ve been back together,” he said softly, tenderly working my other breast. I sat up and he removed my shirt completely.
I didn’t know how to respond, but the smile wasn’t leaving my face.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, continuing to cover my skin with his wide hand. His fingers stroked down my middle and popped the button on my shorts. He sat back to remove them, and I raised my hips in an effort to assist him. Once I was exposed, in only my undergarments, he returned to straddle me. His hand continued its roving examination over my skin, which was growing warm and tingling with excitement.
“Can we finally have sex now?” I teased. Arturo laughed.
“You’re so greedy,” he teased back. I was greedy. I wanted him. I wanted him to be happy.
“I love you,” I said softly. I hadn’t said it yet. I don’t know why I was holding off, other than the fact he’d only said it to me in the heat of our argument.
He stopped his travels over the path of my body. Hesitantly, he spoke.
“Can’t have sex with you now,” he said in a serious tone. I sucked in a breath. Had I ruined it? Was it too much too soon? I was sitting up to untangle myself when the length of his body covered mine.
“Now, I get to make love to you, instead. Finally,” he breathed before his mouth covered mine.
She was my guitar and I played her. I had removed all of her clothing, but took my time to remove the pink bra and matching panties that covered her. It was a slow caress as I stroked over her skin while she lay under me. I traced lines down her arms and across her collarbones. Her heavy intake of breath told me she was trying to stay under control, as I took my time to draw her into my memory.
I sat back, tugging her as best I could to sit up. Her eyes remained fixed on me, telling me she’d follow my lead.
“Sit on my lap,” I said, nodding toward my thighs. I didn’t want her to straddle me as much as I intended to cradle her. Positioned so my right arm held her up, and my left hand travelled down her middle, my fingers connected with the warmth between her legs, and I played.
I strummed over folds, damp with desire. I flicked sensitive skin with intention. I snapped over crevices before entering her with leisure. A song rolled through my head and I closed my eyes. Blindly, I laid the licks in my memory, willing my left hand to do the work my right hand once did. She sighed and squirmed under my ministration, rolling her hips in rhythm to my lead. I played softly, a lingering ballad of words in my head, a tempting minstrel skilled with song. I played on, and her body swayed with my strokes. We were normally a frenzied fire of passion, but this would be the lingering embers of a banked fire: tender, smoky, and dragging out the last bit of light until the final crackle. Guinie’s flame was prolonged, as the subtle twist of her hips and the deep moan from her lips told me the burning was going to last.
Bright blue eyes dazzled me, when they opened. Her head had been back in pure ecstasy, but she raised it slowly to gaze at me. Her expression told me she was relaxed, warm, and lazy with the release that spread through her. Her hand came up to caress my cheek, and she used it as leverage to pull her face to mine.
“I love you,” she whispered again, then kissed me. If ever Guinie attempted to capture me with a kiss, it was in that moment. It was deep and delicate. A contradiction, yet intentional, as she sucked my lips into hers, then forced her tongue against mine. She moved her body as her mouth worked mine. Straddling me, she pulled back and stared down at me.
“My turn to play you,” she whispered. Leaning back, she removed my shirt and kissed across my chest. I let my arms drop as she took control and mapped out a path over my skin. While I knew she could make haste in removing my jeans, she took her sweet time to unbuckle, unzip, and undo my clothing. When she finished, she crawled behind me, forcing me to sit forward on the edge of the couch.
I looked over my shoulder at her, unclear of her intention.
“What song did you have in your head?” she asked, kissing a path across my back then drawing her tongue between my shoulder blades. I shivered.
“Just something I’ve been toying with.”
Her legs had spread behind me, as she stradd
led me from behind. Her hands slipped over my abs, heading down my treasure trail, fingers tickling through the hair.
“Hum it,” she muttered, as she continued to kiss my back and caress my lower abs.
“What?” I swallowed hard, as a hand wrapped around me, and squeezed.
“Hum it. I’m going to play you now,” she said. I looked down at the position of her hands, one on the length of me, one on my side. She was set to begin the first stroke of her cello. I was her instrument.
I took a deep breath, attempting to concentrate as I hummed the first tune. She tugged up with one hand, and slipped across my chest with the other, scrapping a nail over my nipple. My humming faltered and she stopped.
“Keep humming,” she said against my back, and I felt the smile on my skin. Closing my eyes again, I recalled her smile from moments ago. A genuine smile on a face filled with desire for me. She loved me, she said, and so I hummed her a song. Stroke for stroke she met my tune. Hand to chest, she kept rhythm with me, until I could focus no longer. Then she took over and played her own sonata, which included the strength of delicate fingers on me, and a release that brought spots behind the lids of my closed eyes.
Feeling myself languid and liquid, I turned to wrap her into me as we fell back on the couch. She kissed my chest a final time.
“You promised to try it, right?”
My thoughts were scattered at her meaning.
“The attachment,” she clarified.
Guinevere used very persuasive messages to assure that I followed through on my promise to try this fancy attachment. A 3D plastic prosthetic design would enable me to play as I had before. Some boy in Brazil had become quite famous for using the development to teach himself guitar. It looked like a taser in my opinion, but I put it on when it arrived and held the guitar for the first time in a year. I strummed down the strings and the resonating sound matched my heart. It was more than gaining the attachment. It was regaining my ability to play.
Guinie was right, though. I would not be ready in time for the tour. We were back on track for October, and Tristan had set to work to secure Canyon Blaze, an acoustic guitarist we’d met on the road some five years ago. He was a phenomenal player, singing his tunes in some lowly bar outside Phoenix. He opened for us when we were still playing the West Coast, trying to make a name for ourselves. It was Tristan who convinced him to join us on stage. It was me who coerced him to follow The Nights and hit the road. He had a wife and a baby on the way, like Tristan did now. In Vegas, something happened back home for him. I tried to help him out, but he was too far outside my reach. We lost touch.
I was starting to get excited that things might just work in our favor, until I saw Ana again. We were fighting about the tour and visitation with Morte. I didn’t think the road was the place for him. Ana was arguing that she should go with both of us.
“Are you out of your mind?” I bit as she stood in my apartment. Her alabaster arms crossed over her chest. Her lips were bright red like blood. Green eyes pierced me with her anger.
“You promised to accept Morte. Take us on the road.”
“Is this about Morte or about you, Ana?” I questioned her motives. I wasn’t certain how much Ana knew of Guinie and me making amends. She’d picked us up at the airport, but I hadn’t spoken with her. When Ana left the house after the fire, I promised we would talk soon. It had been weeks.
“Arturo, it’s time to recognize him.”
“I did that,” I snapped. With that farce of a display at Elaine’s, the gossip turned to confirmation that Morte LeFaye was my son, and my private life was splattered across Page 6 again. This time it wasn’t the sins of my father, but the sins of me.
“Look, Kaye thinks this is a good idea,” she hissed. I turned on her.
“Kaye? You’ve spoken with Kaye?” I did not like this possibility. Not one bit.
“He suggested I might be able to convince you.” Her smile turned devious, as she didn’t know how to play coy. The seduction was written on her face, but I shivered in response. I thought we were past this game.
“Ana,” I warned. “We agreed. I told you, I appreciated what you did. I will be forever indebted to you for trying to save me, but there was nothing more. We had our more. Once.”
On that word, Guinevere entered the room with Morte. They’d been in the back room discussing how Guinie planned to change it, to make it his room, when he came to stay overnight. Today had been a day visit. Morte would start sleeping over soon. He stopped as well when he heard Ana respond to me.
“Well, I want more.” The words slithered out of her and then her face froze when she turned to find Morte had heard her. So had Guinevere.
“Guinevere?” The name rattled out of Ana’s throat like she wished to hypnotize her.
“What are you fighting about?” Morte asked.
“Nothing,” I said, as Ana responded, “the tour.”
“What tour?” Morte asked, his green eyes blinking up at me. Guinie’s hands came to rest on his shoulders, but he shrugged them off. He was never like that with her.
“Your father’s going on tour soon, remember? He’s refusing to take you with him.” Ana’s words were hurtful and the pain was written on Morte’s face. She used me as a weapon to harm her own child. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the hate in his eyes. I didn’t trust Ana’s methods.
“That’s not exactly true,” I defended. Morte walked closer to me. His fists tightly clenched to the sides of him.
“Is Fleur going?”
I was so surprised by this question that my neck snapped back. I didn’t know what Lansing planned to do with Lila and Fleur. Fleur was still young, but she was heading into kindergarten. I assumed Lila wanted Fleur to have a normal school experience, not one on the road with tutors.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
“Why can’t you take me?” Morte asked. “I want to go with you.” His eyes shifted nervously to his mother.
“That’s right, darling. We want to go with Arturo,” Ana hissed in a non-motherly tone. She moved toward her son and rubbed her hand down his hair. It looked like she didn’t touch him, though, but he flinched away from her anyway.
“I want to go,” he whined. He looked on the verge of a full-blown tantrum when he clapped his hands for emphasis, and a ball of fire burst into his palm.
“Morte!” Guinie shrieked, as she reached out for him. My eyes were transfixed for a moment at the magic held in his hand. The ball rolled and glowed, like a living organism hovering over his palm. I watched in wonder for a moment too long. Guinie touched him and Morte dropped the flaming orb. It fell to the couch and immediately started a small fire.
“Damn it,” Ana yelled stepping away from the flames, not the least concerned for putting it out. Guinie ran for the small fire extinguisher kept behind the bar and pulled the tab. She doused the couch but not before the fire alarm triggered. Water teemed from the ceiling. It was Ana’s turn to shriek. She covered her hair with her hands, but to no avail. We were getting drenched. It was Guinie who laughed first, her hair pasted to her head. She looked up and had to blink as the water showered down on her. She looked at Morte, whose hair was flattened in a pattern over his forehead. Tenderly, she pushed it back. I saw in his eyes what I’d seen many times. He loved Guinevere; if I had to guess, almost as much as me.
It was no laughing matter when the firemen arrived. The building manager was not pleased as the place had a reputation for their last fire being in the early 1900’s. Once again, I was reminded that my son was playing with flames. He needed some help. I had defended that he wasn’t broken, but I was wrong. He was very broken, and he needed to be mended.
We moved to a vacant apartment on a higher floor, while the place was being repaired from water damage. A call came after midnight. Hollister was at the hospital. I didn’t think it was necessary to go, but Guinevere was insistent that everyone had been present when Elaine had baby Galahad. I was torn. I wanted to be there for my
friend, but I didn’t see what sitting in the waiting room was going to do for him. I also didn’t think it would be good to witness the happy couple having a baby.
“It’s not like we’re in the room,” Guinie argued as she sat up to dress. I still lay sleepily on the bed behind her. My arm crooked beneath my head. I stared at the ceiling.
“Guinie,” I warned. She twisted to look at me. “Doesn’t it hurt?” I asked hesitantly. I was concerned for her, emotionally. All our friends having babies seemed to take its toll on her at times. Excited conversations of physical changes in Ireland and Hollister, led to side conversations about the changes their husbands appreciated.
“Does what hurt?” she asked, clearly not aware of what I was asking. She stared down at me.
“I mean,” I swallowed as I rolled to face her, “does it hurt that they are having babies, and you…” I couldn’t continue. Concern projected from my eyes. Her shoulders shrank and her hand instinctively went to her stomach. I watched her swipe across her flat abdomen quickly then remove her hand to form a fist. I didn’t want her to curl into herself again.
“Life goes on, Arturo. I’m sad and my heart misses a beat, but I’m so happy for them. Perkins Vale, a father? Can you believe it? He waited his whole life for the one girl of his dreams and within months, they are married and she’s having his baby.” A slow smile crept across her face. In a way, I felt I’d been waiting for the right girl too, and she sat there, strong and content, but empty from the loss of us and the loss of our child.
My wrist was rubbing up and down her back. She didn’t flinch. She never had. It was a comfort to know that she accepted my pain like I was trying to understand hers.
“We could try again,” I said quietly.
She snorted. “I think unintentionally, we have been.”
My face fell serious and her shoulder drooped farther, as she seemed to misunderstand my body language. We weren’t using protection. From the start we hadn’t been, which is how she got pregnant so quickly last summer. I didn’t want to think we were purposely trying to make a child, but we weren’t doing anything to prevent it. She turned away from me. It was something we needed to discuss, but not tonight. I sat up and watched her finish dressing.