by L. B. Dunbar
“Just go,” I said firmly. Fleur was holding my hand looking up at both of us.
“Guinie, I can’t…” his voice faltered. We both knew he had to. He had obligations to fulfill. I was in his way.
“Arturo, please.” I straightened my shoulders and stared into those eyes that could melt me with desire, enflame me with passion, and slay me with love. His fear, while it shook me, made me realize I had to be stronger. He leaned forward and kissed me hard again. His hand lingered on my face before he pulled back. He ran a palm over Fleur’s sweet head and exited the door but not without a swift punch of his left hand against it.
I stepped forward now that the room was mostly empty.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Kaye questioned. His eyes softened but his stance remained firm.
“I’m going home,” I stated. Kaye sighed with relief.
“Good idea.”
I was waiting for Arturo’s call, but it never came. Neither did he.
“Guinie, did I wake you?” It was 5:30 AM. Their flight was soon.
“You didn’t come home?” I was stating the obvious. We were on the phone.
“Guinie, the afterparty was insane. Kaye had me stay longer than I intended, and then I just drank too much. I didn’t want to come home stinking drunk and just pass out, babe.”
I bristled at the endearment. He’d never called me that before, in that tone. He said it to me like I was one of his fans.
“I didn’t want you to remember our last hours like that,” his voice lowered through the speaker. I had to smile, but it was weary. I didn’t like how this was starting out. His bags had gone with him when he left for the concert for that very reason. There was a chance he’d party all night. While the others had all wanted to get home and spend the last hours with their wives and families, Arturo had already said his farewell to me earlier in the day.
“I’m not saying goodbye to you, anyway,” he said, his voice sounding bolder. It was a statement: This was not the end. This was a challenge. We would make it, but after the concert I was not convinced. The crowd had swayed Arturo. Despite his words to forget them, I could sense he questioned their reaction to me.
A text came through minutes before their flight was to board.
My Once. My Future. I love you.
While originally these words brought me comfort, at the moment they brought me pain. I suddenly felt empty and alone again.
Morte became a welcome distraction for me as the days turned into weeks of the tour. I was scheduled to go to Paris to meet Arturo, and Morte was coming with me. Arturo would have a three-day reprieve before moving on to more cities in Europe. We spoke daily, but sporadically. His time was limited, and the time zones didn’t help. He sent me texts to reassure me of his love. I wanted to trust that we were fine, but I had a nagging feeling inside. A slight ache that I assumed was from missing him.
As Morte and I sat on the plane crossing the Atlantic, he became more agitated. He fidgeted in his seat, and over time, I grew concerned.
“What’s wrong, Morte?” I asked finally.
“Do you think she’ll try to take me back?” he asked, staring out the plane window. His forehead rested against the glass. Morte was to see his mother, as Ana had returned to Paris.
“I don’t think so,” I said in hopes to reassure him.
“Why doesn’t she want me?”
I realized my response was incorrect. Morte never mentioned missing his mother, yet I shouldn’t have ruled it out.
“Do you want to go back to her? Live with her?”
Morte spun to stare at me, fear in his green eyes.
“No…no, you won’t make me, will you?”
“Of course not,” I said reaching out to push back his floppy dark hair. “It just sounded like you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to live with her; I just want to know why she doesn’t love me.”
I didn’t have a response. I could say that Ana loved Morte. Those would be the right words to comfort him, but Morte was smart. He knew when adults lied or tried to keep things from him. He would sense that I didn’t have an answer for him. I didn’t know if Ana loved her child. They had a difficult relationship in which she used Morte to her advantage when it came to Arturo. He grew to resent his father because of it.
“Arturo loves you,” I tried. Morte wasn’t convinced. Then he shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter,” he sighed, beginning to swing his feet. When I thought he was settling down, the twitching started again. “I love you, Guinie,” he said softly. His little eyes shifted to me, and then back to his hands that made motions like he was going to start a fireball, but had no kindling to do so. I was stunned by his comment, and I delayed a moment in my response.
“Well, I love you, too, Morte.” I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. He shrugged like he didn’t believe me, but I saw the slow crawl of his lips curve into a smile. He pinched his eyes then shook his head. It occurred to me that what I said might have been the first time the child ever heard those words directed at him.
We finally arrived in Paris after a flight delay. We’d missed the concert. A car met us at the airport. We were whisked through the gorgeous city to the multi-sports arena, where the concert was hosted, and escorted to a room filled with people. The space was packed and Morte gripped my hand. This wasn’t a place for a child. We made our way to a doorway that opened into a smaller, more private space. Fewer people lingered here. It was clear this was an anteroom for the band before they would enter the throngs of their waiting guests.
While the band was present, so were a few other nameless people, women, really. I didn’t have time to take in the actions of the others. I only focused on Arturo. His back to me, feminine arms wrapped around his neck. Her fingers strummed through his dark wavy hair. I watched in utter disbelief as another woman walked behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist from the back. She said something in his ear, and I heard the sweet rumble of a chuckle from Arturo.
My hand sweat as it gripped Morte’s, but at the same time it grew cold. I was close enough to sense the silence building at my presence, while I stared at my fiancé being held by two women. Sandwiched in between them, actually.
One giggled, and I swear it was loud enough to crack the paint on the walls. Cackling resounded in my ears like a heavy ripple. The next words were warped.
“If I weren’t engaged…” It was Arturo’s voice. I didn’t need to hear more. If he weren’t engaged, he’d take them both. If he weren’t engaged, he could play his role as The Chivalrous Lover. If he weren’t engaged, but he was. It didn’t appear to be stopping him.
Time passed like a delayed film. It happened within seconds, but was portrayed like a time delay in slow motion. I spun quickly, releasing Morte’s hand. I was through the doorway in an instant and pushing my way through the forest of people. Using my shoulders, I shoved around fans and wedged between couples. I had no focus other than to get out of the thickly crowded space that was warm and oppressive. The physical touch of the others, the sound of their voices, it was all too much for me. My head was bent as I made it across that frontier and practically fell into the hall to collide with another human being.
Hands gripped my upper arms, helping to right me. Glancing up, I found kind, concerned blue eyes questioning me.
“Guinie?” The sound of Lansing’s voice brought on the tears. I hadn’t noticed he wasn’t in the room. I only assumed he had been, as I had briefly seen the others.
“Guinie, what’s wrong? What happened?” The tenderness in his voice increased the salty water works. He tugged me to him and I sobbed into his chest. His arms slipped around me.
“Guinevere?” The small questioning voice was that of a child.
Morte.
“Guinie, what are you doing?”
“I…Morte, I can’t….” The words wouldn’t form as the tears continued to pour down my cheeks.
“Where are you going?” Fear filled his ti
ny voice. “You won’t leave me here. You said you loved me.”
“I do love you, but this is different,” I choked. Liquidy green eyes narrowed on me. It was too hard to explain. My love for Morte did not compare to my love for Arturo, a love that was being severally tested.
“I thought you loved Arturo, too.”
“I do love Arturo, but he’s hurt me again.” I didn’t know how else to defend my actions. As I stood in Lansing’s arms, crying over Arturo, my heart was shattering one more time for the lead singer of their band.
“I’ll kill him if he’s done that, Guinie,” came the determination of a child. Something in the tone of his voice proved he meant it.
“No, Morte…I just…I can’t stay here.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said, stepping toward me.
“Ana would never forgive me if I took you away.” I had to be strong. Morte was not my son. He was here to see his mother and his father. I could not interfere with that arrangement.
“I will never forgive him,” Morte hissed, his voice sounding eerily like his mother’s. His long slender white fingers curled into fists. His eyes narrowed further, making the bright green glow through the slits. Again, I believed him true. At nine years old, Morte was done playing games with his father. His heart was closed off to him, too.
“Morte?” came the sound of an angered voice. It was too much for me. Sensing my need to escape, I numbly let myself be led down the empty hall. We were practically running when I looked back for Morte. The metal click of a door alerted me we were heading out into the brisk evening air. Words were mumbled into my hair, “Let’s get out of here.”
Something had happened behind me. Regardless of the arms around my back and the ones on my neck, I noticed that everyone’s attention seemed trained on something behind me. After disentangling from the blonde with fingers in my hair and spinning, in an effort to remove the brunette on my back, I came face to face with Morte.
Morte. My brain registered his tiny frame: dark shaggy hair and cold green eyes were accentuated by alabaster skin and chapped lips. His presence could only mean one thing. Guinevere had finally arrived. I’d heard the plane was delayed. I’d been distracted throughout the concert, anxious to see her again. Worried at the late arrival, I rushed to the band’s dressing room, in hopes to await her. I hadn’t expected our private room, not to be private.
Guinevere. My thoughts connected. She wasn’t standing there. If Morte was in the room, so must she be, and yet she wasn’t. Tristan was the one standing behind Morte, holding him in place with firm hands on his tiny shoulders. I rushed forward, gripping the thin arms of my son.
“Where’s Guinevere?”
“She left,” he spit at me. Saliva dribbled from his lips as if poison were truly releasing from his mouth. The anger and bitterness in his words stung.
Left? I didn’t understand. She had to have just gotten here.
“What do you mean, ‘she left’?”
“As in, she took off. As in, she left you behind. As in, she never wants to see you again.” He definitely spit the words the second time. My face felt the spray as I was bent forward, evening my eyes with his in hopes of clarification.
“She hates you,” he bit. The venom ran deep with those words.
Hates me? I couldn’t comprehend. I looked up at Tristan with questioning eyes, but the moss green ones that looked back at me showed his concern and his anger.
“What happened?” I asked, standing as I questioned the expression on Tristan’s face.
“Dude, she just saw you sandwiched between two groupies,” my friend replied.
My mouth fell open and my hand went through my damp hair.
Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck.
“Where’d she go?” I glanced back at Morte. His narrowed eyes told me he did not plan to respond.
“Where. Did. She. Go?” I demanded. Morte’s bright eyes steeled to me. Cold stones of hard green, he held firm, standing tall in his small, thin stature.
“She. Left.” His response contained the condescending tone of his mother. I shivered. I was about to ask where again when it occurred to me that someone was missing. Looking left, I saw the concerned look of Canyon Blaze and the crossed arms of defense on Perkins Vale. Looking right, I saw Kaye Sirs still sitting on the couch. His head bend in avoidance. The woman previously on his lap, running hands through his bleach blond hair, presently sat awkwardly next to him.
“Where’s Lansing?” I growled. It rumbled through my chest and rolled out my throat, along with a sickening taste of bile.
“She left. With him,” Morte replied. The words were almost a gleeful response, an evil sort of cheerfulness.
“He’s a fool,” Lansing said to me, as he sat next to me on the couch in his hotel room. Gentle hands rubbed circles around my back as I finally calmed the tears. I was tired from travel. I was anxious to see Arturo. I was an emotional train wreck after what I had witnessed. I had nothing left.
My elbows were braced on my knees as my head bent forward. My hair hung as a curtain over my tear-stained face. Long fingers pushed my hair aside and began to press tenderly into the base of my neck. I let my dry, exhausted eyes close.
“He’s a fool,” Lansing grumbled again. “I’d never let you go,” he whispered.
My head shot up at his comment and I twisted to look over my shoulder at him. My hair draped to the other shoulder, his hands froze on my neck.
“If I were Arturo…I’d never let you go,” he said instantly to clarify. I sat up straighter and turned to face him. His hand slid down my back and rested at the base of me on the couch.
“What about Lila?” I asked, my voice hoarse from crying. I glanced at him then looked away.
“I love Lila,” he said. His voice held conviction. I was forced to return my eyes to his.
“I have no secrets from her. I sent her a text the second we hit the cab.” His voice had an edge to it, as if he needed to shield himself. As if telling me what he did, protected him.
In warning, I responded. “Lansing, Lila has become my friend.”
His hand moved away from the base of me and dragged into his own lap. He remained still, pressed into the back of the couch. I twisted so we were face to face.
“I know that. She’s a strong woman. She’s put on a brave face, and I will do nothing to destroy the courage she has to face me. Us,” he said, signaling between our two bodies.
“There is no us,” I said.
“I know that, too,” he snapped, questioning with his eyes.
We remained quiet. The soft hum of traffic was a reminder that Paris was outside his window. The room had a hotel silence to it, with only the clunk of the heater to fill the space.
“You’re always going to be the girl that got away,” he said softly, looking down at his hands. His fingers spread wide then sprang together as they rested on his jean covered thighs.
“I’m always going to love Arturo,” I responded. He looked at me in surprise, his blue eyes softened. He smirked.
“I know that, too,” he said, nodding his head. “I know.”
I paced my hotel penthouse. I had gotten a larger suite as Morte would be with us one night, before he was to meet Ana for the next two. Morte immediately went to his room. Tristan sat on my couch, watching me forge a path in the rug. Perkins went off in search of Lansing. He hadn’t answered his phone. He hadn’t responded to my text. Neither had Guinevere.
It seemed like hours had passed since I left the concert hall. After Guinie’s disappearance, I exited the dressing room. I didn’t know where I was going or have a plan for how I was going to search for her. I only knew I couldn’t stay in the room another second and wait for her.
Kaye tried to stop me, but I’d had enough from him. I was tired of him telling us what to do, where to be, how to act. It was his job to manage, not control. We were entertaining, but we were miserable. Perkins missed his wife and new babies. His fear of turning into his father, the famous Al
an Vale, was a palpable vibe coming off him. Yet, it was an impossible thought as he wasn’t even remotely like the womanizing, drug-doing musician, who died in a mysterious hotel room. Tristan initially had Ireland with him for two weeks, but that did nothing to subdue the ache he had for his new bride. Allora had travelled to LA for the weekend with Canyon. That was a month ago. My men were suffering from separation.
Lansing, on the other hand, I couldn’t think of Lansing Lotte. I saw red and wanted to spit fire. If people saw them leave together, it would add fuel to the already glowing embers of rumor that followed us wherever we went. Fans commented. Media gossiped. People talked. It was none of their damn business, and yet the things they said. It was all the more reason why I didn’t want us to be doing the tour. It was too much too soon.
I stopped pacing and threw myself onto the couch near Tristan. Letting my head fall back, I rubbed my hand vigorously over my face. I was tired. I was drinking heavily again. I was staying up late to accommodate the time zones to have five minutes of hearing her voice. The bottom line was I missed Guinevere. I felt myself drifting, like a boat on the water¸ without her.
My head jerked up as the door to my suite opened. No one had a key, or so I thought until Perkins stood with Lansing next to him.
“Where is she?” I demanded as I stood and paced around the sofa. Blue eyes speared me. We were almost face-to-face when he replied, “She’s with me.”
My gut reaction forced my right hand to rise, swing, and miss. There was neither the strength it once had, nor the hand for impact. Not to mention, Lansing stepped back and Perkins stepped forward.
“Not like this,” the big drummer said, catching my wrist in his fist.
“What the fuck did you do with her?” I yelled around Perkins at Lansing. “What the hell did you say?”
“Me? You asshole,” Lansing said calmly in response, shaking his head. “It’s what you said. What you did, this time.” His arms crossed, and the t-shirt rose to display the large tattoo of his bicep. A short sword emblazed with flowers, lilies, fleur de lis actually. A moon and a star were on hilt and point. His bicep flinched under my stare. He didn’t need Perkins. He was strong enough to defend himself.