by L. B. Dunbar
“I did,” she smiled, lazily stroking a finger down my cheek. “I called you as soon as I found out.”
I stared down at her.
“And I came to you as soon as I heard.”
It was true. We had played the concert that night and took an overnight flight home. It had been almost thirty hours of pure adrenaline. The Nights rode home in haste for the holidays and their family.
“What about the tour?” she said, continuing to trace over my face.
“We have forty-eight hours until our flight.” It was all we could spare. Two days for the holidays. We flew out on Christmas night to return to Europe then head to Australia for the New Year’s Eve concert. After that, we were home free.
“Then we can’t waste a second,” she whispered, reaching up for me with her mouth and starting her tender attack all over again.
Morte had been with Ingrid and we went to her home to celebrate Christmas dinner. He turned out to be the most difficult part of that brief trip. I’d tried to spoil him, tried to make up for lost gifts, lost time. Unfortunately, Morte didn’t seem to appreciate my effort. He sat amongst the scattered presents and crumbled wrapping paper to stare at each item in turn. Finally, he looked up at me. His expression was questionable. I couldn’t read it.
“Why did you give all this to me?” he asked.
“I wanted you to have a great Christmas,” I replied honestly. He continued to stare.
“Morte, is there something you don’t like?” Guinie asked hesitantly. I noticed her eyes were fixated on Morte. She was trying to read him, as well. Ingrid was also present, but she remained silent.
“I like them all fine. I just don’t understand why you gave me so much.” His tone was surprising. It was almost angry. He glared at me.
“I…” I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d told him the truth. I was trying to be kind and give him a nice holiday.
“We have another present,” I began but Guinie warned me, and Ingrid suggested now might not be the appropriate time. Ignoring Ingrid, there was something in Guinie’s tone that told me not to say what I was about to share. I didn’t heed her warning. She’d mentioned that she hadn’t said anything to Morte. She was waiting for me to tell him. Her eyes focused on mine, concern and caution in them. I carried on.
“Guinie and I are going to have a baby. You’re going to be a big brother,” I expressed cheerfully. A brother was something I hadn’t had until the band. Morte was going to have one so much younger, when it was important.
“I hate you,” he blurted, standing awkwardly from the floor. He faced me with fisted hands. Green eyes glared at me. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t understand why he was so upset. He turned on Guinevere.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he snapped, tears coming to his eyes.
Guinie stood from the couch we shared and approached Morte. Reaching out for him, he swatted her hand away. I stood as well, while Guinie attempted to embrace Morte a second time, telling him she was sorry. That’s when he went too far. Morte pushed Guinie in the stomach. In her surprise, she faltered back into me. I quickly spun her.
“Are you all right?”
Her hands were braced over her abdomen. She was nodding, while tears filled her eyes.
“I’m not hurt,” she whispered. “I’m not hurt.” The pain was in her voice, from her heart, but not Morte’s physical touch.
“That’s it,” I growled, releasing Guinie, and grabbing Morte by his arms. Ingrid said my name in warning.
“What’s the problem?” I bit at Morte.
“She started a group for girls. Girls! And I’m not allowed to join.” It seemed like the silliest argument to me. I’d already known that Guinie had been extra busy with the production of her own CD, practices with the 4Gs, and starting her new project, not to mention, she was pregnant.
“I’m sorry, Morte,” she said weakly. “I know I’ve been a bit preoccupied.” She glanced up at me. She had been unavailable to him in order to fill her mind and not think of me. It wasn’t really her responsibility to care for Morte. She’d taken it on herself. Guilt was written on her face, but she didn’t deserve it. She shouldn’t feel remorse.
“This isn’t Guinie’s fault. You’re mad at me, not her,” I argued.
“I am mad at you,” he yelled. “You’re never here. You make promises you don’t keep. And…and…and now you’re going to do it again.” His voice continued to rise as he motioned at Guinie. It occurred to me that Morte loved Guinie in a manner more than child to adult. He loved her, plain and simple. His fear for her, his protection of her had been repeated, time and time again. His upset could only be that he was afraid I’d do to another child what I’d done to him. He was concerned I’d leave Guinie behind, like I had left Ana. The situations were beyond opposite to each other, yet incomprehensible to a child.
“I’m sorry, Morte,” I said, loosening my hold on him. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to do better.” He ignored my plea.
“Everyone’s always saying they’re sorry. It’s only words.” His whine was a solid argument. His comment was wise beyond his nine years. Morte had been hurt beyond my repair, and for that, the guilt that ate at me should have been the death of me.
That night I left Morte at Ingrid’s home. Guinie and she both argued that Morte needed time, which I didn’t have yet. I was down to hours, not days, before I had to return to Europe and finish the tour.
Leaving Guinie again seemed almost impossible. Guinie and I continued to share the physical presents of our bodies. We’d hardly talked. We let out bodies speak. We were casual conversation, heated argument, and breathless laughter. We did not use words. Fingers mimed the alphabet. Hands spelled out the meaning. Body parts sang phrases.
I should have worried that literal words did not cross our lips. My parting gift to her was penetrating to the core. I wanted no doubt in her that I would return, and I would be hers alone. She would be mine. My Once. My Future.
The Nights would have no Boxing Day celebration that year. We would be on a stage in a room of ten thousand strangers. We were a brave front as we partied, but our hearts were across an ocean. For each of us, our once and future lay away from us that night, and our somber cheers to health and home were privately heartfelt. The Nights were far from performers that night. We were men on a mission to return home. The week passed with another concert then the grand finale of New Year’s Eve. Sydney, Australia was fourteen hours ahead of New York City. The twenty-one hour flight home would not get Perkins there in time for his first year anniversary. He was hoping to arrive before the stroke of midnight Eastern Time.
His silent temper stewed as we left the concert and headed directly to the airport. There was no afterparty for us. The Nights were done. Kaye was angry, but he wasn’t the man suffering at heart. I reminded him that he wanted to step back from being our manager. That was one of his arguments to run Camelot Records. He wanted freedom to use his skills to break ground with other groups, including the 4Gs, as one of many new projects. Here was his freedom.
We slept if we could on that flight home. Each of us had our minds in other places: Perkins anniversary; Tristan’s coming child; Lansing on a wedding the coming spring; and me…I just wanted to get home to my girl.
I was exhausted as I crawled into a warm bed on a cold January night and wrapped myself around Guinevere. I felt her smile as she nuzzled into me. My body reacted to her presence, but I didn’t have much energy.
“I’m tired, so tired. But I need you, Guinie. I need to be inside you and know it’s real. You’re really in my bed, I’m really holding you, and our future is about to happen.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and strung a leg over my hip, opening up to me. Our cores met, but it wasn’t close enough.
“I’m going to apologize in advance. I’m not going to last long, but I need you, Guinie.” My hand slipped up her hip. Covering my hand, she removed her panties with the guidance of hers over mine. Sliding on top of me, I slipped into her. We groan
ed collectively at the sudden invasion without foreplay. She was ready for me, regardless. She rocked gently and the build up came quickly. My hand slipped off her hip as she took control to comfort me, assure me.
“I’m content to hold you in me,” she whispered into my neck. “But hold me tighter, Arturo. Hold me tighter,” she breathed. Wrapping my arms around her, I rolled us over and slammed into her, letting her know, I would never let her go again.
It seemed like we’d hardly been asleep when the call came through. Tristan and Ireland had their baby. We’d missed a text to say they were headed to the hospital. As Ireland was holding off as long as she could for Tristan to get home, she was ready to have the baby almost the instant she hit the hospital emergency room. A tiny girl of six pounds graced the world a few days early. Ivy Rose Lyons was the symbol that Tristan and Ireland were entwined forever.
Arturo was more attentive compared to the night before. He beamed as he praised our potential child.
“We’re going to be them,” he said, as he kissed my neck and pulled up my t-shirt. His hand splayed over my tiny bump. He released my lips and headed for that swell. He kissed a pattern over my skin then drew a heart.
“Hello, baby,” he said to my stomach. I laughed gently.
“We’re waiting for you,” he said, as he kissed my stomach again. “But you take your time,” he warned, “because I have plans for your momma first.” His mouth returned to my skin and travelled directly to where his plans were to begin. His lips hit my ready center and I stifled the scream. I came fast. Another week of pent up frustration and pregnancy hormones, and the release was almost immediate. He entered me as I rode the last wave, only to start the tide again. I crashed as he did after entering me, and felt for the moment, all was right with the world.
Later that day we strolled through Central Park, after a visit to the hospital to congratulate Tristan and Ireland. It was a cold lazy winter day. The air was crisp but refreshing. Arturo said he needed it after so many hours on a plane, then exhausted from the return. My arm was looped through his as we were covered from head to toe for the cold. My thoughts wandered to the difference between the present and our first walk. I didn’t know him then. I knew of him. A rock star, destined for great things, but uncertain he wanted them. A man with a convoluted past of secrets and mystery, until all was revealed by the time he was twenty-one: too young to take on the world, too big in the music industry not to keep forging forward. I never could have predicted we’d end up back here.
Our own history had been less than straight. A whirlwind romance, some might say. Love at first sight, Arturo claimed. Engaged quickly, separated beyond our control. Mistakes made, promises broken, we seemed to return to each other, despite all those decisions that kept us apart. Little Fleur would say it was Destiny. She tried to explain to me once that Destiny was the girl who brought Lansing and Lila together, until Lila clarified that Fleur believed a fellow pre-schooler named Destiny was the cause of Lansing and Lila fitting together.
Some might say it was Fate: A Love that had loved in the past and would love again in the future. We’d been down the bumpy road in a past time, and Fate was returning us to each other until we got it right. There was a movie like that. Time was set to repeat until the characters did things the correct way. Would Arturo and I get it right this time? We were on chance number three, which Perkins claimed was a lucky number. His third time seeing Hollister, he kept the girl, determined to never let her get away from him again.
We weren’t innocent like Perkins had been, though. We were human. We’d made mistakes, poor choices, and wrong decisions, but I believed if we just kept moving forward, we could overrule the past. Tristan believed that. He’d let his past define him, but not control him. His anger at his uncle certainly caused him to disbelieve in love, but his playfulness did not let it destroy the hope that love would win someday. Love would overrule everything.
Arturo was a king. Royalty in the rock industry, and ruling was his destiny. Mure Linn had said it. He’d been groomed to overcome conflict and take his rightful position in many places. Owner of a billion dollar real estate company. President of Camelot Records. Wizard at guitar until the loss of his hand. Owner of my heart. Despite Mure’s accusation that I would end that rule, I believed I wouldn’t have to be the finish of Arturo, but the start of something new. Together, we would rewrite history and tell a different tale. This one would have a happier ending.
Were we perfect? Not a chance. We still had an angry Morte, who was going to try us through his teenage years. We had a baby on the way that would change many things for us. Most of all, the future of The Nights was in question.
“Is the band done?” Lace had asked me one day while the 4Gs practiced. Kaye Sirs had made it sound that way to her and she doted on his every word.
“Nope,” Arturo had told me. “Just not going to quest the world for happiness. We know we can find it a little closer to home.”
It would be better that way. Arturo and I needed time to rebuild. We were flammable material when we were together, but we also needed to make certain the fire could glow without burning.
He stopped our walk and motioned for us to sit on a park bench. It was the same one we sat on that first day, as I watched a family of ducks on parade. The river streamed before us, lost in a fine mist of cold air over the warm stream. The winter temps kept all wildlife away from the park today.
“What’s our plan, Guinie?” he said to me. I turned to him. My arm still looped through his, but my hand unable to hold his with my thick mitten. I removed it and removed the pin that held closed the end of his sleeve. My hand caressed the curve of his wrist. Arturo was growing in skill on his guitar with the 3D attachment. He was also learning to use a metallic hand, like an advanced claw. It gave him more mobility with its new age technology. I continued to rub his damaged skin.
“What do you want it to be?” I asked softly, afraid for a moment that his future would not match mine despite the baby.
“I want us to love each other, hold tight, despite anything,” he said, tugging his wrist from me and wrapping his arm around me. I curled into his chest, letting my head rest on his shoulder.
“Think we’ll make it?” I laughed nervously. We had a lot ahead of us.
“You’re my once, Guinevere. I told you that. You’re the one time I plan to love, long and hard. No matter what comes our way, you’re also my future. Our love will last centuries.” His one hand crossed my body and rested on the thickness of my winter coat over my protruding stomach. No matter what was to come our way, we would be linked together forever. Our blood had crossed. Our hearts had linked. Our story would be retold for centuries.
Loose ends: In the Arthurian tradition, Merlin disappears. He is captured by the woman he loves, who hides him away in a cave, where he supposedly spends the remainder of his life. As there have been numerous requests for Mure Linn to have a story, I’m leaving him mysteriously gone for the time being. As for Ana LeFaye, the Morgana LeFaye of classic King Arthur, she disappears to reappear at the end of Arthur’s reign and carry him off after his death. I have no intention of killing off characters, so Ana simply needed to step back for now. Finally, Morte, poor innocent Morte, has a ton of baggage, and that just leaves him open for a great story in the future.
I can truly say I LOVED writing this series. The research involved and the modernized twist was just plain fun to create and write. While not everyone is a traditional King Arthur fan, I do hope you’ve enjoyed this fan-fiction. Who doesn’t love a rock star, anyway? If King Arthur lived today, he’d be a rock star.
I owe a kingdom worth of gratitude to three individuals who have been loyal subjects: Kari Ayasha, Cover to Cover Designs, for making gorgeous covers that portrayed the character of The Nights and Guinevere; Brenda Wright, Formatting Done Wright, for her patience and skill at making the inside beautiful, too; and Karen Hrdlicka, for her extraordinaire editing and faithful friendship. You’re the Lansing to my Artur
o.
A few other ladies of the court deserve my gratitude: Ella, Christie, Annie, Patti, and Karen for amazing beta skills. Thank you for the time and patience to read this work. To all the ladies in Novel Love Notes and The Nights, thank you for hanging out with me and the band. We have a blast with you. To Sylvia Schneider, just for your friendship, thank you.
Finally to my immediate family, much love for their support and understanding, that this quest has been a dream come true.
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This can’t be a series about a band with out a playlist, and I love when books have them.
Here’s the list for Guinevere and Arturo
“Elderly Woma Behind the Counter” – Pearl Jam
“Creep” – Stone Temple Pilots
“Afraid” – The Neighborhood
“What Kind of Man” – Florence + The Machine
“Maps” – Maroon 5
“Cigarette Daydreams” – Cage the Elephant
“Something From Nothing” – Foo Fighters
“R U Mine?” – Arctic Monkeys
“Shatter Me (feat. Lzzy Hale)” – Lindsey Sterling
“Not Strong Enough (feat. Brent Smith)” – Apocalyptica
“Nothing Else Matters” – Apocalyptica
“Believe” – Mumford & Sons
“Black Hole Sun” – Soundgarden
“Centuries” – Fall Out Boy
“Prayer in C (Robin Schulz Radio Edit)” – Robin Schulz & Lilly Wood & The Prick