The Legend of Arturo King

by L. B. Dunbar

  “I just don’t want…”

  “Dad, I’m ready to…”

  I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I sucked in a breath as my words were interrupted and I didn’t seem able to let the air back out. I was almost choking.

  I immediately stood and faced my interrupter, only to find myself staring into the blue eyes of the Round Table beauty. The muse who haunted my dreams. Did she just say Dad?

  My thoughts muddled together as I tried to catch that much-needed air. I turned my head between Leo DeGrance and his obvious daughter before she finished her sentence.

  “...to take that walk,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet. Flip-flops exposed her toes. I took a moment to take in the rest of her. Skinny jeans, a tank top covered by an unzipped sweatshirt. Long hair pulled into a ponytail. Even without the sensual dress, I recognized her body, but I needed a second glance at those eyes that were avoiding my gaze.

  Leo DeGrance had stood as well at the entrance of his daughter, and he now rounded the low table between us men. He approached her, whispered something in her ear, and she gasped without making a sound as her eyes met mine for a brief moment before glaring at her painted toes. Leo spoke to the room.

  “I promised my daughter a walk in the park this morning until you gentlemen arrived,” he laughed.

  “A walk? What is she, a dog?” Kaye mumbled under his breath.

  I narrowed my eyes as I glared at my brother’s unnecessary comment before looking in the direction of Leo in hopes he had not heard the words. Leo had not. Guinevere had.

  Those bright-blue eyes that I wanted a second glance at were now shards of ice in my direction.

  I swallowed hard.

  “You remember my daughter, Arturo? Guinevere. Guinie,” he emphasized.

  “Of course,” I replied politely although I hadn’t remembered her. Not this version of her, at least.

  “Perhaps, Arturo, you could get my daughter out of the house for a while and Kaye and I will work on what we were discussing a few moments ago.”

  Guinie’s mouth dropped open in shock behind her father’s back.

  “A spin around the park for an hour or so?” Leo added and returned his gaze to his daughter, his tone carrying a sound of concern and encouragement.

  “What? Am I five?” she tried to laugh as she muttered to her father, but I noticed again that there was no heart in her attempted giggle.

  “No. But like we just discussed in your room, you need some fresh air.” He tried to make his voice sound cheerful.

  Guinevere, Guinie, scowled at her father as he turned away from her again. Leo hadn’t noticed. I had.

  “I’m sure Mr. King has other things to do with his precious time than escort me through the park. How will it look for his reputation?” she hissed softly.

  “What does that mean?” Kaye immediately chimed in, more vocally this time.

  “I mean no disrespect. I just meant that a famous rock star hardly has time to wander the park.”

  I could sense she was joking, and yet again I noticed there was no mirth in what she said. She doesn’t like me.

  “I think a walk in the park might be just what Arturo needs as well right now,” Leo insisted and looked directly at me. Leo was really pushing this idea and I was suddenly nervous to be alone with his daughter. It seemed obvious she didn’t want to be with me either.

  I got the hint, though. I wasn’t helping in these negotiations regarding my mother and her potential concert fundraiser. Leo wanted me out of the way, and I really did want to get out of this office. A walk it was then.

  “It would be my pleasure to escort you through the park.”

  “As I’m sure you have knowledge of escorts, I am hardly the type that needs escorting.”

  Phew. She is tough, I thought. My tongue couldn’t hold back the next retort.

  “Maybe you’re the type that does need an escort?” I winked at her.

  Her face went blank and I knew instantly that I had insulted her deeper than I intended. I wasn’t good at banter when I was sober, or in the daylight.

  This whole interchange was being watched by Leo DeGrance, as if he was at a tennis match. He looked at his daughter, he looked at me. He looked back at his daughter again. A slow smile crept across his aging face before he spoke as if to two errant children.

  “A walk sounds perfect. For the both of you.”

  Guinevere

  Walking through Central Park with a famous musician on a beautiful late-May afternoon sounded like a really romantic gesture. Unless that famous musician is Arturo King, and you are Guinevere DeGrance, I thought. After my father’s not-so-subtle directive to leave, Arturo yanked his jacket off the back of the chair, forcefully shoving his arms into it as he marched toward the exit of Dad’s office. He stopped abruptly at the door, though, and stepped aside to allow me to lead the way.

  “Ladies first,” he muttered in my direction, not making eye contact with me. As I did lead the way to the front door of our home, I stopped to grab my bag, which I had already placed in the entry hall thinking I was leaving with my father. I glanced at myself in the entryway mirror to give a shocked gasp at the sudden change in Arturo’s appearance as it reflected back at me. The jacket already covered his signature tattoos on each arm. He had pulled a baseball cap from somewhere to cover his hair, hiked up his collar to cover the woven material that adorned his neck, and placed aviator glasses on his face to cover those piercing eyes. Those eyes that did link with mine during the concert a week ago.

  The sensation of his gaze in my father’s office was almost my undoing. In an instant, I felt his eyes climb my body and I just knew he had connected with me during that concert. If only for a brief moment, he had looked at me as if he wanted to jump inside me and live there forever, and I felt that feeling crawl over my skin to raise goose bumps everywhere. It was a chill I hoped he couldn’t see as it covered me, and I shivered. When my father suggested I walk with Arturo instead of him, I gasped, silently. I just knew I couldn’t be physically near Arturo without acting like a teenage crusher.

  I continued my study of his appearance. He wasn’t dressed like one of those skinny jeans, rock star wannabes, but in a ripped knee, slightly loose-fit jeans and a gray T-shirt that hugged his tight abs. He looked young, college co-ed young, and nothing vaguely like a famous rock star. Either way, I was nervous to be alone with him. He would think I was a foolish groupie if he caught me oogling his body.

  I tried to recover from my audible gasp by looking in my oversize bag as if searching for something.

  “You might want a pair of sunglasses as well,” he muttered to me and I looked up to meet his gaze in the mirror, or what I thought might be his gaze, as the aviators hid his eyes well. Of course he not only wanted to disguise himself, but he also would not want to be seen with someone like me if he did get recognized. I quickly found my own glasses, placed them over my eyes, and freshened up my light lipstick, but I had that vague sensation again of Arturo King undressing me as I leaned forward over the low table below the mirror to apply the gloss quickly. For a moment I almost imagined a soft caress sliding over my ass, skimming my back and twisting into my hair. Before my imagination got the best of me, I pulled back from the mirror and slammed into Arturo, who was standing too close to me.

  “Ouch,” he grumbled as his glasses went askew on his face.

  My head had collided with his nose.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I stumbled on my own feet as I twisted around to face him. He had stepped back and was bent over slightly with his hand covering his nose.

  “I think you broke it,” he cursed with a nasally sound.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Let me look.” I pushed on his biceps gently, forcing him to his full height. Inches separated us as I stared at his muscular hand that covered his nose. I placed my fingers over the back of his and immediately noticed the difference. Mine were pale and petite compared to his.

  “Let me look,” I spoke
quietly as I gently tugged his hand away from his nose.

  “No way. Don’t touch it,” he said as I raised my other hand as if to touch him.

  “I said ‘look,’ you baby, not touch.” Oh my God, did I just talk back to Arturo King?

  “Look, baby, your touch might have just broken my nose.”

  I examined his face. It was still perfect. My eyes traced his nose, running down the defined slope. At the end, of course, was the perfect Cupid’s bow of his mouth, his lips reddened, I was sure from overuse in kissing, but I also knew those lips aided in producing one of the most sensual sounds I’d ever heard. His voice. As I stared, his lips suddenly twisted into a crooked smile and I knew I had been caught practically salivating over the idea of those lips on mine.

  “You’re fine,” I muttered as I stepped back out of his space. In my concentration on his mouth, I hadn’t noticed that he had slipped a hand around my lower back, holding me as if he were about to dance with me. I felt the pressure of his hand the moment I moved away as he pulled his arm forward at the same time. For a moment we stood connected by his touch and I leaned into him, brushing my hands across his chest. I let them slip slowly down the front of him to keep my balance and stopped at the waist of his jeans. I couldn’t explain why I did it and when I looked up at his face, I couldn’t see his eyes through the dark glasses. I pulled away immediately.

  “Let’s just go.” My voice sounded angry as I yanked the front door with a little too much force in my embarrassment, and added to that embarrassment by stumbling over a step that I had walked down for twenty-one years.

  We slowly strolled in silence down the ancient tree-lined streets of older New York City. The homes were antiquated, but restored to their original glory and modernized inside with every amenity. We crossed several streets before reaching an entrance to the park. The silence was awkward, even more awkward than bumping into his nose, getting caught staring at his mouth, caressing his chest, or tripping over my own front stoop. Then again, maybe it was awkward because of all those things.

  I was full of grace, normally, poised and mannered. I understood etiquette and knew the proper fork to use, but when it came to the opposite sex I had limited experience. I had kissed a few boys before and been asked to social dances. I had even let someone feel me up and I had felt him over our clothes, but other than that my experience was almost none. Except for one. A boy who was now a distant memory. I didn’t allow myself to remember, and I continued to walk in awkward silence next to Arturo. I knew how to talk to the older gentlemen friends of my father, and I knew what to ask of the women who accompanied them to events, but I did not know what to say to Arturo King.

  Thankfully he broke the silence.

  “Your father mentioned that you recently graduated from college. Where did you go?”

  “New York Metropolitan Music College.”

  “Really?” He truly sounded surprised as we walked next to each other. He had his hands in his front jean pockets while I made fists in my jacket pockets. I thought it was safer for me to keep my hands contained.

  “I am a trained musician.”

  “You are? In what?”

  “Cello.”

  He laughed. I expected it.

  “What?” I defensively retorted.

  “Cello? I mean. Cello. Wow, the cello.”

  “What does that mean? Wow?”

  “Well, I’m trying to process Leo DeGrance’s daughter playing a cello. Not the string instrument I’d expect from Leo’s kid.”

  “Yeah. Leo DeGrance’s daughter,” I snorted. “There might be a lot you don’t expect from his daughter.”

  His voice shifted when he spoke next.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just, Leo DeGrance and guitar almost seem to go hand in hand. The cello just seems so … I don’t know…”

  “Refined? Classic? Restrained? Uptight?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. Then he looked at me. “No. I mean, no.”

  Too late. I’d known the answers all along. The cello did carry a stigmatism with it that I had long endured and not been embarrassed by. It was a refined instrument, beautiful and sad in its purity. Classic was its very nature, as it evolved from original instruments. Restraint came from the sorrowful, torturous sound of playing those strings, but it often surprised people that the sound could be anything but uptight if they only gave it a chance.

  “I get it,” I responded to him. “It’s not your thing.”

  I paused before plowing forward with uncontrolled words.

  “But just because it’s different, does that mean it’s somehow unworthy? And just because it’s classic, does it mean it’s boring? Uptight? Because something is beautiful in its own right, does that make it unattractive because it isn’t flashing, hey look at me, I make a lot of noise?”

  “You think I make a lot of noise?”

  “I didn’t say that, but you do play the guitar.”

  “You think my music is just noise?”

  “I didn’t say that either. Besides, I don’t listen to you for the guitar.”

  “You listen to my music?”

  I immediately heard his tone change from exasperation to flirtation.

  “Well, not your music. The band’s music. As a whole. Collectively.”

  A smile filled his voice as he stopped me with, “I get it.”

  We continued walking for a few more minutes before he paused at a coffee stand.

  “Want one?”

  “No thanks, I don’t drink coffee.”

  He pointed to a bench for us to sit at while he sipped his hot drink. The air was warm, but summer had not arrived quite yet. He was sitting close to me, though. Our thighs almost touched and it added to the warmth, making me almost hot in the bright sunshine. An unfamiliar pulse throbbed low and I shifted on the bench as I stared off at the pond in front of us, letting my mind wander. A family of ducks was slowly skimming across the water with not a care in the world where they were going or what they were doing. A future filled with finding bread from generous park goers.

  “Where’d you go?” He nudged me with his shoulder.

  “What?” I looked at him. He was a vision of casual as well. Legs outstretched, ankles crossed, he balanced the coffee on his nonexistent waist.

  “I asked you a question, and you were looking off at that pond like you wanted to dive in. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m sorry, what did you ask?”

  He looked like he wanted to ask more, but he held back and repeated what must have been his initial question.

  “So what about school? Besides the cello? Whatcha major in?” He drawled the last part as if it was a pick-up line. It is a pick-up line.

  “Cello,” I laughed.

  He shook his head and I explained.

  “I wanted to play for the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra. I feel like I’ve trained my whole life for that one dream.” I paused then added, “But I didn’t make the cut.” I shrugged. “And before you say you can’t imagine Leo DeGrance’s daughter not making the cut, let me just say again. She didn’t.” My voice had grown more defensive than I intended and I felt the tension in my shoulders as I fisted my hands in my sweatshirt pockets.

  “I wasn’t going to say that.” He paused, but I knew he was lying. “I was going to say that’s too bad. But that’s also a terrible thing to say. Nothing takes away the disappointment of not getting what you want.”

  I blinked as I looked at him and felt my shoulders relax. Our arms were touching now and I lost my concentration. I didn’t know how to respond to what Arturo said and he was the one who now looked thoughtfully at the ducks.

  “Walk?” He motioned with his head and we stood at the same time as if connected to continue.

  “So what’s your plan now?” he asked.

  What was my plan now? I repeated in my head.

  “I have no idea,” I gave as a breathy reply. “What does one do when they are rejected in such a way?”

 
“I would write a song.”

  I laughed.

  “What’s so funny about that?”

  “Nothing,” I giggled, “only you’re Arturo King. You’d write the song of rejection and then get accepted a million times over. Making more. Doing more, than you initially intended with that disappointment.”

  “So?” He smiled.

  “So? Like I said, you’re Arturo King.”

  “Are you saying it would only be famous because I wrote it and I’m well known?”

  “Didn’t you say it was hard to imagine Leo DeGrance’s kid playing a cello?”

  “Touché, a name’s a name, huh?”

  “Well, unless you’re Guinevere DeGrance.”

  “What do you mean?” He pinched his eyebrows as he frowned.

  “Then it isn’t your name. It’s your father’s name. You aren’t Guinevere DeGrance. You are Leo DeGrance’s daughter.”

  We were silent for a moment as we began to cross a bridge.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. Leo is an amazing man and he’s done a lot for me personally, as well as the band.” Arturo sounded truly apologetic.

  “I know. He’s a great man.” I didn’t mean it to sound snotty. I didn’t mean it ungraciously. He was my father, after all. I felt Arturo watching me, but I didn’t return his stare.

  “Maybe we should get back,” he finally said to the water flowing underneath us.

  “Of course,” I sighed with disappointment.

  Arturo

  I knew what she was saying. A name wasn’t just your name. I wanted anything other than to be recognized as Locke Uther’s son, especially if anyone ever found out the way I was conceived. I also wasn’t sure I wanted anything to do with the family business, a business that I inherited one-hundred percent at the age of twenty-one years old.

  When I turned twenty-one, I inherited Pendragon Empire. The entire multi-billion dollar company. Unfortunately for me, I had no business background. I finished college with barely passable grades since my focus had been solely on building the reputation of the band as a serious musical force. I had been fighting the stigma of being Ingrid Tintagel’s long-lost child since I was eighteen. I didn’t know who my father had been until I was twenty-one, but I didn’t have the chance to meet him. While Ingrid was concerned that Locke would try to manipulate me into joining the family business and become like him, he died before I could meet him.