by L. B. Dunbar
The Quest of Perkins Vale
L.B. Dunbar
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© 2015 Laura Dunbar
Cover Design – Kari Ayasha/Cover to Cover Designs
Format – Brenda Wright – formatting done wright
Edit – Karen Hrdlicka/Barren Acres Editing
Other Books by L.B. Dunbar
Sensations Collection
Sound Advice
Taste Test
Fragrance Free
Touch Screen
Sight Words
Legendary Rock Stars Series
The Legend of Arturo King
The Story of Lansing Lotte
The Quest of Perkins Vale
The Truth of Tristan Lyons (2015)
Inspiration…
I am saving myself for my wife,
And she is saving herself for me,
And I know I love her.
Even though we haven’t met yet,
she loves me, too.
The night of the concert…
[Perkins]
Arturo King and I rode side by side. The Ducati Monster 1200 screamed under me while Arturo steered Lansing’s red Streetfigher 848. We raced through the dark night down the short, dimly lit avenue outside The Round Table, taking a quick left in unison to be joined by two other bikes. At first, I thought it was Mel Agent or someone who worked for Mel. Not putting it past the asshole, as he had already tried to kidnap Guinevere DeGrance, Arturo’s fiancée, almost a month ago. The adrenaline rushed through my body, vibrating with anger. Mel had slipped a date rape drug into Guinie’s drink and hiked her back to his apartment, in hopes of taking advantage of her.
Firmly pulling down on the throttle, I sensed Mel’s intentions were the same again tonight toward her: the girl on the back of my bike. The girl with her small hands gripping the back of my t-shirt under my leather jacket, refusing to wrap her arms around me, despite the fact her legs were hugging my thick thighs from behind. I would have felt safer for her if she had a better hold on me, securing her arms around me, but it was bad enough I forced her out of The Round Table with me.
Glancing at Arturo to my right, he signaled with his head to turn ahead. We took the next corner quickly, but the bikes behind us kept an even pace. They were close, but not too close. Yet. Arturo King was one of my best friends. He’d befriended me when few others did in those woods around Lake Avalon. He’d been the one to offer me a place in the band. He was the one who never laughed at my awkwardness. He seemed to understand who I was and who I wanted to be. I was indebted to the lead singer and songwriter of our band, The Nights, for many things. Now, I owed him one more.
He’d helped me get away, with the girl.
We cornered a turn again at the third left; not bothering to downshift to slow, and immediately sped through the alley. Arturo hit the throttle, making the engine of Lansing’s bike scream down the narrow space, clipping a trashcan to spill behind us, knowing that the two bikes were truly following us. The sound of a racing engine and the crash of tin cans on cement made a ruckus in the otherwise quiet area. I sensed Arturo’s plan to outrun our followers, and I kept a steady pace next to my partner. We barely downshifted as we reached the first crossroad off the alley, zipping across the, thankfully, abandoned street, with little more than a glance left or right. The girl finally slid her hands around my abs. For a brief second, I thought her hands might have lingered as they slipped around me, feeling the hardness of my stomach. Her palms were flat for a moment, and then she gripped my dark t-shirt in her small fists again as we bumped out into another cross street.
“They’re after me,” she yelled over the roar of the fierce engine.
I couldn’t be positive she was right, but I didn’t doubt it either. If these were Mel’s men, they wouldn’t stop until they got what Mel wanted. If he wanted the girl, he would do anything to get her.
“Drop me off,” she yelled.
Fuck no. I wouldn’t lose her again.
In a last minute decision, we turned again with Arturo twisting his neck to look behind us as we raced toward the thoroughfare near Central Park. Giving a quick nod to me, I looked over my shoulder, as well, to see the first biker skitter into the street before correcting himself. We took one more turn and I was convinced we might lose our pursuers. We hit the larger boulevard and collectively cranked our respective throttles, speeding over eighty miles per hour through the steady crowded New York City streets. Within seconds, I heard the sound of the approaching motorcycles.
“They’re gaining on us,” the girl yelled into my ear.
I glanced at Arturo again, who nodded his head for us to separate. I barely noticed that Arturo slowed slightly as if allowing me time to speed ahead and save the girl.
Continuing through the late night traffic, I downshifted to a more legal speed, as I noticed the other motorcycles followed Arturo. They hadn’t wanted the girl, after all, and were probably paparazzi of some type. Arturo King was good at dodging them, so I had faith in my fellow bandmate that he’d outrun the guys chasing behind. I turned the Ducati off the boulevard around Central Park, moments after our separation from Arturo, and headed toward a less reputable part of the city. The girl behind me had grown quiet after we separated from Arturo. If it weren’t for the solidness of her pressed against my back, I might have thought I was alone.
I sped the large bike down a side street that had the street sign stolen by some kids a week or two ago. On the right were several two-story buildings that housed some type of daytime business; the left side was an expanse of several low buildings, once warehouses, along the river’s dwindling bank. I didn’t bother to know what the business across the street from my building did during the day. Something that required people from nine to five was all I knew. But on my side of the street, one warehouse had been converted into a pet shelter. The other building was vacant. Then, there was my building in between.
I punched in a code to open the service-garage-looking door, with blackened windows, and rode the Ducati into the large industrial space. It was a statement of automotive art inside this garage. Pristine motorcycle parts dangled from the ceiling near a large black Cadillac SUV. A second Ducati Streetfighter, similar to the one Arturo rode that belonged to Lansing Lotte, was parked next to the shiny vehicle. A classic 1950 motorcycle, named The Black Shadow that belonged to my long ago mentor, was the pivotal statement to my love of bikes. This wasn’t an automotive shop or a bike garage; this was the place of honor to house my collection.
I pulled the Ducati Monster next to the red Streetfighter and cut the engine. I paused for a moment as the girl still sat astride behind me. Thinking I needed to help her off the bike before I could swing my large leg over the seat, I twisted slightly to look at her over my shoulder. Her head was moving slowly from side to side, taking in the space around her before her eyes met mine, or what I thought were her eyes meeting mine, as she still had on the helmet.
“I live in the back,” I offered, to assure her that we weren’t staying in a cold garage for the night.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she snipped, then slid her leg over the seat to stand to the side of the bike. Removing the helmet I’d given her to protect her, midnight black hair tumbled out of its confinement and casc
aded over her shoulders. She wore an oversized army issue jacket, which I sensed was two sizes too big for her. Her shapely legs were covered by the length of the coat to her knees, but tight black leggings peeked out underneath. Those legs were strong, despite her average height, and matched my firm thighs as she sat behind me on the bike, clenching occasionally as we flew through the city streets. Black female combat boots that were meant to be stylish were scuffed and worn on her feet.
My eyes travelled back up to her face, and steel gray eyes looked into my dark brown ones. Nervously, I ran a hand over my nearly shaved head, feeling the soothing sensation of the short-cropped hair. Thinking of her comment, I didn’t respond as I swung my own leg off the bike and pointed in a direction for her to walk. I strolled behind her then reached around her to enter another code and open the solid security door to my living space.
I played the drums and they were the first things she could see as we entered my large open room. They were the focal point of my life. I’d purchased the warehouse because I couldn’t live anywhere else and practice at my will. An apartment had neighbors too close. A neighborhood wasn’t my thing. I could have built a house further outside the city, but I didn’t want to. I’d grown up in seclusion. I didn’t want to be alone again. The irony was I was alone in my warehouse home.
The drum set was the centerpiece to a room furnished with an oversized couch facing the kit and a large screen television on the wall behind the set. A workout bench, with weights, was slightly hidden behind the dark couch. Two large darkened windows were the only hint to outside. My kitchen was open to this living space with a large island being the only thing separating the two areas. There was no table for dining, but stools stood around two sides of the island. There was only one bedroom off the kitchen, which held a king-size bed and a tall dresser. I lived simply, sparsely, as if I could pack up and move in a matter of hours. But it was more than that. I didn’t need much. I liked life simple, compared to my upbringing. It was a strange combination of what I had and didn’t have.
“The bathroom’s over there.” I pointed toward a door that had a window of etched glass on the upper half. “If you want to clean up.”
She stood in my living area, still holding the motorcycle helmet against her middle as if a shield, protecting her from me. I knew I frightened her, despite her sharp tongue. My size alone was a lot to take in. I’d lost the baby fat I had as a young adolescent when I eventually went to high school. The taunting words of other children were cruel to a boy too large at a young age, and their insults inspired me to lose weight. Tristan Lyons, the fourth and final member of the band, was also a positive force in motivating me to work out daily. Tristan had the face of a male model and a body to match. He got girls instinctively, while I didn’t understand women at all. My experience with them was severely limited, despite the notoriety of my fellow band members. I had a reputation, though. One I didn’t think I quite deserved.
“So that’s it? I should freshen up, before…” She waved her delicate hand to motion between the two of us.
I was taken aback at her meaning for a moment until realization hit me, my face giving away my own embarrassment.
“You think I brought you here to…” I trailed off like she had, copying her hand gesture between us.
She nodded in response.
“Uhm. No,” I added after my face relaxed, and one side of my lips curled up in a crooked smile.
She was thoughtful for a moment, squinting those powerful gray eyes at me, before she replied,
“Why not?”
Again I was shocked. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with her in that way. Hell, I’d been dreaming of her for years, almost thirteen to be exact. But tonight wasn’t the night for that fantasy to play out.
“Would you like something to eat? Drink?” I asked, shifting the awkward conversation as I brushed passed her to the kitchen area and opened the industrial fridge door. I didn’t have much as I lived alone: a few beers, a couple bottles of water, a sports drink, and some orange juice.
“You’re offering me something to drink?” Her voice displayed her sheer puzzlement at my question.
Agreeing to take a water, I reached for two, unscrewing the cap on hers before handing the cool bottle to her. Her fingers brushed mine when she yanked the bottle from me, rather forcefully. My eyes jumped to her face, which showed no reaction to our physical contact. I, on the other hand, felt an electric spark travel directly to a body part I couldn’t control. I remembered the sensation from being around her before. It was an instantaneous response to her aggressive stance.
“So…what’s going on here?” she said, looking around the sparsely furnished room again.
“I live here…and you’re staying here tonight. To be safe.”
“Safe?!” she choked loudly on the word. “You just kidnapped me.”
“I…I did not,” I stammered, taking in the disgusted look on her face. Had I kidnapped her? Taken her against her will?
I stood there recalling quickly what had transpired in the bar before I had her on the back of the bike.
Earlier that night…
[Perkins]
The Nights were playing a charity concert. Ingrid Tintagel, Arturo’s mother, had organized a fundraising event for battered and abused women. WomenFirst was the name of her nonprofit group to aid women of domestic violence, a cause she felt rather strongly about. The concert was a hard one thousand dollars per ticket, but I knew some sold on the black market for triple the price. I could only hope the scalpers would give the extra earnings to the organization, but I doubted that kind of compassion.
The evening also offered a free meal to the local women’s shelter and a night off from the stress of their chaotic lives. Fifty women were provided tickets. I could only assume that’s how this girl got her admission into the concert. She hardly looked like she had a thousand pennies, let alone a thousand dollars to waste on one concert ticket, despite the good cause.
I’d spotted her as Mel Agent’s target, as the spiked, blond-haired male-whore made his way across the crowded bar floor to where she was forcing her way toward the bar. She was cowering at first, huddled down in the extra-large army jacket, holding it closed against her chest. There was something about her that drew my attention. Her long hair was forward like a shield around her face as she was jostled between enthusiastic fans. I followed her movement as she twisted and turned her way through the audience, stiffening when I saw Mel Agent snaking his way in her direction.
I disliked Mel Agent, but Arturo King hated him, with good reason. The rival rock star kidnapped Guinevere after he spiked her drink at a party. He did the one chivalrous thing he could, considering the unorthodox situation, which was wait to have her after she was coherent rather than while she wasn’t. I heard Mel brag, on occasion, he liked his women responsive. Guinie would have been anything but after he drugged her. Fear panicked me when I noticed the girl collide with Mel.
Mel Agent was from the Dark Agents, a rival band, of sorts. Mel, himself, had become his own entity on top of the success of his band. His popular status also brought a world of trouble, as he was repeatedly arrested for drug possession, DUIs, and altercations with paparazzi. Women seemed to love his bad boy reputation and his innocent boy looks: blond spiky styled hair, deep brown eyes and too-tight skinny jeans. I didn’t understand the attraction, just like I didn’t understand women, but I hoped this woman wouldn’t find Mel enticing.
She flipped her hair back and that’s when I fumbled with my sticks. I caught a glimpse of her face and noticed her eyes, despite the crowded, dimly lit bar. I recognized those steel gray eyes. They had haunted my dreams for years. I had been searching for her for just as long. For the first time in a long time, I’d lost the rhythm for a split second. As the drummer for The Nights, my sticks were almost an extension of my hand.
From the moment I heard Lansing practicing guitar in the deep forest of Lake Avalon, I knew I had to be part of a band. The mom
ent Arturo handed me the sticks, as a way to follow their beat, I knew drumming was my talent. It was my purpose. Little did I know drumming would lead me to her, finally, or her to me, depending on how I looked at it. Either way, I recovered quickly within the beat of the song, without a moment’s notice from the crowd, when Arturo made eye contact with me. His dangerous brown eyes questioned my playing, and we began a whole conversation between us without speaking. Nodding my head in the direction of Mel Agent was all I needed to say.
I willed the woman to keep talking to Mel or walk away without him. The last thing I wanted was for Mel Agent to touch her or move her in any way that suggested she would leave with him. I continued to rock on as I watched their exchange. I didn’t want to seem callus, but I knew that an impressionable young beauty, who had no money or means, might be quite taken with Mel and any false promises he offered her for one night.
We finished our set, and I nearly tripped over my kit as I rounded it quickly, heading for the side stage and a set of stairs.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I heard Arturo call behind me until he was stopped by Guinevere.
I didn’t pause. I typically would have gone to change my soaked t-shirt before heading into a crowd of praising fans and willing women. Tonight, I barreled through people instead, apologizing gruffly under my breath, as I nudged people, not so nicely, in my determination to get to that girl.
“There you are,” I said, sidling up next to her. “I was wondering when you would get here.”
I prayed she’d play along as I slipped a hand around her lower back; feeling like a slice of electric wire striped my arm of skin. It was painful and pleasurable at the same time; the sensual shock almost overpowered my mission. For a brief moment she continued to clutch her jacket closed at the neck, but her shoulders straightened, and she took in a soft breath before she replied.
