by L. B. Dunbar
“Scandal?” Kaye choked on a laugh, but Leo held up a hand to stop him.
“There is no scandal,” Leo said calmly. He stood taller as he approached me still gripping Guinie’s wrist. “We just announced how each of our loving Nights has found a woman and started a family. The press will eat that up like chocolate cake for breakfast.”
I paused. He was right. While women were surely heartbroken at the slowly dwindling availability of The Nights, the overall population would oh and ah in our futures, but I didn’t give a crap about the general population. I looked at Guinevere. My Future.
“What about Morte? What about Guinie?” I hissed.
“It’s time for Morte to be acknowledged. It doesn’t mean you have to flaunt him to the world, but if the rest of the band is getting married and starting families, we have to show the leader has done it, too.”
“Dad,” Guinie cried out. Her face was clearly pained, and Leo’s softened for a moment before hardening back to the business at hand. The silence in the room was deafening.
“If you and Guinevere are going to break up, irreconcilable differences and all, it needs to be on public terms, not that she is cold-hearted at your inexcusable lack of communication, or the fact that you returned as a cripple.”
The anger in me welled so deep I began to vibrate. Guinie’s wrists had twisted and she was trying to wrap her bandaged hands around mine. I couldn’t feel the touch of her on my right hand. I couldn’t feel the touch of her, I wanted to scream. Cripple? I wasn’t crippled. I was crushed, mutilated, and dead on the floor as this girl, my heart, My Once, My Future, was having nothing to do with me. We weren’t reconnecting. We weren’t reconciling. We were ruined.
I turned to look at Guinie whose watery eyes questioned mine.
“I don’t think you’re crippled,” she said softly, swallowing hard at the word. That was it. I’d had enough. I didn’t need her damn pity. I released her.
“Someone get me a drink,” I said.
“No, Arturo,” Ana said behind me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tristan added knowing more of my story.
“Get me a drink. And get. It. Now!” I yelled.
“Here.” The glass shook, and I watched the liquor swivel as the small hands held the crystal up to me. It was an offering. My son was the only one fulfilling my commands.
I took the glass, thanking Morte gruffly then downed the entire thing in one long swallow. It was going to be a long night, but I was determined to make it pass quickly.
I woke with a powerful headache. I shouldn’t drink. I had no stamina for it any longer. Not to mention that my quick addiction to painkillers made drinking the second substitute. I found I could go days without it. Last night, however, was one of those nights I wasn’t going to survive without liquid sustenance. My heart raced, my head pounded, but my mind was winning out. I vaguely remembered downing two more drinks then returning to the party. It wasn’t clear who I spoke to or what I said. Worse off, I could not remember what I did. The night was blank completely. There was one thing I was certain of. My body had not enjoyed another.
I lay on my side, facing the partially open door to Guinie’s room. Guinie, I thought, squeezing my temples together with my left hand. She was going to hate me. Her father had done this before. It wasn’t so much a trick as a gentle nudge in a direction that he and Kaye found profitable. Business. That was all either of them thought about. Camelot Records was their priority, and moving that label to the top of the charts was their only goal. The Nights were a mandatory contributor to that rise. Our album under their label, our tour under their direction, would skyrocket the popularity of Camelot. Bands from everywhere would want to join, if Leo and Kaye could make this successful. I could see what they were doing. The Nights were a stepping-stone. We would build the colossal tower of their success, but we were on our way out. With families and marriages, we would be less attractive physically. We’d also be less likely to partake in the necessary parties. We could ride solely on our music, but not on the collective rockstar package.
Kaye and Leo wanted the whole kingdom.
The bed shifted behind me and I groaned.
“Get out of my bed, Ana,” I muttered into the pillow. She was the last person I wanted to see. This had become our routine. I would take the pills or drink too much, and she became my nurse. She made sure I didn’t choke on my own vomit or overdose at first. As I slowly weened back, her presence became an unspoken comfort. Someone cared that I lived, when I didn’t. She didn’t take any shit from me, and often dished it out just as thick. Some nights we curled into one another. One night, we almost went too far.
The bed dipped as Ana sat upright instantly. Something wasn’t right.
“I’m not Ana,” the voice said harshly.
I turned abruptly. The movement increased the hammering in my head. I groaned as I opened my eyes and found blue eyes looking away from me. She was shuffling quickly out of the bed. She wasn’t naked, and I was relieved to find I hadn’t taken advantage of her. I closed my eyes in embarrassment.
“Guinie? Wait, what are you doing in here?”
What was I doing here? That was an excellent question. One I had asked a million times already. As I continued to rush to the edge of the bed, and untangle myself from the sheets, I replied, “I was trying to prevent you from...I don’t know what. But you know, I think maybe I should have let you do, whatever you wanted to do.” I couldn’t help notice his excitement was tenting the sheet that lie loosely over his hips. I let out a pffting sound as I spun on my heels.
“Maybe I should go get Ana for you, after all,” I spit, unable to help myself. I’d hardly made it to the doorway between our rooms when my arms were grabbed. He turned me so quickly; I slammed into his hard chest before my back was pinned to the door.
“I. Do. Not. Want. Ana in my bed.” He was breathing heavily. His eyebrows were pinched as it was obvious his head was hurting him.
“I want you in my bed,” he growled. “So let’s start again with why you were in it?”
Again, an excellent question. He was so drunk when Tristan helped me get Arturo up the stairs. He had one arm over Tristan and the other over me, but as we stood at the edge of his bed preparing to drop him on it, Arturo turned and wrapped himself around me. Taking me down with him, I fell on his chest, banging my chin on his sternum. Tristan laughed behind us.
“He’s so fucking wasted,” he muttered.
“I heard that,” Arturo said. “I am wasted,” he continued, but his voice was somber. The words implied he meant more than being drunk.
“I’m fucked,” Arturo said, still clutching me to his chest. His eyes were closed and he faced the ceiling as he slurred the words.
“I’m fucked, Guinie. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I want to fuck, Guinie.”
“Okay pal, that’s enough,” Tristan replied, his hands suddenly on me, prying me off of Arturo. I was able to get my hands between our chests and was pushing with all my might to get loose. Arturo’s drunk hold was firm. A tug-of-war seemed to be occurring with me as the ribbon in the middle. I felt like a rag doll. It might have been comical, if it wasn’t so pathetic.
“Let go of her,” Tristan demanded. Arturo squeezed me tighter, trapping my hands between us.
“Never,” he hissed. “Never, never, never.” His voice was lower with each repetition.
“Dude, don’t make me hurt you. Let go of her. Give Guinie to me.”
“No,” Arturo growled. “She’s mine. I’m hers. You can’t have her.”
It was almost ridiculous, if it wasn’t so sad. Arturo was clearly on the edge of having some kind of break down.
“Arturo,” Tristan warned.
“Please,” Arturo whined. “Please, Guinie. Stay with me.” His voice cracked and tears fell. I was trying to look at Tristan over my shoulder for support. I didn’t know what to do. Arturo was still crushing me, but now his head rested into my chest. His body shuddered with gentle sobs. Slowly
, my body relaxed. I didn’t realize how rigid I was holding myself. As I melted into him, Arturo loosened the pressure, but not the hold. His arms separated and spread over my back as if he could flatten me against him, as if he could contour me to him.
“Arturo,” Tristan warned again, gentler this time.
“Tristan,” I replied. “I think I got it from here.” With those words, Arturo’s hand slipped into my hair and his head dragged up my chest to curl into my neck.
“Thank you,” he whispered into my ear then relaxed. Passed out.
I was able to untangle myself as Arturo’s arms fell limp to his sides.
“Holy shit,” Tristan muttered.
“Can you help me get him out of his clothes?”
After Tristan’s assistance with the clothes and repositioning Arturo, I was left alone to stare at him. At first, I only intended to watch him for a moment or two. His dark waving hair spilling over his face and pillow. The growth on his face, which he shaved that morning, was clearly back on his face by the evening. The flutter of his long eye lashes while he slept. Arturo was a visual wonder awake or asleep. I breathed deeply as I roved over the deep cut of his back muscles, exposed while he slept on his stomach. He looked so peaceful.
I wanted to curl up next to him, if only for a minute. I wanted to feel his warmth and pretend. Pretend that we could go back to how we were, who we were, before. Before any of it: the accident, Lansing, Ana. If only it were as simple as turning back time or using a giant eraser. As I stood watching Arturo sleep, I knew in that moment that sleeping with Lansing Lotte had been wrong. That wasn’t a new revelation to me. I had known from the moment our night was over. The way he looked at Lila as he stood defending me, asking me not to walk away, I knew I had messed it all up.
I would never be able to undo what I had done. I had sex with his best friend, someone who was practically his brother. Was there anything worse I could have done? I couldn’t think of a greater crime. A crime of passion, it might have seemed. Only it wasn’t passion that drove me to Lansing. It was desperation. I needed to feel something. I didn’t even realize it at the time. I was so dead inside, but that night, as we argued, the blood coursed through my body. I felt alive for a moment, driven by anger and adrenaline. I was ruled by my head, but my body took over in the moment. I can’t even remember who reached for whom first. In hindsight, it would never matter. What mattered was what followed; a night of pure debauchery. I tumbled into the sin of lust and wanton release. He demanded I concentrate on him, and I tried. I really tried.
My anger at Arturo, I took out on Lansing. With each thrust, each demand, each promise that it would be one night, I cursed Arturo King for his disappearance. Only Lansing and I would know what we’d done, but the weight of that secret was crushing me. The guilt was something I had not foreseen. It ate at me as I stared down at Arturo sleeping innocently. He had suffered so much with the loss of his hand. The physical change to his body, the mental acceptance of what it meant for him must have been unbearable at times.
I can’t fucking play the guitar. His words from earlier in the evening haunted me. It was true. I had thought of it, but it hadn’t really clicked with me what that meant for Arturo. In his mind, he had lost everything if he had lost the ability to play. It was his skill to lead the band, and lead them by playing the guitar. As much an extremity as the missing hand, the loss of his ability to strum the strings and make his music would be detrimental to Arturo.
Oh, Arturo, I thought, my heart breaking as I gazed upon his sweet rugged face. So much loss between us: his hand, our baby, each other. I decided one night would not hurt us worse. I stripped off my dress and picked up his t-shirt. Covering myself, I climbed into bed, trying not to disturb him. He didn’t move. His drunken state had prohibited thought, and I realized again the loss of everything drove him to drown it out. I rubbed up his back and he shivered.
“Guinie Girl,” he whispered, as if he clearly felt my presence. There was no way. He was too deep in inebriated slumber, but I took the call of my name and allowed myself to curl into him. I placed my head on his warm back and wrapped my arm over him. He wiggled a bit as if he was trying to get comfortable under me. He took a deep breath and relaxed. I followed that grasp for air, and sunk down with the release of it. I let myself relax into him, as well, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.
When I woke to him calling me Ana, the world fell out from under me. It was evident that she had been in his bed, and not just that one night long ago that conceived Morte. More recent nights, that included her lingering for long enough that he would have to ask her to leave.
My head gently tapped the wood of the door as Arturo shook me again.
“I’m asking again, what were you doing in my bed?”
“I…” I stumbled. Did I tell him the truth that I wanted to hold him? That I wanted to be close to him and feel him against me, without the weight of anything else between us? Or did I lie? I wasn’t good at not telling the truth; however, I was holding a secret. I couldn’t think fast enough.
“I fell asleep.” It was a ridiculous response and his face fell. It wasn’t the answer he expected, and evidently not the answer he desired. He released me instantly and stepped back, staring at my face. He shook his head slowly as his eyes scanned my appearance in his t-shirt. A smile ticked up one side of his mouth. It was more of a smirk than humor.
“I need coffee,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face. I didn’t respond. He turned right for his shower and I slipped into my room. I needed space.
Unfortunately for me, tough Guinie turned me on. I had been tenting the sheet that lay over my hips while she glared at me. Her eyes roamed over my body before she gave me that disgusted look and the rude comment about fetching Ana. With strength I didn’t have, I leapt from the bed, demanding to know what she was doing in it with me. When we got nowhere in our conflict, I had to step away.
The night had passed in vivid dreams for me. Snapshots of moments so clear, I felt as if I was reliving them.
Guinie and Lansing in a coffee shop holding hands.
Ana picking me up off the street on Boxing night.
Morte showing me his fire ball trick.
Guinie and Lansing in the park with little Fleur.
Ana comforting me, soothing words of sympathy.
Morte’s face at being called my son publicly.
It was the image of that face that woke me. Somehow his face, that at once frightened and questioned me, looked terrified. It was as if Morte did not want to be named my son. He looked stunned and ashamed then his face hardened. We never had a close relationship. Not even knowing I was his father, until he was almost five, left a hole in developing a bond that I believed should have been there from the moment of his birth. He was so uniquely not like me, that I found no traces of myself in him, and I struggled to connect. At times, I asked God’s forgiveness, as I believed it should be natural to love my child, and I didn’t. I was a terrible person because of it. I didn’t foster a relationship, either, once I knew Morte was mine. At every turn, I shunned that connection and rarely saw him. He always met me with enthusiasm and a smile, which I never deserved. Then came Guinie.
She saw things in Morte that I didn’t. Through her, I realized it was because I wasn’t looking. Embarrassed by my youthful behavior and the result of a child with my stepsister, I couldn’t face Morte. Guinevere forced me to see him. He was an innocent boy, who had no love in his life. His mother tolerated him. I sequestered him. We were awful parents. Kaye was right, in that I did need to acknowledge my son, but he was very wrong in the way he had gone about it.
The public display the night before had been the biggest farce I’d ever witnessed. Worse off, I was an actor in the play, and I let it happen to save face. Then I lost it. I’d drunk too much and who knows what happened, which is how I found Guinie in my bed after calling her Ana. I was so angry at myself for this slip-up. Guinevere was never going to understand. She was never going to forgive me.
For Morte, she could forgive my inappropriate behavior with Ana. For Morte, who she claimed had no say in being conceived or born, I had to get past what I had done with Ana. For Morte, I had to form a fatherly relationship, despite Ana. But it wasn’t Morte that made me act in more recent times. Guinevere wasn’t going to understand that I was lonely.
I wandered downstairs after not finding Guinie in her room. I needed a brief shower to calm my body and freshen my mind. I didn’t find her in the kitchen either, or near the pool. It was a gloomy looking day. I wandered down the hall where I found Kaye and Leo in the office, heads bent over papers on a low circular table surrounded by comfortable leather lounge chairs. Kaye looked up at my entrance.
“You look like hell,” he said, then returned his eyes to the work in front of him. It was Leo’s eyes that lingered on me. He narrowed them slightly then opened them wide. In confusion, he shook his head and smiled slightly.
“It was a rough night,” Leo said, speaking in my direction with sympathy, but addressing Kaye. “Your little stunt backfired.”
Kaye blinked at the papers under his attention, but it became clear that he was not focusing.
“Shall we have this out, now?” Kaye said, slowly looking up at Leo.
“Just tell me why you did it like that,” I said, standing behind one of the chairs, knuckles turning white as I gripped the soft leather. Kaye continued to look over at Leo, who sat opposite him, before he twisted to face me.
“You wouldn’t have listened. If you weren’t put on the spot, you would have turned us down. It was the same with the record company. You wanted Camelot, just didn’t know what to do with it, or how. Until you had to make a decision about letting Leo and I manage it, you had no direction.”
