The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance (Legendary Rock Star #5)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “What did I say?” I snapped.

  “She heard you say ‘if you weren’t engaged.’”

  I waited. “And?”

  “And that’s it. She heard you say ‘if you weren’t engaged,’ as if you meant you would do something with those girls, who happened to both be plastered to you according to Guinie.”

  “He’s got you on that one,” Perkins muttered.

  “Shut up,” I bit.

  “Hey,” Tristan barked from the couch.

  We were getting nowhere.

  “I didn’t say, ‘if I wasn’t engaged,’ or even that I wished I wasn’t engaged.” I paused. I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d said. “It doesn’t matter what I said. Nothing would have happened with them, because Guinie’s the love of my life, and I want her to be my wife.”

  The words got to Perkins. I saw him relax. His shoulders released tension and his arms fell to his sides. He quirked up the side of his lip and nodded. Patting my shoulder, he walked around me to the couch and took my spot near Tristan.

  Lansing and I still squared off.

  “You have a strange way of proving it,” Lansing accused.

  “People hate her because of you,” I muttered.

  “You’re adding fuel to their fire,” he replied.

  We stood practically toe-to-toe. We were roughly the same size. While he still looked young, I looked dangerous, darker, despite us both having dark hair. However, I was no longer the big kid against a thin scrapper, two years younger. We promised to never fight over a girl, and yet here we stood again, almost ten years later. I was the one at a disadvantage this time. I had no hand to fight, and the girl had taken my heart.

  “What do you suggest I do?” I barked.

  “You need to quit blowing it off. Take a stand. Make a statement. Are you getting married to her or not?”

  I stood taller. “Of course, I am.”

  “Prove it to her,” Lansing said, his voice steely, his tone hard.

  “Will you get her? Bring her to me?” I asked, lowering my voice sheepishly. Backing down to him, it hit me that I needed his help.

  Shaking his head, Lansing answered.

  “For once, you need to go after her. You need to be the one to save Guinevere. Not me.”

  It was going to be quite a change from our history. While I had returned to her time and time again, I hadn’t been the one to rescue her. I hadn’t been the one to save her from herself, others, or me. I’d always thought she’d been the stronger one. She wanted to make her way, despite her upbringing. She broke from her father. She wanted that chair in Boston on her own merit. Then she took the seat with the 4Gs. She stood up to me. I almost laughed when I thought of her slapping me. I deserved it. She didn’t simper and take me back. She wanted answers, and I hadn’t been good at giving them.

  I had no definitive excuse for staying away from her. I’d lost my hand. I’d lost my way, but still should have reached out to her. She would have guided me, had I let her. She’d led the relationship from the start, navigating us through her developing experience and blooming desire as our love grew. Guinie was a gentle flower, who had some thorns to protect herself. I had tried to keep her safely in a garden, when she needed to shine on her own, in a vase in the sun.

  Guinevere DeGrance needed me to nurture her. Shower her with my love, not burn her at the stake. I needed to accept what had happened, which I had, but prove to her that I would stand by her. Stand up for her. Lansing Lotte was right. It had to be me.

  So I stood before his hotel room door and knocked. Then I banged. I pleaded with the solid wood and the woman I was convinced was on the other side. I threatened to barge down the door. White knight on a horse, I’d crash that sucker in and steal her out of that room. I was determined, until the guest in the room across the hall came out and threatened to call hotel security, if I didn’t stop. I was prepared to argue until I saw she was an older woman. Her hair wrapped in some kind of protective cover and dressed in a robe, her accent told me she’d hardly understand me if I did start to disagree with her. I respected my elders and returned to speaking quietly to the door.

  “Guinevere,” I said, letting my fingers scrape softly down the hard wood. “I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. I’m surprised you didn’t call security, actually.” I laughed softly.

  “Guinie, please. Let me in. I can explain.”

  I stopped for a second. It was the weakest start.

  “Fine, I’ll explain from here.”

  My hand rested flat against the cool door. My forehead leaned forward as I spoke.

  “If I wasn’t engaged to you, it would make no difference to me. I’d still be in love with you. If I wasn’t engaged to you, you’d still be the one I want to see in the morning and hold each night, and love every second in between. Being away from you is killing us, Guinie. It’s killing me. I did it once, and I’m doing it again. I need to be with you, and this isn’t working, Guinie. I want to make you mine, and have you as my wife. From the first moment, Guinie. The first look. The first kiss. You’ve become my life. I can’t live without you, Guinie. Please.” My voice cracked as I pleaded with the wooden door that stood as a barrier to my girl. My fingers traced a heart like a lovesick teenager as my forehead rested on the cool wood.

  “Tres beau,” came the heavy accent of a voice behind me. I turned to find the older woman had not reentered her room, but stood leaning against the doorframe, listening to me beg for my girl to let me in.

  “Elle est belle.” She is beautiful, I understood. Yes, she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.

  “Elle est parti,” the woman said. My eyebrows pinched. She went to a party? What the fuck?

  “Party?” I questioned.

  “Parti,” she replied, shaking her head, tsking under her breath.

  “Party,” I stated again, making silly motions with my arms in the air.

  “Non. Au revoir,” the woman tried to translate for me.

  “Au revoir?” I puzzled. Goodbye. Yes, goodbye. Leave me alone, I wanted to snap.

  “Non,” she shook her head adamantly again. She waved with a flip of her hand as she motioned down the hall.

  “Au revoir,” she emphasized again in French. “Eh…good bye,” she attempted.

  This time I took her meaning. Guinevere was gone.

  The one thing I couldn’t do was leave Morte behind. He’d been abandoned too often. It fueled his hatred. He was an angry boy, who was going to grow into a bitter man if someone didn’t step up for him. I took my chance and contacted him. I assured him that I would not leave without him. I’d checked into a small hotel down the way from where the band was staying and I told Morte I’d wait.

  I hadn’t been to Paris in years. It wasn’t how I remembered it, and yet it was exactly how I pictured it. Being later in the year, the flower boxes were empty. The spirit of casualness from the summer months was gone, but Paris in late fall was still beautiful. Like ancient visitors of old, I roamed the city. I visited the Eiffel Tower. I ate at small cafés. I drank French roasted coffee with warm baguettes. I walked the Champs-Elysee and stared at the Arc de Triomphe. I wanted to draw strength from images in my heart of men in grand carriages, drawing up to the arch, and riding under it to enter the great city center. I could see it in my mind.

  Then a question returned of where were the women? Like my Emerald Isle nunnery, the women were all at home. Men had the great adventures of the past. I wanted a great adventure in the present. I sat on a park bench in some random park and watched people aimlessly wander. It reminded me of Central Park. An older couple sat across from me, at one point, along the grand promenade. He straightened her jacket. She held his hand. He kissed it. She turned to look at him. It was clear that white hair, wrinkled skin, and dulled eyes did nothing to diminish the love between these two. Love was an adventure. It could last centuries. I’d been on the journey. Looking down at my rings on my left hand, I realized there wasn’t a finish line.

/>   Even if we were engaged, even if we were married, Arturo and I were always going to struggle if we ever moved forward enough to not take two steps back. He was always going to be a rock star. Even retired, he’d still be the King. He would want to rule Camelot Records. He had his life planned. I had had mine planned as well, until I’d met him. I’d had a life with my father, but I wasn’t living. When I fell in love, I came alive. I supposed the saying I will die without you seemed very true. Without Arturo, I believed I’d feel dead. I had felt that way without him. If love was life, without love was certain death. I’d actually already had experience with that feeling. I knew it was real, but I didn’t want to die.

  I needed to live. I needed to embrace life. Love of my life, or not, I needed to move forward. I wasn’t ready to swear off men. I wasn’t ready to swear off Arturo. I wasn’t prepared to hang out in a nunnery. It was my life and I was going to do with it what I willed. Arturo had encouraged my strength. I needed to use it to stand up for myself.

  I stood abruptly. Renewed, I walked briskly back to my hotel. I knew what I had to do.

  I entered the Emerald Isle to the surprise of the girls three days later.

  “What happened?” Lace asked instantly. It was safe to assume anything they’d heard was from Allora through Canyon.

  “I found Arturo enjoying himself as a rock star,” I said boldly. Lace gasped. Enid covered her mouth. Trinity smirked and shook her head.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay.” I was proud of myself. I took a deep breath and realized I was good. In the beginning, when Arturo was missing, I was desperate. When I lost the baby, I felt I could not get any lower. I did, though. I slept with Lansing Lotte, Arturo’s best friend and a teenage crush. It was a mistake. I climbed my way slowly out of a hole, only to be thrown back into it with the surprise return of Arturo. We struggled to regain what we had, but I wasn’t convinced we could get there. After seeing Arturo with those women, I realized I had to stop focusing on Arturo. He was alive. He was well. That had been my issue originally. The unknown of what happened to him was revealed. I could move forward knowing he was not dead. I was empty inside, but it wasn’t as deep as it had been before because I knew he was alive.

  My memory flashed back.

  When I decided to leave Paris, I waited to bring Morte home. Arturo and the band had to leave Paris before our flight, so I was safe to avoid him. Morte was going to meet me at the airport. It surprised me to find Ana escorted him. I assumed she’d put him in a car and let him fend for himself. She stood to the side of her son as she spoke her piece to me.

  “What you’re doing is wrong.” she began. “Running from him. Hiding out from him.”

  “He did it to me,” I snipped like a petulant child. I wasn’t doing it for retaliation, though. I was through fighting Arturo. I didn’t want him to give up being a rock star. It was in his blood, his destiny. I just knew I couldn’t stand by and let whatever happened happen, yet be the one accused of a greater sin for one slip in judgement. I wasn’t going to continue to take the firing squad against me and my reputation.

  I’d been keeping up with the social media as a means to torture myself. Twitter was filled with tweets about Arturo, love for him, and hatred of me. Facebook posts to The Nights page blatantly dissed me for my past, calling me cold, calculating, and evil. Instagram had fan-made images of Arturo and I ripped down the center. It was a subtle campaign to blasphemy me.

  Ana sighed before she continued. “He came home to you. He wanted to get back to you. You should be honored by that.”

  “Honored?” I laughed. Honor was a word used in vows. I will honor you all the days of my life. Arturo was willing to break that vow, I assumed. He’d asked me to marry him again, but we still weren’t ready. “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use, but fine. I am honored that he came home. I’m glad that Arturo is alive.”

  Ana stared at me. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re his one true love. No matter what he and I did. No matter how hard I tried. He was loyal to you.”

  I laughed bitterly. Loyal? I thought, another questionable word. She stood before me knowing she touched him, and he let her. How was that loyalty? He was practically as guilty as me, except he didn’t have the emotional connection with Ana like I had with Lansing. That’s where I crossed the line.

  Ana must have read my thoughts because she stood before me shaking her head. “Even when I tried to seduce him, I had to pretend to be you. I had to ask him to pretend. It was the only way it would happen. But it didn’t happen. He didn’t fall for me, because for Arturo, it’s always been you.” She sighed again, and for the first time I noticed the sadness in Ana. She had never gotten what she wanted. Because of her loss, she didn’t know how to give love and Morte had paid that price, a lonely child of a lonely mother.

  I remembered looking down at him, as he stood with his head hung. He was angry at me for leaving him behind, but he would have had days with Ana, regardless. Not to mention, I had waited for him, and I was returning him home. His hair looked greasy as it had on many previous occasions. He was sunk into himself, with hunched shoulders and bowed head.

  I didn’t know how to respond to Ana. Her sorrow was a side of her I didn’t trust, but she seemed sincere. She recognized that Arturo would never be for her. I couldn’t believe he would be anything for me in the future, but I was ready to move on. Ana hadn’t done that. For almost ten years, she held that bitterness against Arturo. Her pain was that of a one-night stand that turned into a lifetime of connection through Morte. Bitterness is a hard emotion. It takes work, and Ana had worked it. It also eats at you, and someone I imagined was once beautiful, had turned ugly and evil because of that regret. She’d let the resentment negatively transform her. I did not wish that to happen to me.

  We parted ways after an awkward hug between Ana and Morte. He still refused to look at me, but he held my hand as we walked through customs. He refused to speak as we passed the restaurants and concession stands, where I was offering to buy him a snack. He only shook his head in refusal. As we approached our gate, Morte’s hand tightened in mine. I wasn’t certain why, but I renewed the hold on him. We walked toward a row of seats to await our departure. Suddenly Morte spoke, “Don’t be angry.”

  I looked down at him and stopped our pace.

  “Why would I be angry?” I smiled to encourage him, bending at the waist in hopes he’d finally look at my face. Distractedly, his eyes searched behind me. My skin prickled. I stood tall. Without turning, I knew who was there.

  In slow motion, I spun to face him.

  “Guinie,” he exhaled. His eyes closed as if he was relieved to see me but needed to collect some control to face me.

  “Arturo,” I swallowed hard. He looked so good, a leather jacket over a gray T, with a pendant chain at his chest, and ripped jeans that hung low. His wavy hair was disheveled. His dark eyes burned as they scanned my body. A slow smile tweaked up the side of his lips. My body responded to his gaze. My heart leapt to be near him. My mind stopped me from jumping on him.

  Saying my name again in a plea, he stepped toward me. I held tighter to Morte afraid that if I let him go, I’d reach for Arturo and give into him. It had been a month of burning for him, craving him, and there he stood too close. I could only breathe him in, but I needed to let him go.

  “Guinie, you misunderstood, and then you wouldn’t let me explain.”

  I raised my hand to stop him, but he reached up with lightning speed and grabbed my hand with his only one. Holding it across our bodies while my other hand clung to Morte, we formed a crooked chain of connection.

  “I love you,” he breathed. “Only you. You’re my Once.” His face drew closer to me and I swallowed again. The moisture in my mouth flooded me with desire to taste him. I knew I must remain strong.

  “I did not say I wished I was not engaged.” His voice took on a tone of anger as he emphasized the negatives. “I said something like if I wasn’t engaged, you would still be the only one
I love. You. My Once.”

  “Arturo,” I sighed. “They were touching you.”

  “Yes, touching me. I wasn’t touching them.” His eyes sparked. He was convinced he was in the right.

  “Is this how you justified Ana?” The words tumbled out from nowhere. His head shot back like I’d struck him. His eyes blinked. The expression of shock changed instantly to anger. The hand holding mine, tugged me against his chest.

  “I am not justifying Ana or anyone else touching me except for you. You’re the only touch I want on me. And I want to be the only one to touch you in return.” His thumb was softly caressing over my skin while the grip of his hand tightened in fierce contrast to the tender strokes. His mouth twisted and I felt his breath on my lips. I still wanted to kiss him, and then I wanted to kick him.

  “Guinevere, don’t run away from me. Please,” he sighed, closing his eyes briefly again. “Please.” He jostled my hand between our chests and then his lips were on mine. His kiss was capture. Lips vanquished mine. His tongue struck next to entice the pleasurable pain of his passion and his ownership of me. He did control me, but I needed to break free. I let the kiss slowly linger, and then I drew back.

  “I’m not running away, Arturo. I’m letting you go. You need to venture on with your crusade.” He knew my meaning. He could not leave the tour behind. He could not disappoint his band again.

  He stared at me.

  “I can’t go on without you, if I don’t know you’ll be there when I get home.”

  I had a choice to make. Let Arturo go from my heart and move forward. Let Arturo stay in my heart and be held back. I was criss-crossing the two, as I would hold him in my heart, but physically let him go.

  “I’m going home. If you wish to call me when you get back, I’ll be around. But I’m not waiting any longer for you, Arturo. You do what you need to do. I need to move forward.”