The Legend of Arturo King

by L. B. Dunbar

  I cleared my throat, trying to think of things to say to fill the awkward silence.

  “So did you find any frogs?” I asked Morte, looking at him through the rearview mirror. These minute glances at him were beginning to give me a new perspective on my son. He was pale and sickly looking, but was it all Ana’s fault? If the boy was encouraged to play outside and get some sunshine, that was remedied. His hair was a tad long in the front and his fingernails were creepily long for a child’s, but that could be easily remedied as well. The color of his eyes was his mother’s, but I could see a trace of my nose on his face. The smile, that weird twist of his lips, could be considered endearing in a disabled sort of way.

  I would have loved a child – healthy or not – but I didn’t have a connection to Morte, and more so because of the means of his conception with my step-sister. Try as I may I wasn’t sure I could get over that one obstacle. But try harder, I just may have to in order to prove to Guinevere that I’m not a monster who hates his own child.

  She had been right. I had promised Morte, and had forgotten all about it. I wanted to fault her, because she had been the only thing on my mind, but I knew it wasn’t her fault. She was also right that I should acknowledge Morte more as my son, at least privately. There was still too much public backlash to worry over and concern for Morte as the truth of his parentage and lineage could be dangerous for the small child. She was further correct that I did understand the importance of a father-son relationship if for no other reason than the fact I had never had one. I had male figures in my life, like Hector Sirs, and mentor support, like Mure Lin. I even had encouraging guidance from Leo DeGrance, but I hadn’t had one person I called Father who encompassed all three qualities. I had always sworn I would be a good father to my children, and looking at Morte reminded me that I broke that promise every time I was with him. I faulted again the lack of connection I felt to this other human being who was born of my own seed and it baffled me at times because I was certain I should have felt a stronger pull between the two of us.

  I tried to concentrate on the explanation of the creek, the woods, and the examination of foliage from Morte and Guinevere’s journey, but I was distracted each time Guinie shifted in her seat, encouraging Morte to tell me more details. My eyes glanced down again to her exposed legs. Legs I wanted wrapped over me again, and then under me, and around me. Legs I wanted to be between and behind. I swallowed at those thoughts and glanced up to her face to see she was looking at me as if expecting an answer to a question.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

  “Morte wants to know if he can go swimming after lunch and spend the night.”

  She looked at me expectantly as I choked on my answer of “yes.”

  “Woo-hoo,” Morte said, punching the air. “Mother will be so angry,” and then he covered his mouth with his tiny hand. Guinevere turned in her seat to look at Morte and he giggled. She began to laugh as well as if the two of them had shared a silly secret.

  “Well, your mother does need to know about this,” she said firmly and smiled again.

  We parked in a spot on the street outside of Andie’s Burger House and I came around to open Guinevere’s door for her.

  “You waited this time,” I said, surprised.

  “You asked me to, remember?”

  “Yes. I definitely remember.” I smiled at her, but she only smiled weakly at me again as Morte scrambled out of the back. He did request that lunch come first since he really was hungry for that burger, so I directed them toward the restaurant. Placing my hand on the small of Guinevere’s back, I guided her inside the air-conditioned burger house and took a table toward the back in one of the high-backed booths. She slid in across from me and Morte filled in the remaining space next to her. I tried to swallow down the feeling I had about this seating arrangement. I wanted to see her, but I wanted to sit next to her so I could touch her.

  We ordered and ate in companionable conversation. Guinevere was good with Morte and seemed to know what to ask him to keep the discussion flowing and encouraging him to give details about himself and his interests. Throughout the course of the meal I learned three new things about my son that I never knew. He loved magic. He loved nature. He loved the piano. I had no idea my son had musical ability.

  This sparked a new direction in the conversation from me about the types of songs Morte could play, the types of music he liked, and the level of his skill. The conversation concluded with the arrangement of a small concert performance that night by Morte on piano if Guinevere would play her cello. I wanted to hear her play again, and I had to thank Morte as the catalyst to get her to play for me. I would have felt guilty for using a child, but I was rather intrigued and excited by the prospect of the evening’s entertainment.

  Guinevere

  We rescheduled the concert for the following night because it slowly took on a life of its own. I paced nervously across the white carpet in my golden room. The sun was setting over the lake and the view was spectacular. I wrung my hands together and then released them to shake my wrists. It was a ritual of types that eased the nerves and loosened my hands. I was wound up, turning and trudging across the rug again.

  How did I get into this position? I was comfortable playing in a concert hall, but not in an intimate setting. Especially not in front of the entire Nights band, and their dates, and a few others that Ingrid and Ana decided must be invited to this impromptu concert. I reminded myself over and over that the purpose of this was to showcase Morte’s talent, not mine, and to make a connection between Arturo and Morte. This was not about me, yet I somehow felt I had been tricked into performing.

  When we returned to Camlann yesterday, Morte and I were escorted to the barn, where we could practice a few songs together. Morte shooed Arturo away, stating he wanted the whole night to be a surprise. A surprise indeed it would be. I was impressed with Morte’s ability at such a young age. He was classically trained, similar to my start in music, and I was able to play along with him. I told him he should showcase several songs on his own and then we practiced more modern tunes with me accompanying him. We even practiced one of the Nights’ songs to add a modern twist to the evening and we decided it would be our finale piece.

  I was dressed in another long summery dress in navy blue that had thick straps over my shoulders and veered deeply between my breasts. I felt the material swish against my legs as I turned to pace back across the rug again. I twisted my hands again and again as I counted the steps the length of the room and turned one more time to find Arturo standing in the adjoining doorway watching me.

  He was dressed up, for him, in a white button-up shirt rolled up to his biceps and a slim-cut black tie. With his dark jeans and lazy stance against the doorframe, he had the look of a clothing model. His long legs were crossed at the ankles as his arms crossed his chest, and his dark choppy waves were slicked back for the moment in wetness from his shower. We hadn’t had a chance to discuss yesterday, as I gave him space with Morte during yesterday evening. He smiled shyly at me.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “You look nervous.”

  “Thanks,” I snapped.

  “Let me start over,” he said softly. “You look beautiful. Are you nervous?”

  I stopped pacing and stared at him. I responded by silently nodding.

  “Why are you nervous?”

  “I don’t usually play for small groups, although at the rate Ingrid mentioned people, it sounds more like a crowd the size of the Round Table will be attending.”

  Arturo laughed.

  “You know how she is,” he said. “Over the top sometimes.”

  He paused for a moment. “Why would that size group bother you? You’ve played in concert halls before.”

  “I know. But this … this will be so intimate.”

  He smiled at me again and I felt my shoulders relax a little.

  “I always get a little nervous as well before
a concert, but I’m usually more pumped up. Of course, a strong dose of Jack can help that and so can…” he stopped himself as if he were saying too much to fill the space of conversation.

  “So can what?” I taunted him.

  “So can sex,” he said directly, not so much to shock me, but more like a suggestion.

  I gasped.

  “Well, I guess you would know,” I replied, trying to sound haughty as I spun to pace again. When I turned after reaching the opposite end of the room, I bumped into Arturo, who had apparently been following me.

  “I might know. In the past. But I want to know in a different way now, Guinevere.” He said my name softly as we stared at one another.

  “Guinie,” he said gently, leaning toward me slowly, keeping his eyes focused on my own.

  “Guinie,” he said again on a whisper, and I felt my mouth water with the need to touch his lips with my own even if only briefly.

  My wish was granted when he brushed his lips against mine softly. It was a tickling kiss. A tease. A dare. And I took it.

  Surprising even myself, I lunged at him and wrapped both my arms around his neck to pull myself upward and take his mouth with mine. I kissed him hard and felt the thrill of it race through my lower section like fireworks exploding in the night. I felt a trickle of dampness and cursed myself for wearing the navy thong, knowing it would add to the turn-on of pressing against Arturo. His hands reached for my hips and pulled me tight against his excitement. I was relieved that he responded to me and I tilted my head to get better access to his mouth.

  My tongue slipped out to caress the crease of his lips and he immediately opened with a groan, inviting my tongue inside to play and stroke and dance. I felt his hands slip to my ass and gently tug me closer, if that was even possible with our clothing on. I was clamped to him with my arms around his neck and his hands held me in place against him. Our mouths continued to explore possessively and it was only the soft voice of Morte calling my name outside my door that forced us to quit.

  I pulled back slowly, breathlessly, as I tried to respond to Morte. My eyes remained focused on Arturo’s face, trying to read his feelings. He leaned his forehead against mine and whispered, “Tell me you forgive me.”

  “I forgive you.”

  “Thank you,” he sighed deeply and I felt his breath like a temptation. He kissed me quickly, then pulled back to open the door for Morte.

  He was dressed in a suit and looked awkward and uncomfortable.

  “Ah, little man. You can’t wear that tonight.”

  “Why not?” Morte looked down at himself, smoothing out the coat jacket that was buttoned, making it look tight and severe.

  “You look too formal.”

  “Mother says a concert like this is a formal affair.”

  “Well, your mother’s wrong,” Arturo said defensively and I had to catch the giggle threatening to escape.

  “Come here,” Arturo said with a nod of his head toward his room. He looked over his shoulder at me as he guided Morte away.

  “It’s a guy thing,” he informed me, then winked before disappearing into his own room with Morte in the lead.

  Arturo

  I was impressed with Morte’s talent on the piano, but it was his initial appearance that stole the show. I had removed the ill-fitting jacket and rolled Morte’s sleeves to match my own at his elbows. Then I loosened his tie to hang open and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt. It was a vast improvement. His shaggy hair I messed up skillfully with my big fingers and the artfully combed hair now looked messy and cool. Morte didn’t look so serious. He looked adorable.

  A piano was already set up in the living room although I no longer played that often. I occasionally caught a glance of Mure Linn as he watched the young boy. Morte’s lips were pinched as he concentrated on each stroke across the ebony and ivory keys. The room was filled with people sitting throughout the large space, and several stood around the edges, where I also found myself. My mother and Ana were in the official front row, made haphazardly by white wooden folding chairs that came from somewhere. Ana smiled with pride at Morte and let that smile fall when she looked at Guinevere.

  Guinevere, on the other hand, was stunning in my opinion, and her musical talent was seconded only by her beauty. She was serene and focused as she played by closing her eyes and losing herself in the rhythm of stroking the bow across the strings of the instrument between her legs. As I watched her, it was a purely sensual experience for me and I found it harder and harder to disguise what was in my jeans. My hands in my pockets barely concealed the tightness. I wanted her beyond any woman I had ever wanted before. My bad mood the day before was dissipated the instant I saw her on the side of the road. My good mood restored completely when she threw that kiss at me in her room only minutes ago.

  The crowd applauded politely and smiled as the small concert continued with Morte on the piano and Guinevere accompanying him. I felt at moments she was holding back in order to let Morte shine, and my heart filled more for her. She was truly an amazing woman. She put me in my place, and I deserved it, and then she took it one step further by supporting Morte in this public manner. I wasn’t certain I could simply blurt out that Morte was my son, but I could certainly take on a more active role privately as his father.

  I recognized another of my songs played in tandem by Morte and Guinevere, and it was Lans who produced a guitar and added to the music from his own seat. The crowd seemed to grow in excitement as they recognized the cords and the enthusiasm grew with Lans’ musical addition. Those gathered applauded loudly at the completion of the hit and I had to smile inwardly again that Guinevere knew another of the Nights’ songs.

  At this point, Morte called for an encore, which was slightly out of character for the course of a piano recital. Usually it was the audience that requested another round of music, but I could sense that this gathering was done with a child’s display despite his talent. Morte pushed forward, stating that it was Guinevere’s turn to play one song.

  “She must get the chance to showcase her talent individually,” he said, as if a proud father and a demanding teacher. I had to shake my head, knowing it was a domineering mother who would have taught him this bold resolve.

  Guinevere began the delicate stroke of string and the sultry stretch to produce the sound of “Hallelujah.” It was slow and seductive, yet peaceful and heart pounding at the same time. As Guinevere closed her eyes again, fully immersed in the music making and clearly not holding back like she had with Morte, I noticed people starting to dab their eyes.

  Tristan was sitting more upright than his previous slump in a corner of the couch at the edge of the room. Lans was fully focused on Guinevere, transfixed at the movement of her hands. Perk was the one to make eye contact with me, raising an eyebrow in questioning amazement. Kaye watched with pride, but Mure Linn quietly exited the room.

  I looked back at Guinie. She was amazing. She was devoted and talented. Focused and transforming. I suddenly couldn’t look away and I fidgeted again with the need to have her physically, but not only because I wanted to feel her body, I wanted to be able to touch her goodness. She had an ability to make me feel things I hadn’t felt before and I wanted to feel more of again and again.

  She rocked with the rising crescendo and fell with the slow, drowning conclusion, pausing for a moment before opening her eyes. There was a solid bright gleam of sapphires from those eyes and the glow of her cheeks emphasized the intensity. The room paused with her for a moment before letting out a collective breath and applauding frantically. Tristan and Perk stood from their seats at the back and called her name, cheering loudly as if at a rock concert. My heart swelled with pride at my friends and their support of my girl.

  My girl. That’s what I felt. She belonged to me. With me. For me. And I would do everything to make her feel the same about me.

  I felt a guilty relief when Ana refused to let Morte spend the night again. I silently concurred that the day had been a
long one and although I was proud of the breakthroughs I felt I made with Morte, I was drained from the constant interaction as well. I couldn’t build, or repair, the relationship in one night. I did promise Morte another night soon, and I reassured him that I wouldn’t break that promise. I knew Guinevere wouldn’t let me.

  I walked her to her room as I had the night before, but this time I followed her inside when she entered her door. She didn’t tell me to leave and I took this as silent invitation to stay regardless of the adjoining door’s opening. Her back was still to me and I reached for her bare shoulders, massaging them slightly. Her head leaned forward and I used my strong fingers to work up her tight neck muscles.

  “Why so tense?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know I was, but that feels wonderful,” she moaned as I continued to work up her neck and into the base of her hair. Pressing firmly, squeezing her skin, I stepped closer just as she moaned again, pressing my body against her back. As I continued to massage, I began to nibble at her neck, holding her hair up high against her head. She leaned back into me and we stood as counter balances.

  I let my massaging hand drop to her waist, continuing to kiss the side of her neck, when Guinevere tilted her head to allow me better access to her warm skin. I used my hands to slide around her stomach and press her against me, feeling her ass brush sharply across my tight front. She rocked back into me and I groaned into her skin then watched it rise with goose-flesh in excitement. I gently bit her at the juncture where her shoulder and neck joined, then licked the spot to sooth the sting. Finally I blew on that space and Guinevere shivered against me.