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

  The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance

  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

  Format – Brenda Wright/Formating 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

  Dedication

  To the musicians who inspired a series of stories;

  and the songs they wrote that made my characters sing.

  Disclaimer

  If you’ve read The Legend of Arturo King, you know the fate of Arturo King, and if you’ve read The Truth of Tristan Lyons, you know what happened to him before you read further. Please note, that any medical misrepresentations are purely my error. I tried to be sensitive to the loss that both Arturo and Guinevere faced, but based their experiences on my own perceived emotions, feelings and sensitivities from the perspective of both fictional characters.

  If I ever wondered what the pits of hell felt like, I sensed my current position was similar to being in the fiery depths. The orange-yellow glow danced before me; blinding me to the man I knew was on the other side of the flames. His face was melting, fading in the fumes that surrounded and flowed from the heat. I sensed the wooden walls of the barn structure were crackling and eventually would crumble, but I continued to stand as if frozen. There would be no chance to freeze under the circumstances. If anything, I should be melting slowly to form a puddle on the floor. My skin felt as if it would peel off of me, one droplet of sweat at a time.

  The blaze started in an attempt to gain Arturo’s attention. The boy wanted to impress his father: a rock god who stubbornly ignored his son, as he had done over a year ago in this same barn. The Barn. The place of inspiration for Arturo King and his band, The Nights. The place where they performed their magic through music. The place that marked where history was made.

  I continued to stare through the flames that separated us. I could see that his lips were moving; calling or shouting out to me, but I couldn’t hear over the roar of the fire. His face was warped in my vision, drifting with the bright light that framed his head filled with dark waves and a jaw covered thicker than before. His brown eyes looked black as they stared back at me. I was trapped. The flames formed a wall between me and my beloved; a man I loved more than anyone. A man who I hurt more than I ever intended. A man who hurt me with his mysterious disappearance and lack of communication.

  I didn’t move. Allowing the heat to consume me, I decided this might be my fate. Death by fire was how the adulteress was punished in ancient times. Of course, in romance novels a hero comes to the aid of the persecuted. My mind flashed to another man. He had been a hero to a little girl trapped within a burning building. He had been my hero, as well, when I was kidnapped in a drugged induced haze. He was someone I should not have been thinking of.

  I continued to watch the movement of Arturo’s mouth. The roar of the flames was all that I heard. It made music to my ears, drowning out the accusations.

  How could I do it? How could I be with another man?

  The world seemed to stop as I struggled to give my answers. In contrast, it came alive in an orange glow that spread rapidly along the old wooden floor. My back was now against the warmth of the stones behind me. It was almost like I imagined a brick oven would feel. The ancient fieldstones were absorbing the heat and reflecting it back within the cramped space. Wood crackled above my head. The ripping sound only assured me that my end was eminent. The walls were catching and the barn was doomed to collapse.

  Suddenly, I heard my name. The voice that screamed to me was clear, familiar, and not the voice that should have called for me.

  “Guinie, turn around and reach up your hand,” he shouted down to me. It was like an angel spoke to me from the heavens. I couldn’t break my gaze on Arturo, but he was gesturing above me. His expression showed he clearly recognized who was over me, who was calling me. His eyes found mine through the flames and he nodded once. Then he looked away and I quickly spun reaching upward blindly. My eyes were dry, boiled orbs within their sockets. The smoke so thick, I confused it for fog. Stretching, my fingers connected with those reaching down for me. One hand was clasped, the opposite wrist encircled, and up I went into the freshness of the cool summer afternoon air. The scent of pine and lake water burned my smoke encrusted nose and I gasped for more oxygen. It was like I’d been drowning. A brief sensation I’d had a year ago in the water of that lake below.

  My mind was clouded, but a passing image flashed of Arturo and me spinning in the blue water. He’d kissed me for the first time on that day then rolled us off the boat into the water in distraction. We were playful then. Not today. I heard his voice ringing in my head; his words enflamed with his bitterness.

  How could I do it? Didn’t I love him?

  I balanced on hands and knees in the dry earth near the burning barn. My throat was hoarse from gassy fumes and screams. I called out his name one more time, and then the inevitable happened. The wooden structure collapsed.

  A month earlier…

  The Nights were set to play. The guys were gathered in the room off the stage, which they planned to share as the new trio: The Nights without Arturo King. It was a test, an experiment. Would the group be able to continue without him?

  I had no doubt they would. It wouldn’t be the same, but I had no concerns that they couldn’t pull it off. Tristan Lyons would be the new lead singer, and they would showcase all their songs, including the three that they’d collected without Arturo’s presence. There was “Beautiful Distraction” by Lansing Lotte; “This Quest,” a duet with Hollister and Tristan; and finally, Tristan’s gorgeous song, “Come Back.” The album was complete. Ten songs, originally sung and finished with Arturo King, were ready for release while the album awaited the final three cuts.

  It had been decided that The Nights would perform in my father’s place. The Round Table was a famous underground bar, known to make or break music careers. The unusual cylinder structure had natural acoustics with its three stories of ancient looking blocks. The sound travelled upward, vibrating off the circular inside, and any audience felt the music in their soul. It would surround them, engulf them, and fill them whole.

  I waited in my father’s office, three flights up from the pit. A tinted window ran the length of the wall. The shading was redundant as the black glass recessed into the darkness at the highest point of the cylinder shaped room. No one from below would be able to look in the window at this height regardless, but Leo DeGrance liked the extravagance. He could watch what he’d built, his mini-empire of music, in the comfort of this office, which is where I intended to watch the show that night. I had no intention of going downstairs and being part of the chaos that ensued in a concert of that magni
tude. Arturo King or not, the excitement of having the band, albeit partial, reunited and performing was outrageous. I didn’t need to be swept into the mayhem.

  I’d been harboring a friend, Isolde Ireland, in the other half of this third floor: my father’s home. Our private living quarters were opposite the elevator that divided his office from our apartment. Isolde had come to me in a moment of despair. Pregnant, alone, and newly disengaged from a terrible man, she anxiously chewed her lips standing next to me. We both stared down at the crowd. The lights on full, the men slowly gathering onto the stage, the energy was palpable. It was a living, breathing thing.

  I turned to see her close her eyes. I recognized her pain. She loved him: Tristan Lyons. She loved him deeply, but she didn’t know what to do about him. Known as The Heartbreaker, he had a reputation for loving and leaving, only this time I was convinced he wanted to stay. He wanted to love Ireland; he just wouldn’t admit it.

  The band began and we could hear their music piped in through the speakers overhead. While I wasn’t down below, I felt the music encompass me in a strange disconnected way. It was Arturo’s words, but it was not Arturo’s voice. I sighed deeply and closed my eyes, trying to conjure his voice in my head; hear him singing to me, of me, in the songs they sang. The words were written for me. One year ago, Arturo King and I began an affair that he claimed inspired him. I was his muse.

  I laughed internally. A muse was all I must have been. When that terrible accident caused his disappearance, Arturo did not see fit to return to me. His profession of love had been a farce. He couldn’t have loved me. Our engagement meant nothing to him. My Once. My Future. His words. He was only going to love once, and that made me his future. Lies, I decided after nine months. He’d disappeared without any other words. Empty silence.

  Hollow inside is how I felt and my arms instinctively wrapped around my middle. This stance was one I’d perfected. It was an attempt to hold myself together, hold my feelings inside, and control the hole he’d left behind. My heart beat slowly, a step down from the rhythm of the fast-paced music surrounding the room.

  My forehead rested on the cool glass. Tristan’s voice suddenly struggled over the crowd to speak. He was introducing the next song.

  “I need to go down there,” Ireland’s voice broke our private reveries. She turned her head to look at me with the most brilliant blue eyes. Her bright blonde hair hung loose and wavy around her model perfect face. She looked as hollow as I felt. I nodded slowly. Her draw to him was familiar to me. I felt the same connection to Arturo when he sang. I was pulled to him, a slow magnetic force, summoned by his voice. Of course, I didn’t hear that voice any longer. I nodded again toward the door and watched as Ireland left my father’s office for the main floor.

  I was disheartened to see Tristan kiss the other girl. The bright blonde bobbing up and down in front of the stage was hard to miss. Her hair almost glowed under the magnificence of the lights on stage. The song played on. Like a true rock star, he hardly missed a beat as he kissed that girl and stroked his guitar. Music was in their soul. The band could not function without it. Yet, it was so much a part of them they could do two things at once. The song finished.

  My disappointment lessened when I heard the words of Tristan.

  “I love a girl.” The resounding noise of screams after that statement almost drowned out the rest of his plea. My heart sank. I prayed Ireland had missed that kiss by still descending in the elevator, and yet, I somehow knew without seeing her, that she had witnessed it.

  “And I need her to know that she changed my world. I’m hoping if she hears my song, she’ll know I’m sorry I didn’t tell her earlier how I felt. And I’m hoping once she knows that I love her, she’ll come to me.”

  His voice pleaded as he sang. I heard the call in those words. He wanted her back. He wanted her to come to him. He was a fool in my opinion. She’d been on her way when he made that misstep, kissing another girl. How little did I recognize this foreshadowed my own story. He’d been on his way back to me, when I slept with someone else.

  I waited in the wings. I hadn’t meant to make my presence known. I followed the music. They sounded good, just the three of them. No ‘good’ was an understatement; they sounded fantastic, without me. My heart dropped to my toes as I hid in the dark shadows. I didn’t want to be discovered; I only wanted to hear them. The enthusiasm of the crowd was contagious. It always fueled our love of the music. Arturo King or not, the band would play on, I realized. Mure Linn was wrong, as he was about many things. The fans would love them. The album would be cut.

  My words poured out of Tristan Lyons’ mouth, flowing and flooding The Round Table with my love for a woman. Guinevere DeGrance, daughter of this establishment’s owner and my future bride. No, my intended bride. I shook my head again. No, my ex-fiancee. She could not be mine. I had destroyed that connection while I was away. Nine months was a long time to be gone. Many things could have happened in that time. Many things did happen. I wasn’t intending to return, but the music. It called to my soul. It pulled at the core of me, and so I slowly made my way closer and closer to the edge of the stage.

  There was some commotion with Tristan. He was pledging his love to a woman. I never thought I’d see the day. Tristan Lyons, The Heartbreaker himself, had finally found his favorite flavor. He didn’t want to let her go, and yet somehow, he had lost her. His song expressed his longing, his desire; his need for her return. His words outside the lyrics confirmed it. I heard him yell he loved the girl. What fools we were for love. The things we did, or didn’t do, for it, I thought.

  I didn’t want to see the chaos. I didn’t need to. In my mind’s eye, I could picture The Round Table as I had pictured it so many times in my recovery. The hollow cylinder, the ancient cement blocks, and the echo of music as it covered the walls. I could practically see the music climb and coat the dark, dirty looking stone interior. The pit would be filled body to body. Soft blue lights dimly lit the area, while the brighter lights of the stage reflected off the opposite side of the pit. A wall of mirrors with shelves of liquor in browns, ambers, and yellows would glow. I swallowed hard with the desire for a drink and the control to not take one. I’d already used too much of that to numb me. Tonight, I wanted to be fully cognizant of my surroundings.

  As I stood to the side, the band returned to the stage. Tristan must have rushed off after the girl. Perkins had done the same thing. He’d hastened to the aid of a woman, and then…well, then everything went to hell for me. For Perkins, he’d gotten the girl. In turn, I lost mine.

  I didn’t realize how close to the band I had drawn. I could see the strain on Tristan’s face as he tried to remain professional. He tried to numb his feelings and return to the music. He was a performer. His legendary good looks could distract from the pain those closer to him would know was evident. He wanted to walk out of this concert and find that girl. We’d already lived that experience, though. When I went with Perkins at the end of that concert in August, the result was twofold at the time: save the girl, wind up in a fog for months.

  Tristan’s voice continued on in a song I didn’t recognize. I’d heard a rumor that the band had written three additional songs and finished the album. Kaye Sirs and Leo DeGrance, ever the businessmen, must have carried onward. Money was the music to their ears. Cash registers going cha-ching made them dance. For the rest of us, music was music. Sounds. Lyrics. Instruments. Songs.

  The song began soulfully, almost religious sounding. It sang of longing, and return, and need. I recognized the girl that sang with Tristan: Hollister SanGrael. She was the girl that Perkins had longed for. She was the girl returned. She was the one he had needed. Above all other women, she was the one that he had been saving himself for. He believed in love so strongly, that Perkins did not enjoy the physical pleasures of women like the rest of us in the band. He remained a virgin, convinced that she would be waiting for him, as well. The woman was written for sin with her long dark hair, gray eyes, and body
curved like a pin-up calendar girl. Her voice was added to that list of gluttony; it made one lust for her. My imagination doubted she’d been saved for him, but I hoped for his sake that she had. Perkins’ face beamed with pride as his love sang out with Tristan.

  Eventually, I neared the stage enough that I almost felt as if I was on it. The music was vibrating across the boards, rhythmic under my feet, and the reverberation from the speakers reflected off my skin. I was beaded with sweat. Not as intensely as my bandmates, but growing warm just the same at the excitement, the pull, the dedication to such a song. I had an outer body experience with the music, until it ended without my notice, and the words blared through the microphone.

  “Holy shit. It’s Arturo.”

  Frozen still, I sweat further. I didn’t want to be recognized. I wasn’t ready to go public.

  “You must return at some point,” came the gentle voice of Mure Linn in my head. “Your rightful place remains.”

  I wasn’t convinced I had the right to lead the band. I’d been gone for too long; I believed I’d lost my power. I certainly knew I had lost other things; my heart being one of them.

  In this very room, I told her I loved her. My Once. My Future. I suspected I would only love one time in my life. She would be that once. That also made her my future. How abruptly that all ended. The slow murmur of my name snapped my thoughts from Guinevere.

  Arturo was chanted in that growing awkward way, until the crowd developed a pattern, a rhythm. My name rose in a constant cheer and a smile broke my face. I hadn’t smiled in a long, long time. It felt strange, as if I was using muscles I didn’t recall having, or rather, relearning to use muscles that had since gone slack. Tristan Lyons met my eyes with disbelief, while Lansing Lotte stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost.