The Legend of Arturo King Read online

  Even though I grew up surrounded by rock-n-roll, grunge, punk, and alternative bands, I was classically trained to play the cello. Taking up the instrument seemed rather strange to my father when my private grade school offered introduction to musical instruments, but I knew that I wanted that instrument because it was different. I didn’t hold it across my stomach and pluck the strings with riotous abandon like a guitar, but placed the cello between my legs, caressing it with tender grace. The momentum to stroke the strings with my bow was soothing, and I found myself lost in the rhythm of the instrument immediately.

  Of course, it took time to master such a powerful object, and I was nothing if not determined, especially if my father told me no, which he rarely did.

  As a single father, there wasn’t much Leo DeGrance denied me, his only daughter. The love of his life had been his wife, who passed away when I was only three years old. His second wife had always been the Round Table, which was originally just a hole in the ground, or at least that’s the way my father liked to make it sound before it became the current circular underground structure. Dad believed that a round object made all sides equal and this was his philosophy in taking on new, inexperienced bands. They equally had the potential to make it to the top as long as they worked hard and considered themselves equals. As soon as one band member decided he or she was better than another, Dad could predict almost to the day the downfall of that band’s career.

  Leo DeGrance was an amazing father as well, although I knew I came second to the bar. While his world revolved around his collection and education of hardcore bands, his upbringing of me was quite the opposite. I went to the finest of private schools. I had the best tutors and masters for learning and perfecting the cello. I attended the New York Academy for Performing Arts and earned my admission to the Music College. I was pampered without being spoiled and trained in the ways of being a perfect hostess and companion when necessary for finer society than an underground bar. While the underground was Dad’s domain, he had connections to other walks of life and he nurtured cultured society when necessary, especially if it involved politics, ethics, and ways around city codes.

  I began the short walk down the dim hallway to the elevator, which was one of those things that tested city code regulations. The hallway was private for family and a few select friends. While many knew it existed, few had the privilege of entering this sacred space. The express elevator went straight from the pit floor three stories up to two exits. To the left was Dad’s office, a sprawling space that overlooked the bar below from a story above. A heavy glass section cut into the brick at the top of the Round Table looked one way across the energetic pit below. The darkly shaded glass was nearly invisible above the low lights of the bar floor, and too high for anyone to look into even if it were possible. The opposite door of the elevator led to our home. From the street front, the place looked like any well-groomed New York business with residences above, and this was where I was deposited after midnight.

  Being above the pulsing Round Table, I could no longer hear the raspy, gravelly voice of Arturo King, and this gave me saddened relief. I’d had a silly fan-girl crush on him for as long as I could remember, but as Leo’s daughter, Arturo was unobtainable, both because of who I was and who he is. I continued to think of the way I felt walking through the bar, unable to shake the sensation of wishing his eyes had roamed over me. I longed to have someone desire me the way that look stared out into the crowd. I would prefer other parts of him roaming over me as well, but I was all too aware of the likes of Arturo King … and any other musician who came through my father’s bar. They were off limits to me, and I was off limits to them.

  It wasn’t that Dad was a hypocrite. He adored his bands and many of their members became life-long friends who worshipped him and his good opinion. On that note, they respected that he had a daughter and made no attempts to attract me. On the other hand, I was kept away from the bar enough that I couldn’t be tempted by any of the seduction a band would provide. I was busy practicing with my own instrument, or performing at my own concerts, or participating in my own form of celebration to be concerned with the likes of rock bands in a dungeon, but it didn’t mean I was immune to Arturo King.

  As a young teenage girl I would steal away to my father’s ground-floor office to listen to Arturo’s voice as his band, Nights, practiced under the tutelage of the famous Leo DeGrance. Younger than him by four years, I wasn’t blind to his attractiveness. I admired the looks of Arturo: his dark wavy hair falling in his eyes when it was just too long, deep brown eyes that could penetrate a girl to her core, rock-hard biceps that were as enticing as they were strong. A fluttering sensation in a part of my body I didn’t recognize until I was older stirred within me when I heard him sing. His voice, rough, as if wet rocks tumbled in a jar, made me hold my breath like I had as I listened tonight. His overall presence screamed sexuality.

  Which led to one other thing I knew about Arturo King – he loved women. And women loved him. He was said to be kind. I’d often heard other, more descriptive explanations of that kindness. He was a generous lover. He was gentle with a woman’s body. He knew how to give pleasure. I blushed when I heard women speak of him like this, but it also brought on a stronger sensation than the fluttering from when I was a teenager. I wanted to know that kind of pleasure myself. Now the feeling was more like a plague of butterflies fighting to climb to the surface at the base of my belly.

  Another thing I knew about Arturo was the mere thought of butterflies showed my innocence at twenty-one, and that was something Arturo did not do. He was not attracted to sweet, shy, good girls like me. He was not attracted to the pure beauty of classical when he could have hard, edgy rock and roll. He was not attracted to a virgin lover when he had endless experience. No, he would not be attracted to someone like the less-famous daughter of Leo DeGrance.

  Arturo

  I woke with a throbbing headache and a pulsing dick. I could attribute the lower half to my incredible dream involving a vision in white who didn’t ignore me, but rather adored me. Who untied that halter top at the base of her beautiful neck and let it fall to expose two delicious-looking breasts, and slipped out of the remainder of her innocent dress to reveal long lush legs that spread easily for me. Who pursed her soft lips on me in ways that made my most vital body part spring larger, and swirled her tongue over the hills and valleys of my stomach, making a trail down to my…

  The throbbing headache pounded again and I suddenly realized it was the door.

  “Arturo, you better be fucking awake.”

  “As opposed to fucking while asleep,” I mumbled as I staggered to unlock my bedroom door. I tripped over my shoes, which lay haphazardly on the floor. I searched for pants and saw my jeans from the night before crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. It was then that I realized I had an overnight guest.

  Shit, I had done it again. I noticed immediately the empty bottle on the nightstand and knew instantly what had happened without actually remembering anything. I drank enough to numb my mind, and ended up so numb I couldn’t remember what my body did the night before. Although from the looks of the sprawled blonde hair draped over my second pillow, I had a pretty clear idea of what I did, even if I couldn’t remember if it was good.

  I wiped a shaky hand over my roughly stubbled face and bent slowly to retrieve my pants. The girl didn’t stir and I cursed myself again. I didn’t like to bring women here and I preferred not to use my own bed when I did. This was a sign that I had gone too far.

  The banging on the door came again.

  “Artur...” Kaye’s voice stumbled to a whisper as the door opened briskly and he took in the sight of me, then looked over my shoulder into the room.

  “Not again,” Kaye muttered in a sound of uncertain disappointment.

  I hated to disappoint Kaye Sirs, my older brother. My foster brother. I had already disappointed him once before, or rather I had been a disappointment that changed everything for Kaye. Everythin
g.

  Without asking, Kaye pushed the door open farther and got the glimpse he was searching for within the room.

  “Who is she?”

  I remained silent.

  “This isn’t going to look good. We are trying to keep a low profile before the world tour. No outrageous sexcapades. No psychotic fans. No drunken orgies.”

  Kaye paused. “Bringing one home only adds fuel to a potential fire.”

  I continued to remain silent.

  Kaye Sirs was the Nights’ manager and he did a good job being in charge. I owed him many things and most of all I prided myself on loyalty to Kaye despite learning we were not blood brothers. Kaye was older than me by five years, and as an authoritative figure, he was sometimes bossy. I recognized that controlling voice as a potential leadership quality and I allowed him to manage the band. In many ways, it was a relief to let Kaye be in charge, but it had recently left me wanting. I was the songwriter, but I hadn’t felt particularly inspired lately. I actually felt more like I was just going through the motions.

  Merle Linn, Mure, was my oldest friend, both figuratively and literally, and had been telling me lately I needed to get back to the boy I was before the success. The one who was inspired to do something I had never done before. The one who went for what I wanted. The one who took charge of a moment.

  It all started when I was twelve. I was an energetic kid, did well in school, but not great. I participated in athletics, but I didn’t excel. I was rather social, but not recommendable. I was average and under the radar, and I was fine with that. I was happy to be in the shadow of my older brother, Kaye.

  I always had a sense that I didn’t belong with Hector and Kaye. Hector Sirs was a serious man, who was kind but firm in his upbringing of his two sons. There was never any mention of my mother, and when I asked, Hector changed the subject. I didn’t focus on the subject often, but every once in a while I would notice something that made me feel disconnected from my family, and made me wonder what became of her.

  Hector was a closet entertainer. He sang. He air-guitared. He could put on a show at home as a hardcore rock-and-roll man, but by day he was a serious and professional music teacher. Kaye was rapidly following in his father’s performing shoes, albeit in a more outwardly way. He was classically trained to sing by a voice coach and had hours of instruction on the piano. He took his work very seriously, which caused him to frequently not laugh at my energetic enthusiasm for anything. Kaye wanted to be more than our father. He wanted to be a star.

  It was during his years in high school that he joined the glee club. With his vocal training and the growing popularity of pop-choirs, Kaye was a rising star. His voice was balanced, his hands could play both piano and guitar, and his mind was focused, making him a recognizable name in competitions. I didn’t get formal training in anything, but I never questioned it. When Kaye practiced singing, I would practice as well. When Kaye needed to memorize a song, I would be his coach. When Kaye needed someone to accompany him on the guitar, I did my best to help.

  During a winter competition for Kaye’s high school, I was allowed to attend to witness what I considered the magic of performers. The fundraiser was being sponsored by none other than Camelot Records, a slowly dying record company that specialized at one time in hardcore rock music. Owned by a real-estate tycoon, the company was never properly managed, and had been losing in sales for years. It still held this annual event, however, which offered a grant for music education to the high school that won the competition. As a fundraiser, Camelot Records would also donate to the winning school’s charity of choice. Finally the competition included an original 1956 Les Paul guitar for the winning soloist.

  Kaye was determined to win the guitar. He wanted a new one desperately and our father simply could not afford it. It was all he could do to provide for two growing boys on his average salary. I knew that secretly Hector had all his hopes on Kaye to win the competition, and to one day be more successful than him. I didn’t know what a Les Paul guitar was really, any more than I knew the difference between an electric and acoustic. I just knew that music was music and it spoke to me somehow.

  When Kaye asked me to be his helper and get his guitar, I was thrilled to be involved in his quest. I rushed to the classroom that contained all the club’s props, costumes, and instruments, only to find the door locked. In frustration, I twisted and tugged at the doorknob, even banged on the old wood in hopes it would somehow jar open, but it didn’t. I turned my back on the cold door and slid to the floor, almost in tears thinking I had failed my older brother.

  I remembered how I tipped my head to rest on bent knees, willing myself not to cry for fear of disappointing Hector, who did not like signs of weakness. I suddenly felt the presence of someone in front of me and slowly looked up to see an older gentleman staring down at me. The man had the whitest hair I had ever seen and a trimmed beard that hugged his chin. The hair on his head was longer and combed back in a smooth helmet, making him look like a biker version of Santa Claus.

  “What’s going on here?” the man asked with genuine concern.

  “I can’t get in this room, and my brother needs his guitar for the solo competition.”

  “I see.” The old man paused before adding, “How is sitting on the floor helping your brother?”

  I had to think for a moment before I replied.

  “It’s not, really.”

  “Well, what do you intend to do now?” the man asked, and I noticed he had the strangest of eyes. They were two different colors. One was dark and dull like a rolling thunderstorm, while the other was almost turquoise and swirled like a Caribbean ocean wave.

  “I don’t … I don’t exactly know.”

  “Hhmmm … I see. Well, when you do know, let me know.” With that the old man began to walk away from me down the long, empty hall. It was then that I noticed the guitar. It was slightly thin and beautifully made in an hourglass shape of rich brown-grained wood, and my mouth watered at the beauty of the object. I followed a few paces behind the stranger down the musty hall, hearing only the faint sound of my own Converse on the tiled floor. I stopped at the end to admire the instrument inside a glass case from afar as the old man turned left down the adjacent hallway. I leaned forward, pressing my hands on the enclosure, thinking only to get a closer look at the guitar when the glass slid slightly across the black base structure.

  I pushed back with a jolt. I looked left. I looked right. Bracing my hands gently on the glass again, I nudged the large box-like structure away from me. The encasement slid easily to a raised ridge in the base and, with a little extra force, I was able to tilt the glass upward, allowing me to remove the guitar. To this day, there were times I was uncertain how my small frame could balance the large glass box and slip the beautiful guitar under the edge without dropping the case and smashing the instrument to splinters.

  I hurried with the guitar in my hands to the backstage of the auditorium to find Kaye already on the stage, nervously rubbing his hands on the sides of his thighs. He was not good at impromptu entertainment. He had been trained and practiced, and he found comfort in knowing what he was to sing, both when and how. He couldn’t stall, and I could see the sweat breaking at his temple. Tall and thin, his bleach-blond hair and surfer looks were overshadowed with how pale his face was at the moment. Forgetting that it was a solo performance, and that meant one person, I began to strum the guitar on the side of the stage, hidden from the audience, and sang softly to encourage Kaye.

  It backfired in more ways than one. Kaye remained frozen in shock at the sound of my voice. He turned in my direction as if on a pull string, wound tight. Then he stood still as if suspended, awaiting release. I continued to sing, raising my voice slightly louder, hoping to encourage Kaye to begin his performance. Kaye didn’t even blink; he just stared at me off stage.

  Without thinking, I stepped out of the wings and moved toward Kaye, trying to prompt him to join the song. Before I realized what I was doing I was standin
g at center stage, facing Kaye, but strumming vigorously on the guitar and singing at the top of my young lungs. I ended up finishing the entire song to a deathly silent audience. For a moment after the song completed, there wasn’t a sound to be heard but the final echo of the last strum across the guitar strings. I held my own breath when I recognized where I stood, and noticed all the people staring.

  And just as suddenly, a thunderous sound exploded in the auditorium, and I was bitten by the excitement of being on stage. I blinked at the blinding lights spotlighting the center area and I felt the heat despite the distance, but it was the sensation within my body that had me most enflamed. I marveled at the thrill of the crowd cheering for me. Without another thought, I broke into another song, and the audience went mad.

  It wasn’t until I finished my encore that I realized my mistake. I looked at Kaye with a smile so large on my face I was sure that my ears would have to move out of the way, only to see the shuttered look of rejection from him. While I recalled the moment in hindsight, I almost wished Kaye had gotten mad and punched me in the face. It was that look of disappointment on his face that broke my heart, and put a permanent rift between the two of us.

  This incident also began my love of the stage and entertaining, but it wasn’t until I had further guidance from Mure Linn, the old man from the hallway, that I learned my true gift.

  In a matter of moments, the whole memory returned to me as I drowned out the lecture Kaye was droning through about keeping it clean and another long tour and getting rid of the girl. On that last note, I turned to see the girl sitting up in my bed with the sheets pulled up to barely cover her too-large chest. She looked okay. A bit rough, like I was sure I looked. Maybe a bit used, like I was sure I was used.