The Story of Lansing Lotte Page 4

  The elevator to my apartment on the fifteenth floor was an old cage lift. It was temperamental and there was some injunction that it was a historical piece of the building, so it couldn’t be replaced. I was pretty sure it didn’t meet city code. I was trying to maneuver the metal gate when I heard a voice yell to hold the elevator.

  3A.

  My neighbor within the building was one of those beautiful women who had a child: a total MILF, for lack of any better acronym. Simply put, she was hot. Honey blonde hair, deep brown eyes, sweet body. Problem was; I was pretty sure she knew it. She’d never been a snob to me. Heck no, she flirted with me often, but I never asked her name and she never asked mine. I didn’t know the woman’s name, by choice. I liked the anonymity, actually. I only knew her as 3A. I would have thought she knew who I was, but she never addressed me as if she knew me personally, like many fans are apt to do. She never even gave a hint to it. Our banter with one another might have bordered on sexual harassment, but she didn’t seem to mind. We flirted often in the elevator or the lobby.

  “Hold the elevator? Is that slang for something you kids are doing nowadays?” I teased.

  She was no more than my age of twenty-four. I smirked as she struggled into the lift with a bag of groceries in one hand, a large tote dangling from her elbow and her other hand holding onto Fleur, her four-year-old daughter. It all started because of the adorable child. I teased her that one day I was going to marry the sweet girl, and 3A retorted that I would have to go through her first. The sexual innuendo was present, and we kept the banter appropriate, but suggestive.

  I surprisingly did know Fleur’s name, as she’s who I had flirted with first. It started with shy smiles, finger waves and a dancing ladybug. She was just too cute with waves of dark hair and bright eyes that didn’t match her mother. I was determined to get her to talk to me and after several months, she finally did. Eventually, she shared her name and age with me.

  I pressed the button for the third floor and 3A took a deep sigh as the gate closed.

  “Hold the elevator, uh?” She was thinking. “Why hold it, when I should stroke it to make it go up, instead?” she laughed. Her smile was white teeth against lusciously curved lips in a pink shade of lipstick.

  “Holding, it’s the only way to make it go up,” I nodded once at her boldness. She laughed deeply that time and I loved to hear it. She seemed good natured and carefree. With a body like hers I bet she was, which is how she had a daughter without a husband, but I didn’t know her story.

  The lift jolted to a stop on the third floor and I had to yank the gate to unlatch from its catch on the other side. It opened with a rippling rattle and Fleur exited before 3A.

  “Thanks for holding the elevator,” she purred, as she glanced seductively at me over her shoulder and entered into the hall.

  “Holding the elevator for you would be my pleasure, anytime,” I joked back. She was a tease, but I enjoyed her.

  When I entered my apartment, I heard the rifling sound of gunfire and men hollering. A muttered, “die you bastard,” sounded from my living room where I found one of my oldest friends, outside the band, and the owner of the famous building. William Galehaut was lounging on my couch. The William Galehaut the Third, of the famous Long Island software giants.

  Of course, he hated that title and preferred to be called his last name Galehaut only. Ironically, we met on the Internet. I was lonely some nights while the band was in college and I was stuck in high school, living at Ingrid Tintagel’s during the weekdays. I found solace in gaming and the battles that ensued with the infamous gamer tag named, GalehautIII. While I was the scholarship kid, he was the spoiled rich kid. While I had talent to be shared, he had no recognized talent and no desire to learn. He wasn’t lazy, though; he was a genius and that meant he was bored. He loved computer games and was the king of battles across the Internet, as we spent late nights dueling instead of doing homework, or in my case, practicing guitar. Galehaut did what he wanted, knowing he would one day inherit his parents’ software company, that was derived from a television inventor, that was the result of a factory owner. Galehaut could trace his lineage to the industrial birth of New York and the antiquated wealth of Long Island. His attitude occasionally proved it.

  I wasn’t one to put up with it, though, and we had many fights electronically. I didn’t take his crap. He didn’t know how to handle it when a person didn’t, but he returned each night to battle. Other conversations ensued through the lines, and eventually, Galehaut learned my true identity. I was a member of The Nights. He was a huge Arturo King fan. In true disbeliever form, he doubted me at first, and once challenged, I set out to prove him wrong. I invited a virtual stranger to meet me and the band. Galehaut showed up at the neutral territory of The Round Table and immediately pledged his love of all things Nights, as well as, his loyal friendship to me. Despite being underage, he moved me into one of the many buildings owned by his family – Dolorous Guard.

  It wasn’t always easy being a scholarship kid at a school full of talent; talent that came from money. I felt like I had to constantly prove that I deserved to be there amongst the offspring of the rich and famous. Of course, some of my best friends fell into that category. Arturo was the son of the infamous Lorde Uther, proprietor of the Pendragon Empire, which owned Camelot Records and the illustrious Ingrid Tintagel, socially elite contributor to arts and women’s welfare. Perkins Vale was the son of Alan Vale, of the Valentines, an iconic band in the 70’s and 80’s. William Galehaut, like my other friends, did not care about my upbringing, especially after he learned the truth of my family. Actually, after he learned of my family lineage, he said it only made sense we were friends. He claimed we were destined from birth to be them.

  Living within his building came with a bit of assumed freedom by Galehaut and that included entrance to my apartment. He was deeply engrossed in a video game I didn’t recognize, as I plopped onto my sofa next to his large structure. He was big guy, bigger than Perk, but not as fit as him. Not solid like Perkins, but not exactly fat, either.

  “Hey, bitch,” he grumbled, as his tongue worked in and out of his open lips, while he concentrated on the screen and the firing of guns at some type of alien force.

  “What’s up, Will?”

  William Galehaut the Third hated to be called Will, and he knew I hated to be called bitch. He used it as a nickname, in reference to my sexual lifestyle and his understanding of it, as he compared me to a female dog in heat, hence the technically correct use of the name. He said I had more experience than the local tramp, another reference to wayward dogs, and I lacked the commitment necessary to stay with one partner. However, Galehaut knew my secret.

  I was in love with Guinevere.

  “You look happy, Your Grace,” he continued without even looking at me.

  His other endearing nickname was a result of my calling him Will when I was displeased. Will and Grace was a television show in the late 90’s about a gay male and his live-in best friend, who was a girl. If Galehaut was Will, I had to be Grace, he mockingly said to me once.

  If I’m Will, you’re Grace.

  We laughed for hours after he told me his true nature. Phonetically it stuck: Your Grace. Actually, the roles in our relationship were reversed compared to that comedy. William was poor Grace, the one in love with a man he couldn’t ever have.

  I knew his secret, also. He was in love with me.

  In my early twenties, it was awkward at first to discover one of my closest friends was homosexual. I never noticed before that he didn’t date or didn’t discuss girls. Galehaut was a video game geek. I assumed it was because he was immature, antisocial, and downright rude at times. Quite frankly, I had my own issues and wasn’t concerned one way or another with his sexual preference. So, when Galehaut admitted in a drunk-stupor one night that he didn’t like women, it was the start and finish of the discussion.

  He later claimed he wasn’t physically attracted to me, but it took me a bit to work
that out. He told me I was his only true friend, the only one who understood his winning personality (choke-choke), and he wasn’t risking the friendship with his desire for something else (hint-hint). Knowing that I didn’t swing both ways, he confidently told me he didn’t care that I was straight and slept with every woman known to mankind. He would keep his feelings in check, and his physical desires found attention elsewhere. He was determined his confession would not get in the way of our friendship, and I didn’t let it, either.

  “Did lover-girl finally admit her true feelings for you?” Galehaut continued, without breaking his concentration on the game.

  “Don’t call her that. And don’t talk about her like that, either,” I said, as I playfully shoved his big head and stood up from the couch.

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “A beer. I stocked your fridge, so they should be cold.”

  See, as good as a doting girlfriend.

  When I returned to the sofa with two freshly chilled beers, I explained my good mood caused by Layne, which forced Galehaut to turn to me, letting his avatar on the screen be killed.

  “You need to call her. Call this Layne and get your head out of your ass over Guinevere.”

  Galehaut didn’t care for Guinevere, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault that we hadn’t gotten together, all those years ago. The blame was all mine. When she re-entered the scene in May, he immediately suggested I go for Guinie again. Tell her the truth, he encouraged, but with Arturo in the mix, I just couldn’t do that to my best friend. We had agreed, all those years ago, that a girl would never come between us. I knew Galehaut was right, though. I needed to stop focusing on Guinevere, but before I could act, he had my phone and was texting.

  “What did you just do?” I shrieked, almost sounding like a girl. I grabbed my phone from his large, clumsy hands and stared at the screen.

  Would love to see you again. Is tomorrow too soon?

  My mouth hung open. For someone I assumed had trouble finding dates, maybe my friend knew more about pick-ups than I assumed. My phone pinged instantly in my hand.

  Tomorrow would be perfect.

  I didn’t know Lansing Lotte. He lived in my building on the fifteenth floor or somewhere up there, but I didn’t personally know him. He had a nickname – the Lady Killer – and I felt that name served him well. He had the cutest dimples, bright blue eyes, and those longish dark bangs. He was distracting to look at, but I knew better than to be distracted by a pretty face. I also knew he had powerful hands, of course not through any experience with them, but by assumption since he was a guitar player.

  He’d asked me once to join him at a party in the building we shared, but I surmised he wasn’t serious. It was best for me not to attend anywhere that I might run into someone who would recognize me, my sister, or Fleur. I did everything I could to protect Fleur and prevent her from being in any way at risk of exposure to the kind of life I tried to avoid, as much as possible, after high school.

  My father had been an absentee father, as long as I could remember, until high school, but he was generous with my sister and I. He showered us with gifts for birthdays and Christmas¸ and sent money to my mother, which was all she cared about once they were separated. After our parents divorced when I was only two, Sara and I travelled often with him in the mandatory summer visits, but that wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. As I grew up under those stressful visits, I perfected the art of reading amongst extreme noise and the craft of photography. When you hung around bands as much as Sara and I did, you got a bit immune to the sound if you weren’t musical, which we weren’t. And after my seventeenth year, you could become immune to the nostalgia of being around gorgeous rock stars, especially when your head came out of the clouds and you recognized that he was human like everyone else.

  That was my problem, back then. I didn’t want to see him as human. I saw him as my savior. I was surprised to find he had an interest in me. I wasn’t the pretty one, with dark hair and unusual eyes. I was the younger one, with blonde hair that was just bland and lacking any natural highlights like Sara. I was also shorter than her, emphasizing further that I was the younger sister. The one thing we both had in common was the shape of our bodies. That had been a blessing and a curse.

  So when Lansing Lotte began to flirt with me, I knew he didn’t really see me. He just saw any girl with a luscious body. He also saw a beautiful dark haired child with the same unusual eyes as my sister; he actually flirted with her first. We were in the front lobby one day, waiting for my mother, who was here for a rare visit. She was late, as usual, and I was getting antsy in the apartment, so we came down to visit Herman, the day footman and Fleur’s newfound friend. Fleur was twirling around, showing Herman some dance she had learned from television, or somewhere, and the elderly Hispanic man was clapping his hands to encourage her. She had on a ladybug costume with a bright red tutu and large black polka dots. I hadn’t wanted to argue with a then three-year-old about what to wear. My mother would be critical, either way.

  While we were in the lobby, Lansing entered with his dark glasses, his cool swagger, and beat up attire that made him look sexy and innocent at the same time. He was slightly younger than his bandmates, but not by much, yet he looked like a college co-ed. Fleur spun too far and directly into the path of Lansing, who had to angle his body in a way that he stopped short and bent over her, in an effort to break his moving momentum. I had sucked in a breath, expecting him to act put out by a little girl in his way. He removed his sunglasses slowly, dramatically, and I held my breath at both his pretty looks and his dangerous glare. I moved toward Fleur, intending to sweep her up, when Lansing crouched down to Fleur’s level.

  “May I have this dance, Lady Ladybug?” he asked her.

  She was shy at first and walked backwards, until she had bumped into my legs. I couldn’t say if it was instinctive or not, but she wrapped her hand around my knees and tried to bury her head into my thighs. I placed a hand on her head to reassure her. She tilted so her eyes could still see Lansing, despite the position of her body.

  “She’s adorable,” he said to her before he looked up at me.

  When his bright blue eyes met mine, I blinked. I felt tasered and my stunned emotion showed when I failed to respond to him. I had to blink again and I looked to Herman, as if unclear that Lansing Lotte had just addressed me. When I still didn’t reply, Lansing said something to Herman in Spanish that I did not comprehend. Both men laughed and Herman winked at me as reassurance. Their laughter slapped me out of my stupor; it was then that my mouth decided to work.

  “Maybe one day I’ll take you up on that dance, instead,” I said, without even thinking. It was how I had gotten into trouble all those years ago. Flirting.

  His face showed his surprise, which made me laugh.

  “I’m sure you know how to tango,” I said, leaning forward and winking at him.

  It was his turn to blink. He looked at Herman, an expression on his face that showed he wondered if I was for real. When Herman shook his head in warning, Lansing burst into laughter.

  “I don’t know about tangos, but I know how to wiggle.” He broke into a crazy twist in front of Fleur, who turned toward him. He continued his gyration, for a moment or two, before Fleur started following his lead. She shyly swayed her hips, as he continued his silly moves, and then he broke into song.

  It wasn’t one of The Nights tunes I recognized. I knew their hits, even though I wasn’t a fan. I couldn’t be around the music industry and not know songs by The Nights, but his voice was deep and playful, as if he wasn’t used to being the center of attention. I’m sure he wasn’t, with the gorgeous, dangerous looks of Arturo King front and center on the stage and a voice that could melt panties. The band also had the model good looks of the dark blond Tristan Lyons, who had a reputation all his own. They all had a reputation, even the allusive Perkins Vale, but the Lady Killer had to be a hard reputation to keep up or shut down. Either way, I knew Lansing had just s
hot an arrow of admiration into my Fleur. She broke from my legs and moved into the space between us to continue her dance to the subtle voice of Lansing Lotte.

  The next day would have been perfect to meet Layne, except I got a call from Tristan an hour before our date.

  “Did you know that Guinevere was pregnant?”

  I nearly dropped the phone, but caught it with my opposite hand as it slid out of my grasp.

  “What?” I choked. For a brief moment, I had a fear that Tristan of knew my indiscretion - that I had kissed Guinevere when I rescued her from Mel Agent. Idiot that I was, I immediately reminded myself there was no way she could be pregnant from that kiss, which meant one thing and one thing only. Arturo King was going to be a father. Again.

  “Dude, I think you need to meet me at the hospital. I’m a bit out of my element.”

  “What?” I growled. “Why is Guinie in the hospital?”

  “Can you just get here and I can explain? I think this is bad, man. Really bad.”

  I was already out the door and in the elevator when the line went dead. No service in the caged trap. Along with the ancient history of the building, it included the traditional caged box of a lift. It moved slowly as if I was descending into another level of hell. First had been the descent into Arturo’s accident and missing body. Then was the step further into Guinevere’s pregnancy with another man’s baby. Not just any man, my best friend.

  I cursed myself as I raced through the streets in my white Dodge Charger with a bright red strip down the center. I was no white knight, but I pushed my powerful beast to new speeds and maneuvers within the busy streets of Manhattan.

  When I arrived at the emergency room entrance, I was immediately met by Tristan, just inside the hallway that I paced after Guinevere’s kidnapping. Tristan leaned against the wall, making eyes at a nurse seated at the station. He had that look on his face that I’d seen many nights. He was going home with someone, most likely the blonde behind the desk.