The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance (Legendary Rock Star #5) Page 4

  “He was ready to return,” Ana confirmed. Her tone had taken a strange turn from the typical hiss I was used to. I trusted her less with this formal politeness. I could no longer avoid the glare I felt drilling into the side of my head. I turned in her direction to see one eyebrow raised, daring me to ask her questions. Tempting me to ask her to clarify if he wished to return, or return to me.

  There wasn’t time to ask. Servants entered and Ingrid fell into hostess mode. She beamed with excitement to hold a dinner for the boys. I excused myself and went to a room assigned to me. Ingrid thrived on a full house, and that night would certainly be full.

  I waited until I heard noises from below, knowing that Arturo had arrived before I went down. I had barely crossed the threshold of the living room when Morte squealed my name. He ran toward me and I struggled to pick him up. He was getting so big and my heart skipped an extra beat. I liked Morte. I empathized with him. His relationship with Arturo had been strained for years. While I lowered the heavy Morte, I watched Arturo over Morte’s thin shoulders as he greeted Ana. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and she wrapped an arm around his neck. She pulled him into her and held on tight. It definitely appeared like a lover’s embrace, more than the casual greeting I first assumed.

  I stood slowly, my hands running tenderly through Morte’s dark hair. Arturo’s eyes met mine over Ana’s shoulder and he pulled back from her. His dark eyes questioned mine and I tried to look away. Morte twisted in my hands to face his father at the same time Ana turned out of Arturo’s arms, keeping an arm firmly wrapped around him. They stood like proud parents, and I felt like a total imposter. Morte walked toward his mother as if she summoned him with the hypnosis of her snake eyes. Well, there she is, I briefly thought. I wasn’t glaring at her as much as taking in the image of Arturo with Morte and Ana. My heart dropped to my feet and bile rose to my throat. My hand slowly caressed my lower abdomen.

  “Are you all right, Guinevere?” The hiss had returned to Ana’s voice. I continued to stand mute as Arturo extracted himself from her. He was beginning to reach for me when I took a step back. There were feet of space between us, but I didn’t want him to touch me. Not after he had been wrapped up in her. Hypocrite immediately jumped into my brain, and I flinched at my own thoughts. I took another step back. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on my forehead. A quivering hand reached up to wipe my hair back.

  “Guinie?” Arturo questioned, his voice full of concern as he risked stepping toward me. I took another step back, shaky hands reaching out to signal he should stay away. I took one more step and bumped into someone behind me.

  “What’s going on?” The firm tone of Lansing Lotte standing behind me pushed me over the edge. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I closed my eyes and actually sank against him, my back briefly hitting his chest until I heard another voice.

  “Fleur, say hello to everyone.”

  I instinctively moved away from Lansing and looked sideways at Lila Lovelourne. Honey colored blonde hair fell long over her shoulders. She was a petite thing, but the curves of her body spoke of sin. I could see once again the attraction to her. Her dark brown eyes were doe looking, innocent, but when she looked at Lansing the love was evident. And he loved her, I reminded myself. Lansing pulled Lila into him and placed a hand on Fleur. She was a beautiful little girl and she turned into his thigh. She shyly looked up at me and I smiled tenderly.

  Then it hit me. I stood amongst two families. Arturo, Ana and Morte. Lansing, Lila and Fleur. I was the odd woman out. My heart ached for what I’d lost. I wondered what in the hell I was even doing in Ingrid’s home as I excused myself and briskly walked into the hall, but not before I heard Lansing ask again, “What the hell just happened here?” I didn’t plan to wait for a response.

  I quickly tread the length of the hall to be encountered by Tristan, clearing the final stair of a servant staircase. The smile on his face immediately fell as he looked at me.

  “What happened?”

  At that point I wanted to scream. What happened?! What happened was my fiancée left me and he turned to Ana LeFaye, that’s what happened. To top it off, I listened to Ana’s encouragement and slept with Lansing Lotte, thinking it would free my closed up heart, when it only opened the hole deeper. That’s what was wrong, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t say that. I just shook my head, kept my mouth shut, and walked away. I decided I’d be more useful if I was doing something, so I entered the kitchen and offered my services to Ingrid.

  “No, go enjoy yourself, dear. Talk with everyone.” Ingrid flitted through the kitchen directing staff and double checking dishes. She looked up at me when I didn’t move.

  “I…I can’t go back out there,” I sighed, closing my eyes and clenching my hands that shook even more. I felt sick again and Ingrid approached me.

  “You look very pale, honey. What’s…”

  “Don’t,” I growled. Taken aback by the tone of my voice, Ingrid released my arms, which she had momentarily clenched. “Don’t ask me what’s wrong,” I said, attempting to soften my tone. Her green eyes searched my face.

  “It’s going to take time,” Ingrid replied with a sigh, as if she knew how I felt. “You each need time to find your way back to one another.”

  “I...I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I breathed. “There’s already been too much time, Ingrid. He made his decision.”

  “His decision?” her voice showed her surprise. “You think he had a choice to stay away from you?” Ingrid narrowed her bright eyes at me. Her face flushed with anger she tried to contain. “He lost his hand,” she said, as if I needed reminding. I’d quickly caught a glimpse of the stump at the end of his arm as it looped around the back of Ana. I was all too aware of what might have happened to Arturo.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I replied bluntly. “It’s too late. It’s over.”

  “It’s too late. It’s over.” Her words echoed in my head. I leaned against the wall outside the kitchen and my head tapped lightly in a rhythm of defeat. It couldn’t be too late, could it? The absence had been long, but I agreed with Ingrid. It would take time. I just needed to find my way. We were all stumbling over each other. Fragile faces of false smiles and tender words tiptoed around me. No one asked questions. They were too afraid to ask. I wanted to shake someone and beg them to ask me about my hand.

  I pushed off the wall and entered the great dining room. There were two entrances to the kitchen and Guinevere had obviously exited the one into the extra-large room, set with a table for ten: Lansing, Lila, and Fleur, Tristan and his new fiancée, Ireland, Ingrid, Ana and Morte, Guinie and myself. Only this wasn’t exactly the order in which we sat. Guinevere seemed to be as far from me as she could be.

  The meal was unique in that we’d never had children at the table before. It kept the conversation light and toned down. It was Tristan who broke the thin ice over us, as he began his tale of how he and Ireland met: an island and a stubborn girl. Guitar lessons and a few other types of lessons, which he explained with beeping sounds and raised eyebrows, reaching out occasionally to cover the ears of Fleur who sat next to him. He was rather good with children, no surprise as she was female, but it was more than that. I already knew that Ireland was pregnant, but I was starting to get a glimpse of a new Tristan Lyons. One, who would settle down, be content to love one woman, and be a good father. I glanced at Morte, who sat on the other side of Ana. I always intended to be a good father, but I had failed miserably. I promised myself things would be different when Guinie and I had children, if we had children. There seemed to no longer be a when or an if.

  It’s over, echoed through my thoughts again.

  I glanced up to see Guinie looking in the direction of Lansing and Fleur. There was something in the way she looked at them. A longing I’d never noticed before. I’d always been a bit leery of Lansing around Guinie. He seemed protective of her, but never made a move for her. He would actually excuse himself in her presence, unless he absolu
tely had to be near her. Then he would avoid her. I always sensed he might have a crush on her. Who wouldn’t? She was the most gorgeous woman at the table with her chestnut colored hair and those lake blue eyes. One look from her and I’d bow at her feet, but she seemed afraid of me. The panic in her eyes, when I reached for her earlier, said it all; she was repulsed by me.

  I watched her a moment longer, staring in fascination at how she looked at Lansing, for I had determined he was who she gazed upon. I turned away and looked down at my hand, or lack thereof. I twisted my wrist back and forth, eyeing the blunt end to my arm. The sensation of a hand was occasionally present, and I momentarily felt the touch of Guinevere’s hand in mine. I looked up at the feel of cool fingers against my skin. Ana looked back at me in concern. Her fingers tenderly rubbed my forearm. I shook my head infinitesimally and glanced across the table to find Guinie observing me.

  Dinner passed in brief spurts of conversation. Any jovial attempts were forced. By the time dessert was to be served, I excused myself for a moment and found refuge out on Ingrid’s patio. I leaned against the cool stones of the house and listened to the light sound of waves lapping from Lake Avalon. Ingrid’s home was positioned in a way that it might topple into the lake; it was so near the water’s edge. It didn’t have a beach and the waterfront licked the side of the stone barrier below. I took a long pull of the whiskey in my glass, knowing that alcohol was the last thing I needed, and the only thing I wanted next to Guinevere.

  I wanted her to come to me. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted us to be like we used to be. I didn’t want it to be too late.

  I leaned against the stone, tilting my head back to look up at the black sky. Stars filled it without the mask of city lights. I took a deep breath as if I could suck that light into me.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I rolled my head on the hard stone to find Guinevere standing to the side of me. Feet of space were between us, miles of distance in reality.

  “Yes, it is,” I muttered, still staring at her. She was so beautiful, my heart ached.

  Her arms were crossed over her stomach and her fingers dug into her sides. She looked like she was trying to hold herself together. She peered over at me, my right arm dangling at my side, and then glanced away.

  “Does it repulse you?” I blurted out, turning away from her to take another long drink from my glass.

  “Excuse me?” she replied on a quiet choke.

  “My hand…or lack of it. Does it repulse you that it’s just a stump?” I held up my arm, giving it a little shake in her direction, as if I was taunting her with something frightening.

  “No,” she said exasperated. “How could you think that?”

  “I see how you look at it.”

  “I don’t look at it,” she barked.

  “That’s my point,” I muttered under my breath. She turned away from me and looked up at the stars again.

  “I remember a night like this,” I said quietly. My mind flashed to her sitting over me, rocking against me under the summer sky. Her breath was warm on me, as she let me touch her, and then she stroked me. She was bare to me like an evening goddess, clothes askew, yet seductive. I closed my eyes as I remembered the feel of her against me. I instantly sprang to life in my jeans.

  “I remember a lot of things,” she said almost in a whisper. I sensed she was still looking away. I was correct when I opened my eyes to find her gazing upward. She was focused on those stars as if they held the answers to the universe. Hell, I’d like only a few answers.

  I pushed off the wall and walked to stand in front of her. She didn’t move. Her crossed arms protecting her like a shield against me. She had backed away earlier, but now she stood her ground. I stepped into her space and her arms fell open. Our chests were so close we could almost brush against each other. Her breasts rose on an exaggerated breath, and she did brush against me. I closed my eyes again as I pulsed erect below. So many images flipped through my mind of her pressed into me.

  Opening them slowly, I peered at her. Her eyes looked distant. Still a brilliant lake blue, they appeared cold, closed off. While once they glistened when she looked at me, and I wanted to swim in their warmth, I currently felt their heed to stay off the fragile ice.

  “Will you ever look at me the same?” I asked. My voice was low and rough. I allowed my left hand to rise and brush back a hair that blew in the light breeze over her face.

  “Will I ever look at you the same as what?” she answered, a bit of a bite in her tone. She didn’t push me away, but she didn’t turn into my touch like she had in the past.

  “Will you look at me, like you looked at him?” I snipped, letting the edge of anger creep into my voice.

  She blinked, clearly startled. Words were forming on her lips to ask me who, when I cut her off.

  “Will you look at me again like you look at Lansing?”

  I couldn’t possibly slap him again, but my hand twitched to do so. My anger filled me from the bottom up and boiled in my throat, choking the words I wanted to scream in his face. I hadn’t been looking at Lansing. I’d been looking at Fleur. From the moment I met the sweet child, I wondered what it would be like to hold my own, wondered if mine would have looked like him, Arturo. Fleur had dark brown hair and innocent eyes. It wasn’t hard to picture that she looked similar to a child that Arturo might create. That Arturo did create, but then I lost. I found myself unknowingly staring at her whenever she was present. Staring with longing for something I once had and had disappeared, just like Arturo.

  It was evident that Arturo knew nothing of my pregnancy or the miscarriage. Few did know the truth, and those that did, didn’t mention it after it happened. It seemed a taboo kind of topic, and one that I think others felt might shatter my fragile state of mind at the time. My loss was three-fold: Arturo was gone, my baby had died, and an old friend had committed suicide. I felt responsible for all three situations. For the last one, it had been a misunderstanding that led to jealousy. Layne Ascolat had been one of my oldest friends and she returned to comfort me. She’d always had a crush on Lansing Lotte. She assumed that crush was beginning to be returned, until that fateful night. In a sense, it was Lansing’s world that crashed down that evening: the rejection of me, the death of Layne, and the announcement from Elaine that she was having Lansing’s child. Layne’s misinterpretation and lack of explanation from Elaine, or my involvement with Lansing, left her with unanswered questions and an overactive imagination. The result was fatal.

  On the other hand, another child was to be born in the place of mine, and I couldn’t breathe with my jealousy. It threatened to choke me as I tried to be encouraging and supportive of Elaine. I tried to fight it. It was wrong to be jealous of other’s good fortune, and good fortune is what eventually happened for Lansing. He met a girl in need who had a beautiful daughter, who clearly stole his heart. While I had my doubts of how Arturo would take the news of being a father again, with me this time, I had no doubts to the type of father that Lansing Lotte would be. Involved, concerned, and centered. His mismatched family would be everything to him.

  Perkins and Tristan were each soon to be fathers, as well. Hollister announced she was pregnant after they returned from their elopement, and Ireland made that blatant move to publicly announce her pregnancy on the night of her rehearsal dinner, to a man who wasn’t the father. Babies were going to be all around us, and I was going to have to continue knowing that mine wasn’t. I wanted to lash out at Arturo for that, but decided tonight was not the night.

  His other comment struck me instead. He saw how I looked at his arm. As a matter of fact, I was curious about his hand. I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know how he made it through such a drastic change to his physical body. I wanted to know how he did it without the support of someone to care for him. But I somehow knew the answer. He had Ana as his support.

  Ana LeFaye had never gotten over the loss of Arturo King. A drunken high school boy at a college frat party wa
s led astray by the older college girl. Letting that euphoria of attraction go to his head, they spent a night in sexual bliss, which resulted in her pregnancy. Unbeknown to each other, they were stepsiblings. With Arturo’s growing popularity in The Nights, Ana must have realized at some point who her underage lover had been and began the long crawl to tempt him back to her. Jealous of his success, and angered at his lack of acceptance of Morte, she snaked her way into ruining what she could, when she could, in concerns of him. It shouldn’t have surprised me that she worked her magic to get into the sickbed of Arturo. What surprised me was that Arturo had let her.

  I ignored Arturo’s question and asked my own, “How dare you? What about Ana?”

  Astonished at my inquery, if I had slapped him, the expression might have been the same.

  “Ana? What about Ana?”

  “You…you with your arm around her, all comfy and cozy. I see how it is.”

  Arturo harrumphed and let his hand fall to his side.

  “And what is it you think you see?” He glared at me with dark eyes, turning black as coal.

  “You’re with Ana,” I blurted. A myriad of hurt stabbed at me as I admitted the words aloud. He was with Ana, there was nothing more to say, and I took my leave of him.

  Later, I lay in bed in Ingrid’s home with too many questions to allow sleep and an ache too deep to ignore.

  Question: When a man you thought loved you unconditionally disappears without a trace, how are you supposed to feel inside? My answer was empty, pitted, and skewered. I was left feeling unwanted. If there was another emotion to replace it, I didn’t know what it was. My hand traced over my heart, above the swell of my left breast, which tingled at the memory of hands rubbing over my sensitive skin to cover the heavy globes and kneading them into excited peaks at the nipple.