The Legend of Arturo King Page 7

  I picked up Guinevere around nine in my 2013 Chevy Camaro. It was a mean-looking car that I loved for its speed and power. Top of the line, my steel gray charger could hit 100 miles per hour in seconds, but I didn’t plan to rush today. I needed to stay slow before Guinevere learned the truth of another Arturo King secret.

  Remember how I sang that song about a lost love in reminiscence of a college one-night stand when I was in high school? I could recall that night each and every time I sang that song about last minutes, but that one and only night was eight years ago now, and it wasn’t just the song that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  When I was twenty-three, and I learned I had a father who was a great and powerful man, it did nothing to prepare me for finding out I myself was a father at twenty-two. Turns out my one-night stand at seventeen had resulted in a pregnancy. Since I never revealed who I was or how old I was, my willing partner only revealed her identity as Morgana. Her full identity would not have interested me since I didn’t know one way or another who Morgana Tintagel was until years later after I met my mother at eighteen.

  Ingrid Tintagel did eventually marry the man she had been engaged to despite the unwanted pregnancy. He was an older gentleman, but a close family friend. Being that Ingrid was underage when they met and began secretly dating, he wanted to wait to marry her until she was over eighteen. When she turned eighteen, they announced their engagement, but no official date was decided for a wedding. It was during this interim time that Ingrid was assaulted by Locke Uther. In her shame, she fled to the home in upstate New York thinking that George Tintagel would no longer want her. After her pregnancy, her parents felt no other man would want her. George was still willing to marry Ingrid. He had a three-year-old daughter from a previous marriage.

  Morgana Tintagel went by the name Ana. From our one-night encounter she became pregnant at twenty years old. She finished school and went immediately to Paris under the protection of Ingrid and her family’s name. Ana’s father had died from cancer when she was fifteen, when I would have been twelve and playing that fateful guitar on stage.

  Despite meeting my mother, I met her family members slowly. First her own mother, then a distant cousin. I was aware of Ana as Ingrid’s step-daughter and I knew she had a son, but I hadn’t met her until she returned from Paris when she was twenty-five. She worked for a cosmetic company in their chemical research and development division and was transferred back to the United States. When I eventually met my new step-sister, I wasn’t only shocked to discover that she recognized me, but that we shared a son, who looked surprisingly nothing like me. The jet-black hair and dull-green eyes in his pale, sickly face didn’t seem like someone I would create. I demanded a paternity test when Ana accused me of being the father and, regardless of her devastation, I didn’t want to recognize the child, especially in my embarrassment that I had unknowingly slept with my step-sister.

  Ingrid was surprisingly sympathetic to the situation, emphasizing that we didn’t know each other or that the other person even existed in any way that could be a relation. Ingrid did agree that it would be best for me to keep the paternity a secret, as she feared for the child’s safety regarding the Pendragon Empire. Her twist on protecting the child helped soothe a rather irate Ana, who took the last name LeFaye as a means to protect herself and the boy from recognition.

  While I drove to my home near Lake Avalon, I was silent for a good portion of the initial drive. Music played throughout the Camaro and I let my mind wander before realizing how rude my silence might have been. I’d never taken a girl to my home in the Northern region, and I had to admit I was slightly nervous because I wanted Guinevere to enjoy herself.

  I started the conversation by asking her about the cello. Why that instrument? What did she do to train? Why the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra? I learned her preference came from the difference in the way to work the strings compared to a guitar, which she couldn’t balance and play at the same time. I laughed, considering the cello was a larger instrument and had to be balanced while played with a bow. She told me about her private lessons, her Performing Arts high school, and her time at the Music College. Eventually she explained how the Boston Philharmonic was a way for her to make a name for herself. To do something away from the constant recognition of Leo DeGrance’s daughter as well as give her a chance to live on her own.

  “Is that what you’d like? To live on your own in Boston?”

  “I think I just wanted to try to be on my own. I’ve always just lived with my father, which has been kind of on my own, but it’s still his home, not mine.”

  “I get that.” And I did. I could have inherited Locke Uther’s townhouse, a sprawling estate in Connecticut, and condos in Miami and Los Angeles. Instead I sold each property and bought something for myself that was more to my taste. I bought the property in upstate New York with the funds from Connecticut and a getaway chalet in Denver instead of replacing the home in Miami. I also had a penthouse condo near Huntington Beach on the beachfront, but I owned those homes outright despite the funds being from Locke.

  “Why Boston?”

  “Far enough away from home, but not too far away.”

  I was thoughtful for a moment.

  “You’re very close to your father?”

  “Very. He is an amazing man as you have already established, but I want my own life.”

  “Understood,” I said with a firm nod.

  The conversation shifted to me and my dreams. Where did I see taking the band after the next world tour? Was I working on any new songs for a new album?

  “At the moment, no new songs. I need inspiration and I can tell I’m restless to write. I need to write, I just don’t have the focus yet on what.”

  “Well, you write very well, so I’m sure whatever you eventually create will be brilliant.”

  I looked at her sideways as I drove. I seemed quite confident that I had talent and I took note that this was the second time she implied she knew something of my music. Her first was when she admitted my work was noise.

  “So you do admit my music is more than just noise?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “And you are willing to admit you listen to it?”

  “Yes,” she said more hesitantly.

  “Will you admit that you like it?” I asked, quite hopeful.

  “Yes,” she sighed, as if it took great effort to admit.

  I had to laugh. “How about your music?” I prompted.

  “What music?”

  “The music you play, can I hear it sometime?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to hear you play,” I said in a voice like, well, duh.

  “I don’t think it’s really your type of music.”

  “Are you being a music snob?”

  “A what?” she giggled.

  “A ‘music snob.’ You know, someone who thinks their music choice is better than another’s. Or just because I play rock, I can’t like classical.”

  “No,” she giggled again.

  I liked her laugh and could already admit I loved her smile. When she smiled her whole face lit up and her cheeks pinked. Her lips were red and tempting, with a little pout to the shape of them. She bit her bottom lip when she tried to hide a smile, as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t want anyone to know her secret desire. I had been fantasizing about kissing those lips since our walk in the park, which was only days ago. That fantasy included those lips being on various places of my body. I warned myself to concentrate on the road because it would be hard to explain the sudden bulge in my pants if I didn’t.

  She wore shorts today that exposed her long, smooth legs, and some kind of strappy sandal on her feet that still showed her pink-painted toes. She had eventually slipped her shoes off, and I was distracted when she ran her foot up and down her calf. It was a sensual movement and I was certain she was unaware of the motion. I thought about her legs and how they would feel wrapped around me, sliding up and down
my legs as I moved within her.

  Whoa, I had to stop thinking like this. I was all for car head, but couldn’t expect that of her. I hadn’t even kissed her, and I wasn’t sure she would allow it. She was still hesitant with me, as if she didn’t trust me or my intentions, and I had to admit I seemed to be constantly, unintentionally, offending her, but she did come to me last night, and she sought me out after I excused myself from the table. If I had to calculate, I felt she gave it just the right amount of time for me to be able to stew and fume over the announcement of Ana before her appearance and concern brought me surprising comfort. I shocked myself when I asked her to join me at the lake, but I sensed she might make a good shield for the likes of Ana and I also noticed I liked the comfort she brought me.

  As we exited the highway, and wound through the curving tree-lined road around the lake, she sat up straighter and peered out the front window. She turned her head to the side occasionally to follow the line of trees and older homes, and at other times, she stared ahead as houses loomed over the water’s edge. I turned onto a long gravel path that led up and around a hill covered in trees. At the very last second, I crested the hill and my fieldstone home appeared amidst a bright green lawn. The house looked slightly medieval with its stone facade, but was styled like a traditional colonel, only much larger. A three-car garage was facing away from the front, giving the impression that the home was elongated. This was an addition to the historic landmark. An outer building was originally a barn. It was now converted to a music studio, but still nicknamed The Barn. The grounds had a pool, although I preferred the lake below, and I knew one thing I planned to do was take Guinevere out on the water.

  As I drove up the circular drive to the front of the house, a small boy opened the front door and leapt off the steps. I parked the car and sighed in frustration.

  “Who’s that?” Guinevere asked with a smile in her voice at seeing the child.

  “My son,” I mumbled as I exited the car.

  Guinevere

  I sat silently, trying to process what Arturo had just said. I was questioning my decision to travel to Lake Avalon with Arturo for the hundredth time in less than twenty-four hours. The moment I said yes to this trip, I wasn’t sure why I did or why he asked. Only the day before he was insulting me, then he was asking me to his home in upstate New York. When I told my father about the invitation, ironically he already knew we had been invited – my father and me. My father was declining, but encouraged me to go. He seemed to be making it a concession for losing the seat I coveted in Boston. He told me to take some time off to think about what I wanted.

  Now as I paused in silence, I turned to ask Arturo to repeat himself, but he had already exited the car, and I pushed open my own door as he approached it.

  “Wait for me next time, okay?”

  I looked at him in confusion.

  “Wait for me to open the door for you,” he said as he held the car door for me and used his free hand to help me out of the low Camaro. He continued to hold my hand.

  “I will always open the door for you,” his low voice spoke directly into my ear before he ran his nose across my cheek and softly kissed it.

  In the background a squeal came from the young child who Arturo just mumbled was his son.

  “Arturo,” he squawked as he ran toward his father. Arturo turned from me and scooped the boy into his hands, lifting him high into the air, tossing him gently and catching him again as if he weighed nothing.

  “Hey, little man, how’s it going?”

  “Can we go swimming now that you’re here?” he whined.

  “In a few minutes. Let me get settled first. Where’s your mother?” Arturo asked, but I could assume that the raven-haired beauty who stood at the top of the cement stoop was the mother of this child. She was gorgeous in a dark sort of way. Shiny black hair, bright green eyes, and the palest skin I had ever seen. I recognized her from photos at Ingrid’s home. She stood with her arms crossed as she leaned lazily against the open door, long legs in short shorts crossed at the ankles in high wedge heels, and I felt very inadequate in my own black shorts, tank top, and strappy sandals.

  “Hello, Arturo,” she hissed in an eerily sensual voice that bordered on horror film creepy.

  “Ana,” he said directly, placing the child on the ground. “Where’s Ingrid?”

  I thought it odd that he called his mother by her first name, but I didn’t question him. The boy had just called Arturo by his first name as well.

  “She’s inside,” Ana drawled softly, looking directly at Arturo and then glancing at me. “And who do we have here?” she said as she began a slow slithering descent down the front steps. She looked like she could take one peck at me and swallow me whole.

  Arturo took a step back to me and placed his hand around my lower back. It was a possessive move, and I wasn’t sure where it came from, but I wasn’t complaining. His hand was warm and firm against me, and I liked the feeling of it. I also felt I might need some protecting from the woman who snaked her way toward us.

  “This is Guinevere DeGrance. Guinie,” he explained.

  “Guinie? I’ve heard so much about you over the years. Welcome to Lake Avalon … and Arturo’s home away from home,” she replied as if she belonged here.

  I looked at Arturo for some direction to respond to Ana, but he was already walking to the back of his car to pull out our bags. He hadn’t introduced the woman to me, but I recognized her as Ana LeFaye, Ingrid’s step-daughter. When I looked back at Ana, she was retreating into the home as if she owned the place.

  I took a moment to admire the splendor of the home with its large, fieldstone construction that looked almost like a classic chalet of some ancient type. It had numerous tall and narrow windows, with a large circular drive that stopped before a cement staircase leading to double doors, which Ana just walked through. The lawn before the home was a solid green, trimmed almost to look like a golf course, and boxwoods surrounded the exterior of the house. When I turned to my left I could see the lake far below in dark-blue splendor and the woods that surrounded it near the private drive. The place was picturesque.

  Arturo stopped next to me as I stared at the gorgeous view.

  “Morte is my son,” he began, “but he doesn’t know it yet. Ana is his mother. She lives with a weasel of a man, who has tons of money, works for an international company that results in traveling too much, and leaves Ana alone too often for her own good. She’s older than me by three years, and Morte is eight.” He said it all so matter-of-factly, as if this curt explanation was enough to answer all the questions I hadn’t asked.

  I followed Arturo into the home, entering a vast foyer with a large circular staircase that led to the second floor. Tristan Lyons was walking down the stairs, running his hands through his light-brown hair as he attempted a smile at Arturo and me.

  “Did you see that Ana’s here?” He raised an eyebrow as he spoke. “She’s not staying right?” he questioned Arturo.

  “No way. She’ll go with Ingrid. Speaking of, where is she?”

  “She’s in the kitchen with the Spawn.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Arturo said angrily.

  “Sorry, dude, but you know they both give me the heebies.”

  “Yeah. Would you mind showing Guinevere to the yellow room? I’ll be up in just a minute.”

  I had the distinct feeling that Arturo was trying to get rid of me for a few moments, and I was glad of the separation. I was still trying to process that Arturo King had a son, but didn’t recognize him as his son. For all the tabloid reports over the issue of Arturo’s paternity, I would have thought he would be more sensitive if he had a child.

  Tristan took my bags and I followed him up the curving staircase. I couldn’t help admiring the contours of his lean but muscular body as he walked. I tried to look away, but my eyes were drawn to his backside. A band of black stood out from his low-cut jeans as his shirt rose while he carried my cello case up the stairs.


  He didn’t speak to me as we walked down a long hallway to the left, and stopped at the second to the last door, which stood open to reveal a room adorned in yellow. It was a soft buttery color with a large canopy bed covered in voile material, also in a light creamy color. There was an abundance of pillows on the large bed, and I immediately felt the opulence of the room when I noticed a large double French door that opened to a balcony looking directly down to the lake below. I gasped at the beauty.

  “Okay, private bath to the left, Arturo’s room to the right, and…”

  “Wait, what?” I interrupted him.

  “Arturo’s room. To the right. His room connects to this room through that door.” He pointed to a door in the far corner, next to a fireplace. The bedroom had a fireplace!

  Tristan set the bags on the floor and looked at me for a long moment.

  “You two are together, right?” he questioned.

  “No,” I choked in reply.

  “Oh, I just assumed. The way he talks about you. I could move you to another room,” and then he thought about it for a moment, “but I’m not a fucking concierge.”

  I would have laughed except my mouth was still hanging open at the question of Arturo and I being in any type of relationship. Tristan looked at me briefly before asking if I needed anything, then he excused himself and exited the room, leaving the door open. Moments later, as I was unpacking my bag and setting my cello case next to the large armoire, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a black head of hair crawl next to the bed. I gasped before slowly creeping to the side where I saw the child scamper.

  “Hello,” I said softly.

  The boy sat next to the bed in a way that made me wonder if he was hiding from someone. His knees were pulled up and his head was between them as if he were trying to curl into a ball to be invisible. After a moment, he looked up at me with piercing green eyes made brighter by his pale face. He stared at me for what seemed like too long before replying.