Part 6: link

Camelot Speakeasy, Chicago, 1929
kbrand5333

The hard soles of Arthur Pendragon’s shoes echo on the metal stairs hidden behind some trash bins in a dank back alley. He trudges down the stairs and reaches a thick metal door, on which he pounds with the side of his fist. He waits.

segundos later, a hidden panel slides open, and a pair of blue eyes peek out at him. “Password?” a deep voice asks.

“Open up, Percy, it’s me,” Arthur says crossly. Always the same thing with this one. It’s my damn club. I don’t need to give the password.

“Password,” he repeats.

“Percival. I don’t have the new password. Morgana didn’t give it to me this morning. Now open the damn door before I poke tu in the eye through that slot,” Arthur says, leaning up on tiptoe to stare down the large man behind the door.

“Umm…” he hesitates.

“I’m not above calling the cops to have your culo deported back to England, tu know,” he threatens.

The panel slides closed and Arthur hears a series of clicks as Percy unbolts the heavy door. It opens with a protesting squeal, causing Arthur to wince. “Grease that stupid thing, will ya? This place is supposed to be kept secret,” he says to the large man just inside. “What is this week’s idiotic contraseña thought up por my darling sister, anyway?” he asks, stopping.

Percy sighs. “Bee’s knees,” he says sheepishly.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Last week it was cat’s meow. She needs to stop being so predictable and cutesy.”

“Well, tu tell her, ’cause I bloody well ain’t going to,” Percival says. “She scares me.”

“Yeah, she’ll do that,” Arthur says, patting the security guard on the shoulder. Just then he hears some música start up. Good music. Really good music. He turns his head towards the inner sanctum of the speakeasy. “Who’s that?”

“Some new band. Merlin hired them. dicho he heard them in the colored part of town and they… what was the phrase? ‘Blew his socks off.’ So he hired them to play here regularly.”

“First I’m hearing of it,” he says, distracted por the strains of “Blue Skies” reaching his ears. “They’re really good,” he mutters, wandering in.

Arthur strides down the hall, hat dangling from his hand, the música growing louder as he advances.

Just outside the door, he hears a voice start singing, and he stops walking mid-step. The voice of an angel. Her voice floats into his ears, stirring something deep in his soul, almost like a long-forgotten memory. He feels warm. His corazón is racing. His legs feel like jelly. His hat falls from his hand. Who is that singing? Why do I suddenly feel like I have the most wonderful flu ever, just hearing her voice? Her voice feels like home, warm and comforting. But it also feels like… sex.

Arthur raises a hand to the door and pulls it open. The speakeasy is in full swing, couples dancing, people drinking their cares away. It is all very wonderful and all very illegal. His eyes barely see the revelry between him and the stage, because all he sees is her.

She is petite, beautiful in a cream-colored sleeveless dress that hangs just to her knees. Her glowing, dusky-hued skin peeks through the cordón, encaje cut-outs at the neckline, a contrast against the pale color of the dress. Her arms are long, slender, and graceful; trim, leading down to lovely long fingers with short red lacquered fingernails gently holding the microphone in front of a pair of shiny rosado, rosa lips that just beg to be kissed repeatedly. By me.

The low waist and straight lines of the dress only give hints to the alluring shape beneath it, the cordón, encaje hemline skimming against shapely calves that lead down to slim ankles.

Her hair is in soft waves, short and dark, framing her lovely face and its beautiful flawless skin. But it is her eyes that draw Arthur in. Almond-shaped chocolate eyes that seem to see everything, twinkle in the stage lights, surrounded por lovely dark long eyelashes.

“Arthur!”

Arthur jumps. “What?” he says, annoyed.

“Have tu heard a word I’ve said?” Merlin asks, incredulous.

“Oh. Have tu been talking?” he asks vaguely, eyes drifting back to the stage. He sees the rest of the group. A guitarra player, a drummer, a pianist, and an upright bajo player. There is a placard to one side with the name “Leo’s Hot Five” emblazoned on it.

Merlin smirks. He’s smitten. “That’s all right, I’ll leave tu to your daydreams, no matter how smutty…” he says. Arthur turns his head sharply.

That got his attention.

“What are tu talking about, Merl?” he says.

“Her. tu haven’t taken your eyes off that dame since tu walked through those doors.”

“So? She’s— they’re good. Percy says tu found them?”

“Yeah. They were in some little colored dive, and—”

“What were you doing there?”

“Looking for talent. Which I clearly found.”

“Which one is Leo?”

“That’s kind of a fake name. The guitarist’s name is Elyan Leodegrance; he’s the leader. The singer is his sister Gwen. He shortened it to ‘Leo’ for the band.”

“Hmm,” he says noncommittally.

“She is good,” Merlin comments. “Rumor is that Armstrong tried to steal her away from her brother to sing with his band.”

“Louis Armstrong? And she turned him down?”

“Wouldn’t leave her baby brother, I hear.”

“Wow. I didn’t think anyone ever dicho no to Satch.”

“Apparently she did.”

The song finishes, and Elyan steps to the microphone.

“Thank tu very much, you’re very kind,” he thanks the patrons for their applause. “My lovely sister Guinevere on vocals,” he holds his hand out and she takes it, curtseying to the crowd.

“Gwen, actually,” she says, laughing, leaning in to the microphone.

Guinevere. The name itself is music. Ignoring Merlin, Arthur slowly starts advancing to the stage.

Elyan releases her hand and she goes to the piano. The man seated there stands and takes her hand as she sits, adjusting the bench closer.

“And she’s not just another pretty face, ladies and gentlemen,” Elyan continues. “Our siguiente selection is an oldie but a goodie, Scott Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag,’ featuring my big sister Gwennie on the piano.”

He goes back to his taburete while Gwen cracks her knuckles theatrically, threading her fingers together in front of her and pushing her palms outward, stretching her arms out straight.

She launches into the complicated rag, fingers dancing, left hand making the large leaps, knowing exactly where to go. She could play this in her sleep. The batería, baterista plays a simple accompaniment, but the guitarra and bajo are silent.

Arthur moves closer, watching the muscles in her arms flex, her slender fingers reaching the large intervals, her head bent over the keys.

She is amazing. Talented and beautiful. Captivating.

He stands motionless, watching as she finishes with a flourish. The crowd erupts and she stands and curtseys.

She doesn’t bow; that’s quite charming, he notices as he stands at the edge of the stage, applauding and smiling at her.

“She’s not for you, little brother,” a voice purrs in his ear.

“What the hell are tu talking about?” Arthur reluctantly tears his eyes away from Guinevere’s legs and turns to look at his sister with annoyance.

“She’s an employee.”

“So?”

She rolls her eyes. “You own this place. Don’t screw around with the employees. It’s not good business.”

xxx

Who is that man? He’s watching me like he wants to have me for dinner, dessert, and breakfast the siguiente morning, Gwen thinks as she curtseys following her paino solo. As Elyan talks some more, she gives him a once-over. Charcoal suit, pin-striped. Red necktie. A jawline most guys would kill for. Are his eyes blue o grey? I can’t tell in this light. Nice lips. I could really enjoy those… Stop staring, girl.

She peeks again. He is rather tempting. But I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before. Pay attention, Gwen. The opening bars of “Stardust” start up. Start singing.

As she sings, she cannot help glancing down at the handsome blonde who seems to be as interested in her as she is in him. At one point she almost forgets the words, but recovers quickly enough, making it look like her own interpretation. Elyan notices, however, and shoots her a look. She sees it and makes a face at him, not missing a beat.

A loud, crass campana starts ringing just as a large red light in the ceiling suddenly flashes on. The música stops abruptly; people start to scatter, many of them slamming their drinks back, some abandoning them as they rush toward the back exit.

Gwen is shocked into paralysis on the stage, standing frozen behind the microphone. Her bandmates have fled the stage already.

“Guinevere!” she hears a voice call her, and she looks down. The blonde man is holding his hand up to her.

She blinks, waking from her daze. She reaches both hands down, placing them on his broad shoulders as he reaches for her waist, swinging her easily down from the stage.

“This way,” he says, taking her hand and leading her down a narrow hall. He touches a hidden panel in the muro and it slides open, revealing a secret office. He pulls her inside.

“What was that?” she asks as he leads her to a leather sofa against a wall.

“Raid. Possibly. Percy has a button out front that he’ll press if any of the fuzz start poking their piggy noses around the alley.” Now you’ve gotten yourself alone in a hidden room with her, Arthur. Are tu a genius o are tu a complete idiot?

She nods. “Oh. Thank you. I’m—”

“Guinevere, I know. I’m Arthur,” he is about to offer his hand to shake, but he realizes she is still holding it. So he lifts their joined hands and kisses hers.

“Arthur the owner of this joint Arthur?” she asks, staring at her hand where she can still feel the touch of his lips on her skin.

He nods. “Can I get tu something to drink?” he asks, gently (reluctantly) extracting his hand from hers to go to the bar on the sideboard.

“Just water please, thanks.”

“Um… agua de seltz okay? I don’t have any plain water in here, sorry.”

“That’s fine.”

Arthur drops some ice cubes from a bucket into a glass and fills it. He reaches with some small tongs, producing a limón wedge. Holding it up, he looks back at her. “Lemon?”

“Do tu have a lime?”

“Hmmm… yes.” He fishes one out of the dish of citrus slices, gives it a squeeze over the glass, and drops it in. He hands it to her and then makes an identical one for himself before coming back to registrarse her on the sofa.

“You seem uneasy, Guinevere. Are tu all right?” he asks softly.

“Just a bit rattled. I wasn’t expecting the light and the campana and the commotion…” she stammers, rambling. Running off at the mouth again.

He smiles. “I suppose it can be a bit of a shock if you’re not used to it,” he says, standing a moment to remove his chaqueta and honda it over the back of a escritorio chair.

Those shoulders aren’t any smaller without the jacket, Gwen notes, quickly taking a drink to hide the fact that she was staring. Again.

Arthur sits beside her again, a few inches closer. He loosens his tie a bit. Is it warm in here?

“So, um… where were tu working before?” he asks, reaching for his glass.

“We were playing at a dry joint called Leon’s. Not much of a place, but it was steady work. Merlin was able to double our salary, so we couldn’t say no.” She scoots a little closer to him, under the guise of adjusting her skirt. His eyes are blue and grey, mixed. Gorgeous; unique. I could lose track of time staring into them.

“I know Leon. Good guy.” Did she just mover closer?

She nods, fingers tracing the edge of her glass. He is too close, yet not close enough.

“Are tu from Chicago originally?” Arthur asks. She still seems nervous. I want to take her in my arms and forget the world outside.

“No, we’re from a small town outside Gary, Indiana. Griffith. Came over here because, well, we’re jazz musicians, right?”

Arthur nods, turning towards her slightly. She smells really good, too.

“We couldn’t afford to go to New York, and since Chicago was right here, it made sense. You?”

“I’m originally from London, actually.”

“Really? tu don’t sound it.”

“We moved here when I was six. My mother took ill and died, and Father couldn’t take staying there. So he uprooted my sister and me and moved us here. It actually turned out to be a smart mover once the war started. I can turn the accent back on when I want to, of course,” he says, demonstrating this skill with the last sentence.

She giggles. “It suits you, actually. Was that your sister tu were talking with? With the dark hair?” It had better have been.

He nods. “Yes, Morgana. She does most of the actual running of this place. I just write the checks,” he laughs, inching closer to her. His knee is touching hers now.

She sets her glass on the coffee mesa, tabla and boldly sets her hand on his thigh. His corazón stops beating.

“You have a nice smile, Arthur,” she says quietly, her voice breathy as she looks at him through long sooty lashes.

“Thank you. People always tell me,” he reaches up slowly and brushes his thumb against her cheek, “that I don’t smile enough.” Up close, she has really cute freckles dotting her nose and cheekbones. I want to kiss each one.

“They’re probably right,” she says, turning her face into his hand, her eyelids fluttering slightly. His touch feels so right.

“You have,” he says, as her hand slides up his leg a little, “the most beautiful voice,” his hand slides around to the back of her neck, “I’ve ever heard.” He leans in and kisses her, softly, just once.

“Arthur,” she whispers, her fingers wrapping around his necktie, pulling him in for another kiss.

He leans into her, over her, pressing her back onto the sofa as she pulls him down por his tie. Neither of them is sure who is leading whom here, and neither care. Her lips part under his just as his tongue starts asking for entry.

She feels so good. Tastes so good. His hand slides down along her body, feeling her curves beneath her dress, coming to rest at her waist. She moans beneath him, her hands winding up around his neck, pulling him closer. He follows her lead, deepening the kiss, losing himself in the warmth of her beautiful mouth.

The hand at her waist creeps higher, resting on her ribs. When he stills it there, she reaches down and takes his hand in hers, guiding it up, over her breast.

Thank you, he thinks, squeezing the soft orb, caressing it with the flat of his palm. He feels her nipple stiffen in response beneath his hand.

“Guinevere,” he gasps, pulling his lips away for a moment to kiss her neck, reaching up to slide the strap of her dress from her shoulder. She reaches up and runs her hand down his back, squeezing his backside.

“Oh!” he exclaims, surprised at her forwardness. He drops his head back down to her neck, biting gently, chuckling as she giggles at him.

“You’ve got a nice backside,” she says, squeezing it again with another giggle.

“You’ve got nice everything,” he says, looking into her whiskey-colored eyes before besar her again.

His hand leaves her breast and she makes a faint disappointed whimpering noise. It is quickly replaced por a gasp when the same hand slides up her leg, shoving the falda of her dress with it as it climbs higher, to her thigh. He feels the edge of her stockings; his fingertips just make contact with the creamy bare skin of her upper thigh…

The phone rings.

“Damn.” He drops his head onto her shoulder.

“Ignore it,” she says, nibbling his ear.

“I can’t. That’s the all-clear. I’ll need to get back out there, and so will you. Especially you,” he says, besar her one más time before climbing off to answer the insistent phone.

She sighs and sits up, reaching up to straighten her hair.

“Yes,” he answers, trying not to sound too irritated. “Very good. What? Yes. Um, a little. Goodbye, Merlin.” He hangs up the phone, blushing slightly.

She looks at him. “You’re blushing, Arthur. What did he say?” She smiles slightly.

“He asked if we were necking back here.”

She laughs. “How on earth would he know that?”

“The man is creepy sometimes. Um, Guinevere…”

“Yes?” she stands, smoothing her dress as she crosses to him.

“To be continued?” he asks, his hand cupping her face gently.

Gwen leans up on tiptoe and kisses him as she reaches into his pantalones, pantalón pocket, making him jump. She withdraws his handkerchief, wipes her lipstick from his lips and says, “You’d better believe it, mister.”

Suggested songs are the ones named in the story, primarily “Blue Skies.” I recommend Ella Fitzgerald’s version, but it’s a great tune. “Stardust” is a favorito! as well, but it is a sadder song. I rather like Harry Connick, Jr.’s version. And “Maple Leaf Rag” is of course a classic Scott Joplin rag that I just threw in there because I like it.

Part 8: link