Page 20 of Protect Your Queen

He threw his glass into the sink, and I saw that there was, indeed, one long crack along the surface. He had literally crushed it with his bare hand. The man had anger issues, for sure.

“I didn’t want her to go into music. Or if she did, I wanted her to go into something classical. Something quieter.” He shook his head. “She has so much of our father in her. Maybe that’s why she’s so unhappy.”

He stared down at his hand, as if he was stunned at what it was capable of doing. Stunned, but not necessarily surprised.

“I guess that’s what the public never really sees, right?” I was trying to make conversation, even as I stepped towards the piano, dying to lift up the keylid to take a look at the ivory and black keys inside. “How tough it can be and all that…”

I was doing my job, trying to build rapport with my client and to get a clearer picture of what the threat was. Hell, that was my job as a bodyguard half the time. Unlike my gig as a soldier, my job wasn’t to seek and destroy. It was to deconflict and protect. Anyone with a marginally functioning brain cell knows that keeping something alive takes a hell of a lot more work than killing it.

I needed this family to trust me if I wanted to do my job right.

“Ambrose.” I lifted my head as Jareth said my name. He looked at me with those strange, hostile, killer’s eyes. The man must have put as many people into the dirt as I had. Either that, or he was a psychopath. Of course, I didn’t judge him for that. I’ve known many psychopaths in my career, and they can live completely law-abiding lives. They were just a little scary to deal with because you know that they’d just as soon stick a knife in your throat, as they would give you a pat on the back.

“Yes, sir?” I asked, when Jareth didn’t say anything else.

“I appreciate that you’re trying to build some kind of camaraderie and trust with your idle conversation,” his eyes flitted to something happening over my shoulder, “but save it for the one who matters.”

I followed his gaze to Jestiny coming down the staircase. Her hair was lightly curled, swaying down to her hips. She was made up to perfection. Her lips were colored a deep auburn that didn’t just make her mouth plump and lush but smacked you in the face with just how kissable they were.

Her eyes stayed on the ground as she fidgeted with her nails. They were the same color as her lips, contrasting with the rose gold flapper girl dress, complete with beads, and tassels in geometric patterns that swayed with her movements.

Good God, she belonged on a stage in an old speakeasy, her voice and hand making love to a Fat Elvis mic. She needed to be in a movie. Why was no one photographing her right now? Why wasn’t there a film crew preserving this perfection?

“Close your mouth, Ambrose,” Jareth said as he came up beside me, staring at his watch, “or I will close it for you.”

Chapter seven

What’ll I Do?

Jestiny

The smell of wine and whiskey perfumed the famous club. The pianist, Lawrence, led everyone in a lazy, swinging version of “Misty”. I swayed along, mouthing the words like the rest of the audience. The Black Bird was a small-ish establishment, right off the boardwalk. They purposely kept the inside dark, the walls a deep green, covered in photos of the famous patrons that came before. We sat at tiny tables, in uncomfortable, stiff chairs. But that didn’t matter because the music was what brought us here.

The décor was reminiscent of the old Gaslight Café in Greenwich Village. On one side was a red brick backdrop and a modest stage. The darkness of the room ensured that when the spotlight was on, your focus was exactly where it needed to be – on the musicians.

There was no singer tonight, which was a relief because I wouldn’t have to feel the sting of inadequacy as arealvocalist took the stage and left me hating myself.

It was perfect. My brother was right, as always. The atmosphere, the quiet crowd, the music, the way the dark, plaster walls were distressed with age, and the images of great singers from yesteryear hit me to the core. Thisfeltlike great music.

We were so close to the ocean that I could still taste the salt in the air. I could feel the heat of the warm evening overpowering the work of the overzealous air conditioning.

The babysitter,Christopher Ambrose, sat to my left, his eyes quietly scanning the space. His dark gray suit was a smidge too loose around the ankle. Was that where he’d hide a gun? I wasn’t sure. I had tried to look, but every time I did I was struck by the way he tapped his foot. Not tapping like he was keeping time, but tapping as if he had the piano pedals in front of him. How odd.

Lawrence had double duty, conducting and playing the piano, indicating where the down beat was by the quick, fast lift of both hands, or the little flick of his left wrist when he needed to cue a section in. The man was a fucking genius, and a performer of the highest caliber. I loved watching Lawrence up close and personal.

They did a second round of the melody, but this time faster, jauntier, each instrument adding in their own flavor. I was smiling and swaying to the rolling beat.

“Yes!” I squealed with excitement as Lawrence took the mic, scatting his way through the final chorus. The audience, the musicians, and even the wait staff were all on board. I almost wondered if they’d keep it going, and was disappointed when they hit their final, loud, crescendo notes.

I clapped wildly with the crowd and joined in the hoots and whistles.

Jareth leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.

“You ready, kid?” he asked, giving me a slight, strange smile.

Before I could decipher what he meant, Lawrence stood up, holding the old silver microphone in his hand. In his low, gravelly voice he announced, “We’ve got ourselves a real star here tonight! A little black bird told me that she might be up for a song.”

Lawrence slyly looked left, then right. Then… right at me.

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