Page 37 of Protect Your Queen

I enjoyed how my boss talked about his wife. There was a genuine fondness there that you didn’t find with all couples.

“Rarely wrong? What’s she been wrong about?”

“Me.” I heard the thud of a glass on the table. “See you on the otherside, Ambrose.”

The phone clicked off, and I was left in the silence of the beach house. Just me and a beauty in front of me.

The soundboard, rib material, and keys were made from Alaskan Sitka Spruce. The bridge was made of precisely hand-notched maple. Beneath the closed key lid, I knew that each note was individually weighted to be responsive. I pressed the solid brass soft, sustain and sostenuto pedals with my right foot, and nearly orgasmed at how beautifully silent it was, barely causing an audible thud as the mechanism did its work.

Fuck it. I had to give the baby a quick spin, even if I could only play with one hand.

I lifted the black lid, my right hand aching for its former glory. But I knew that its tension would only break my heart, as the scarred skin and broken nerves would be incapable of making music. But my left hand could still do something, right? It was worth a shot.

With one tentative index finger, I touched middle C, and the rest came easily. Scales. Then Chords. Then something else entirely as I fell back into the rhythm and improvisation of my old self.

Chapter thirteen

Someone to Watch Over Me

Jestiny

It was past midnight, and I still couldn’t sleep. My window was open to the cool air. I couldn’t justify paying for air conditioning when the outside world smelled so pleasant. When you grow up poor, certain habits can’t be broken. I abhorred the irresponsibility of central air. The cost of comfort was too high, as far as I was concerned, even though it was barely a drop in the bucket now.

The moon was high, the clouds like long, slender pillows floating around it.

I wore a yellow and white camisole and shorts, so that I could keep a weighted blanket on top of me. Someone had said it helped with sleep. Four years on, it still didn’t. But I was afraid thatnothaving it would make things worse.

I stared out the large windows of my bedroom to the plaster garden wall. Vines and tendrils came over the top. There was a small firepit there, with seating. But I was never allowed to use it. When I first moved in, I had seen the glint of a telephoto lens and realized the outside was a hostile place

That might be my greatest tragedy. I used to love being outdoors, in a garden. I used to love arboretums and parks. Now, the only time I could visit them is if I could reserve the entire place for myself. Even then, it took so much planning that it wasn’t enjoyable.

This view was my consolation. Eco-friendly, and forever green, it made me feel like the lush gardens we had in our yard in the Philippines. The heat, the humidity, the salt air was the closest thing I could find to home. That was why I had decided thatthiswould be my residence. Sometimes, if the waves were very kind, and the night was really clear, I could even hear music in my head while sitting here, staring at the garden.

It was never anything I could pluck out. I couldn’t pull it from the air or put it on paper. It was just the inkling of a melody, like a piece of dust that was just out of your vision.

But tonight, it was more concrete. It was tangible.

Wait… no. That music was real.

Music was coming from the living room. Was Jareth playing the piano? No, that couldn’t be… he hadn’t touched an instrument since the last time he gave me a music lesson. He said he was done with music entirely, and that we were to act as if our father had never existed. We wouldn’t even honor his memory.

I pressed my door open, sliding out into the darkened hall. I walked to the pristine white and cream nautical themed living room. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, sitting at the keyboard was a naked man. Well… half-naked. I could see his back as his taut muscles moved. His left hand traversed up and down the keyboard in a syncopated rhythm.

Christopher Ambrose was a musician after all…

He wasn’t some kid that was forced to play piano for mommy and daddy. His left hand used all eighty-eight keys, and the music wasn’t anything I’d ever heard before. Surely, he wasn’t improvising something, was he?

Why wasn’t he using his right hand? I saw the bandage on his left bicep, the arm he was using to play. His uninjured right hand stayed on his lap.

“I can feel you hovering, little Songbird,” he said, his music never halting. “Sit down.”

I scoffed, as I crossed my arms, feeling an uncharacteristic chill in the air. Or maybe those goosebumps were from him? I couldn’t be sure. But my skin felt cold and hot at the same time as I padded towards him on my bare feet.

“I am literally never sitting down ever again,” I smirked, as I stood over his shoulder.

He chuckled. It was a deep, masculine sound. Not like my brothers. When they laughed, it was sadistic. Life probably hadn’t hardened this man the way it had me and my siblings. Then again, he had taken a bullet and not flinched…

“Suit yourself, Songbird. You don’t have to sit down to tell me what’s bothering you.”

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