Page 51 of Protect Your Queen

I didn’t improvise new words. I didn’t try to make it last longer than it needed to be. I just sang it straight, and let the meaning wash over me.

A man who would watch over me and keep me safe. I didn’t want the song to end. I wanted to hold onto that longing and warmth for as long as I could. I even let the last few notes linger too long, letting my voice sustain past the fade of the piano.

I waited, wanting to hold that feeling of stillness. Of comfortable quiet.

“Jes,” said the sound engineer, “that was amazing.”

I looked through the glass where Loïc and Simon were leaning forward on the control table, staring at me with open mouths. Beside them, though, were two faces I didn’t expect.

Michael Dryden, in his portly suit, his stomach sagging over his belt.

His pock-marked face was mad as shit. Beside him was a glamorous woman with blunt bangs, in a white lotus shirt. If I could see below her waist, I bet she’d be wearing Louboutin heels with the red soles, and a pencil skirt. I had never seen her before, but I would recognize her anywhere. Stasia Dryden, the power behind Michael Dryden’s throne, and the tastemaker of the music scene.

She looked at me with curious, kind eyes, her cheek leaning against a graceful hand.

Shit. What had I stepped into now?

Chapter eighteen

The Scent of Desperation

Chris

The warehouse was on a shipping dock in a seedier part of Los Angeles. The concrete sidewalk looked out on choppy waves. The sound of distant tankers blowing in and out of a harbor carried over the water, and the seagulls overhead flew around, looking for trash to eat.

The building was small and empty, made of cinder block, with no windows and a creaky, heavy metal door. An uncovered lightbulb hung down from the ceiling, swinging back and forth, as the unsteady ground shifted against the blast of the loud, ocean waves.

The floor was uneven, sliding down to a drain in the center of the room. A single open drain dumped under the building, to the Pacific Ocean. Most recently, it had been the highway traversed by the terrified piss of Mario Pesci.

Jareth removed his blazer and rolled up his sleeves. He gave the blowtorch in his hand a few practice squeezes, to ensure the blue flame worked. It was the kind of blowtorch a chef might use when making a flambé, but in Jareth’s bruised and bloodied hand, it was decidedly less appetizing.

At the center of the room was our victim, his red, broken spectacles dangling precariously at the end of his nose.

“You said that you’d let me go…” Pesci whimpered, and I laughed.

“Bro, you are truly dumb as fuck if you believed that.” How dumb could he really be?

Poor guy. It was the end of his life. He just didn’t know it.

I hung him up like a pig in a butcher shop, then let Jareth do his work. Blow by blow, Jareth had broken him down, not saying a single word as the man cried in agony. He used him like an old punching bag, filling the space with the sickening sound of bones crunching, and blood-curdling screams.

I worried, for a moment, about the noise. But I realized that the walls were too thick, and the ocean was too loud. We were quite alone out here.

“You’re either really menacing, or incredibly kinky,” I joked, trying to liven the stale atmosphere.

Jareth was covered in sweat, his hands bloody and cut. He was a man possessed with turmoil and anger, and every mark on Pesci was a step toward his salvation.

Who could blame him? This was the man who had almost killed his sister… twice. He had been the reason for her humiliation and violation. Maybe he didn’t rape her, but he was more than fine exposing her to the world against her consent.

Jestiny was owed her pound of flesh, and Jareth was doing the slicing as her proxy.

“Quit your jokes, pretty boy.” Jareth lit the torch again, then he looked at Mario.

“I’m hilarious! Not my fault that you’re as fun as a wet noodle.” I sighed, “And I prefer being called thehelp.”

“You’re not funny.”

He was wrong. I was hilarious.

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