Page 66 of Protect Your Queen

I let the conclusion of silence descend over me, shutting my eyes to imagine her here. Her scent, her warmth, that huge stage presence that was in such a small package. Then the image of her on the piano, like the old movie trope, kept worming its way back into my head. Bare, and beautiful, her stilettoed foot on my thigh. I could trace those gorgeous lines, up to the sweet arousal that I knew was there.

I’d kiss more than her red, painted lips.

She’d be sexier than Michelle Pfeiffer in theFabulous Baker Boysand I was eager to have it.

My little Songbird deserved more than protection. She deserved accolades and nothing short of fucking worship. The crowd and the paparazzi should be on their knees for her.And I was determined that they would be. How would some nobody bodyguard do that? I wasn’t sure.

But this song was a start.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I pulled it out, hoping that everything was okay with Jes. Thankfully, it wasn’t work.

“Hey Elyse,” I smiled as I brought the phone to my ear. “Guess what!”

“Chicken butt!”

I moved right past her childish joke and spilled the beans. “I played with my right hand today.”

She squealed so loud I had to pull the phone away. “Oh my God! Yes! Can we play a duet? Will you come visit? Oh my GOD! How does it feel? Did it hurt? Are your hands okay? How’s your span?”

“Okay, okay… relax. Baby steps. Jesus. I’m taking it easy so I don’t disappoint myself. I’m not playing the Hollywood Bowl or anything.”

“I think you could if you wanted to…” There was always that glimmer of hope in her voice. She couldn’t let my dreams die, even though sometimes I wished she would.

“Elyse…”

“No, you listen!” Shit. I was in for it now. “Beethoven wrote his most famous symphony after he went deaf. Django Reinhardt, one ofyourjazz heroes, could only play with his middle and index finger on his left hand after he was injured in a caravan fire. He’s one of the greats! Tommy Iommi lost the caps of his right hand in a sheet metal factory accident and was the guitarist for Black Sabbath. Rick Allen from Def Leppard drums with one arm after a car accident and —”

“Elyse, I love you,” I said to shut her up.

She fell silent, then sighed. I almost laughed. I couldseeher face in my mind. The way she’d be mad, then embarrassed, knowing that all of these examples were things I had told her long, long ago, when she had stumbled in her piano lessons and wanted to quit. When a director didn’t give her a chance, or a conductor blasted her in front of rehearsal, or when other, more seasoned, kids in an orchestra gave her sideways glances and made snide remarks about the stutter she no longer had.

“I love you, too.” She finally responded. “So what finally got you to make such a monumental step?”

She was trying to find a way to be happy for this small step, even as she wanted to push me further.

“A woman.”

“YES!” She was jumping up and down, I knew it. She was doing that thing where she bounced on the tips of her toes and clenched her fists in front of her chest, tossing her hair around. Her ridiculous happy dance. “Who is she? Is she musical? I bet she’s musical. Pianist? No! Singer! I bet she’s a singer… Is she pretty? Not that it matters, but I bet she is. I bet I’ll think she’s beautiful because she got you to do this. Oh God! When do I meet her? Can I come visit? Will you take me to the Pantages? Oh! No! The Hollywood Bowl! Can she take me down Rodeo Drive? Not to shop, but just like… to sight-see? Can she…”

“It’s Jestiny Barkada.” I blurted it out, eager to finally get it off my chest. I wanted to tellsomeone.I didn’t really care who.

“Oh,” my sister said, uncharacteristically sparing with her words. “Uhmm… she seems nice.”

“She’s not the way she appears in her music videos,” I bristled, realizing that Elyse probably thought of her the way I had. Not musical, so much as synthesized. Not lyrical, but commercial. No soul, just glamor.

I had been wrong. Hell, the entireworldwas wrong about her.

“I’m sure she’s not,” my sister finally said. “Isn’t she your client though?”

“Yes, she is, but it’s different…”

“Chris…”

“Be happy for me, Elyse.” That shut her up. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’m glad you’re playing again,” she finally said after a quiet moment passed. Then, with a little more razz, she said, “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Thank you,” I said, with a chuckle. Maybe this was less than the full-throated support that I had wanted, but she was supportive. Not everyone had family as good as that.

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