Protect Your Queen: A Standalone

Bodyguard Romance (Barkada Book 1)

Molly Briar
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Protect Your Queen
Barkada, Book 1

Molly Briar
Copyright © 2024 by Molly Briar

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
 CONTENTS

Dedication
Chapter
Prologue
1. That’s Assault, Isn’t It?
2. Burn Those Clothes
3. I’m Christopher Ambrose
4. A Killing Look
5. Charlotte Gainsbourg
6. Close Your Mouth
7. What’ll I Do?
8. Little Songbird
9. Detective
10. The Queen and Her Court
11. A Silence Without End
12. A Hunting Mission
13. Someone to Watch Over Me
14. Pretty Boy
15. The Autumn Leaves
16. Don’t Be So Suburban
17. Seek and Ye Shall Find
18. The Scent of Desperation
19. Good Friends
20. We’re Not Bugging the Client
21. Phoenix
22. A Good Guy
23. Sisters
24. Bro
25. Bargaining
26. Yes Ma’am
27. Important
28. Petite Mort
29. Happy Endings
30. Leading Lady
31. It’s Not What You Think
32. You Get Nothing
33. The Spillage
34. Fly To Me
35. The Past
36. The Moment
Also By
 DEDICATION

To the team:
Thank you to beta readers Noe Crockett, Savannah Jones, Ana Naj, Annette Marquez, and Madison Watson.
Katherine Dougherty, who gave our leading male, Mr. Ambrose, his name!
To my PA, Erin Alford who continues to keep me publishing.
Developmental Editor Mikaela Tauiliili (Instagram @mikaelabooks_ ), and line editor/proofer Caiti (CrokeEdits.com).
To Lyle, my piano and composition teacher

To the man:
William, who inspired the song that was written in the book, and for being the bedrock on which I can build this career
My brother Jareth says that we are a “Royal Flush”. Each of us is a different face card that, on our own, mean nothing. But
together, we are the most powerful hand that can be played.
“You will be the Queen,” he told me when I was a teenager.
“The Queen of what?” I pried. I was so desperate for any morsel of approval.
“The Queen of Music,” he said, as he took his place at the old, out of tune upright piano in our Quezon City house.
He was partially right, I suppose. I became a Beauty Queen.

The music part, though, was a fucking disaster.

 PROLOGUE

Jestiny

Five years ago, Stockholm, Sweden

The bright lights around the vanity mirror washed out my face, removing all wrinkles and lines. At the age of seventeen, I
already knew that puffy eyes, a bit of water weight, or ungroomed brows were like blood in the water. These simple, human
realities weren’t allowed in beauty queens or anyone who dared to place themselves in the spotlight.

The bulbs that outlined my vanity mirror simulated the stage lights I’d walk under. So, I had to make sure I looked… perfect.

My hair was meticulously arranged, the dress custom tailored to hug every curve, and glittered to emphasize my slim frame.
Heroin chic was back in fashion. Hooray.

I needed the audience in the stands to love me. I needed the judges to choose me. Most of all, I needed the people who viewed
through their streaming devices to adore everything they saw – enough to get on a poll and vote their asses off for me. So, I was
powdered, shined, buffed, glittered and contoured to be the most airbrushed version of myself.

My entire life was riding on this single event; years of pageants from the village, up to the national, then international level.
Kuya Jareth had scrounged sponsors, and gotten the money needed to pay trainers, stylists, tailors, and costume designers to get
me here.

I had starved and worked out every day for months. When I felt like I was going to pass out from hunger, I had a yogurt. I went
to the sauna to sweat out the water that prevented my clavicle from protruding through my skin.

We created the perfect, plastic thing I saw in the mirror. A self that I didn’t recognize.

I touched my curled hair, staring at the highlighted strands.

“You look perfect, Bunso.” My eldest brother, Jareth, said, using an affectionate Tagalog term for the youngest in the family.
“Jen has been worth every peso.”

Tita Jen was Jareth’s most recent investment - she was the best pageant coach in the Philippines. Her client list included many
Miss Idol World runners-up. She had been hungry for the one that could get her all the way. Her fees cost as much as a Manila
condo, but from where we stood, backstage of the big event, and me, a favorite for the big title… she was worth it.

I looked at my brother. Jareth wore a black and gold Giorgio Armani single-breasted suit. Unlike me, he was the same person
as his reflection. He stood tall, pristine. He was the head of our family and a God amongst men. Black hair, black eyes, and
golden skin.

We didn’t look like siblings. He was a statue made of bronze, perfect and unbreakable.

I looked at my light brown eyes with the strange, dark flecks. In some lights, my eyes looked red like the color of dying leaves.
Where he was cold metal, I was fire, and constantly in threat of burning out.

Next to him, I felt like a cheap, porcelain doll. Pretty on the outside, hollow on the inside.

My reflection was better than the reality.

I wanted to smash my fist into the glass. To crack it as much as I was cracked.

“Why can’t I just look like myself?” I curled my finger through my hair and looked at the bleach-damaged ends. “I get that the
whole ‘beach wave’ thing is in fashion, but it makes me fade into a sea of bimbos on stage.”

Jareth’s hands balled into fists, as he tried to steady himself. I was giving him a problem he couldn’t fix. I was complaining
about something when I was at the starting gate. It was too late to do anything about it. He hated that. He hated problems he
could not solve. They were an insult to him!

“You think we spent all this money on a coach just so you can go your own way?” Jareth snorted and then added that passive
aggressive parental phrase, “Bahala ka sa buhay mo.” Do whatever you want. It’s your life.

Except it was never my life. Jareth, Jomari, Jazz, Jorik and I had no control over our destiny.

We were a Royal Flush, unbeatable together, but useless apart. We lived our lives in tandem, always going in the same
direction, but never intersecting.

I had once asked Jareth if he was the King. He shook his head with a laugh. I still don’t know what card he’d be. Or maybe he
hadn’t thought through the metaphor. Maybe his words about how I am the Queen of the deck were just that… words, meant to
make an unimportant sister feel like a member of our pieced-together family.

“Sa buhay mo,” I mocked, staring at the two empty water glasses on my vanity.

Had Jareth even noticed? No, of course not. His nose was back in his phone, texting business. He was in the room with me, but
his mind was always far away. Why was he even here at all?

“I’ve got it, Kuya.” I bitterly rolled my eyes. A bit of defiance from me, and a sigh of resignation from him… the homeostasis
of our family continued. “Unless you want to see your sister naked, you should go.”

My brother visibly cringed, and I tried not to laugh. He took two strides to the door and reached for the handle before he
paused.

“You better take this seriously,” he warned me with a wagging finger. “We have too much riding on…”

“Blah-fucking-blah,” I interrupted him.

He sighed, then left, leaving me alone in the empty room. The would-be scene of my crime, and my real triumph tonight.

Jareth was going to go find Tita Jen. No doubt, she’d be outside smoking a cigarette, and he’d join her. Of course, he “didn’t”
smoke. He’d go to the grave with that lie on his lips. But I knew better. He was a stress smoker. I could smell it on him every
time he went outside to “calm down”.

I knew that I stressed him out. I was the family fuck-up. I was a pretty face, while the rest of my siblings had so much more to
offer. That’s why I did pageants. I could monetize my looks even as they kept getting the wrong kind of attention.

Sometimes the prettiest flowers are the most dangerous. The brightest colors can be the most venomous. I would prove that true
tonight.

I was a favorite to win the big crown. I had made sure of it in many, many ways.

I put a small needle in Miss Canada’s evening shoe, so that she’d feel the slightest prick in her heel. It was embedded in the
leather, so she wouldn’t notice it from a visual inspection. But she’d sure as hell feel it.

Miss France’s hairspray had just the slightest bit of aerosol Nair. She always fluffed her glorious mane between sets, and now,
each time she’d spray her style, she’d feel just the slightest burn on her scalp. Maybe a few clumps would fall out while she
did her signature hair flip. It would be enough to knock her off her game.

Miss America was fucked, no matter what. No one was in the mood for the United States to win anything anytime soon. Ditto
Russia. Ukraine might win, but she was wearing wings for her signature costume. A little bit of heat activated glue, and they’d
need to rip them off her back at the end of the intro runway walk. Her evening and swimwear were backless, so good luck
hiding those welts.

I dropped my sweats and oversized button down, getting into the national costume I’d wear for the opening. I was going out in a
red, slinky volcano-like dress, with a pattern reminiscent of the Igorots in the mountain province. My headdress was tall, like
the clay jugs the same Igorots used to transport water from the river to their villages in the high mountain terraces.

I leaned over the vanity and forced myself to smile. Not the static kind I used for the cameras. A doe-eyed, innocent one, meant
to disarm an idiot. I let the mask fall, as I looked at the tumblers, trying to keep a disgusted shiver from climbing my spine.

I pulled a flask from the drawer and poured whiskey into each. Then, I broke a pill over one of the glasses, letting the contents
of it dissolve in the liquid, fizzing until it settled.

The door opened, and the man of the hour came in. The head of the Miss Idol Scholarship Foundation, and the biggest voter in
tonight’s competition: Music Label Executive Michael Dryden.

Four years ago, a judge was caught fingering an under-aged, unnamed, contestant and they had to start implementing the private
rooms. The privacy was supposed to ensure that us poor, vulnerable girls, weren’t victims of the depraved, heartless men who
ran the contest. Clearly, the people who came up with that “solution” were delusional.

But what do you expect from men who leered at emaciated young women as they paraded in slinky bathing suits in front of an
audience of billions of viewers?

Michael Dryden’s combover hid a bald spot and fooled no one. His belly hid the expensive silver belt that had the Herculean
task of keeping his pants up – a feat that it failed as many times as it succeeded, through no fault of its own. Had he just been
with Miss Canada and Miss France? Or was he the kind of man who liked to sample a woman once, then ignore them forever?

He hadn’t sampled me. He never would, either.

I brought one of the glasses to my lips and took a drink, before handing him the contaminated one. I was assured that the alcohol
would mask the taste, and I was putting my faith into it.
Hell, I depended on it.

“Hmm, you look…” Dryden licked his lips, taking the glass from my hand. “What is this?”

“Macallan.” I lifted my voice in the end like an airhead, that had never heard that whiskey before. “You said it was your
favorite.”

I feigned my biggest doe eyes and smiled at him through my reflection, straightening as I wiped a hand over the clingy dress.

“Mmm, good girl,” he groaned low, as he smiled. “I knew you’d know how to please a man.”

He gave me a dirty wink. The hair on the backs of my arms rose, and it felt like a thousand little spiders crawled up my skin.
The man was disgusting.

We clinked glasses as I smiled.

“What should we toast to, sir?” I played the demure ingenue. Why did being helpless turn on men like Dryden? Evil gets off on
crushing innocence, I suppose.

“To being such good friends.” To my utter horror, he licked his wrinkled lips. Then he downed the glass in one gulp. He wiped
a stray drop from the corner of his mouth as he grinned. “Now … Jestiny –”

He wobbled on his feet. His eyes became glassy as his breaths quickened. He looked down at me, confused. His brows came
together as he blinked.

“I bet your vision is getting blurry.” I stepped toward him as he stumbled backwards. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of
you… since we’re such good friends.”
 Chapter One

THAT’S ASSAULT, ISN’T IT?

Jestiny
Present Day, London, England

T hetheplace hummed with excitement. The studio audience screamed on command, prompted by the large flashing lights above
stage that told them to laugh, to clap, and to aww at the right moments.

The announcer was in a box, the microphone in front of his face just outside the wings of the stage. He gave me a small wink,
and a gunpoint salute which I returned. Intro music played as Rupert, the night show host, sat behind his fake mahogany desk,
twiddling a fountain pen in his hand.

“A’right, let’s introduce the next guest. We’re very excited about this one.” His Estuary accent garbled his words, and I was
nervous about understanding him.

The guy in the sound booth brought his lips to the microphone, and in that clear, enunciated British voice started listing off my
accolades. “After stunning the globe with her Miss Idol win five years ago, this guest has just completed a worldwide, sold-out
tour. Her chart-topping hits include “Make a Wish” and “Bring it, Baby”. She was recently named the World’s Sexiest Woman,
and the Richest 30 Under 30! Misssss Jestiny Barkada!”

I walked out in my silky gold dress, waving to the audience. My lightly curled hair bounced about my shoulders, down to my
waist, falling forward over my breasts which hid and emphasized them in equal measure. In the middle of the floor, I twisted
on one foot to do a slow-motion turn.

It was a crowd-pleasing trick that ended with a smiling, hand-on-the-hip pose.

The audience screamed, and I gave a small finger wave. I sashayed to the little couch and crossed my legs, leaning with my
elbow on the armrest. I gave Rupert my biggest, brightest, beauty queen smile.

His makeup was caking. There was a small grease stain on his shirt, obscured by his too-wide tie. I wondered if it was a
gimmick, or if he really woke up that morning and thought, “Yeah, this looks good!”

“Jestiny, Jestiny, Jestiny…” Rupert tapped his pen, twisting in his chair as he looked at me.

The logo of his show was emblazoned across the front of his fake business desk. He even had a prop desk lamp, the kind with a
bent neck and a small green dome over a lightbulb. Not that it was ever used, since 300-watt stage lights surrounded him like a
halo. They were strategically placed to ensure that his double chin was in shadow. “That’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

His accent was grating my last nerve. Kuya Jareth had a British accent, but it didn’t make my skin crawl. Somehow, Rupert’s
did. Maybe it was because he looked like Michael Dryden.

“I don’t know, Rupert.” I sweetly shrugged and leaned back in my chair. “I’ve lived with it all my life.”

How does a guy called Rupert have the audacity to think my name is weird?

He put on that plastic, smarmy smile. The kind that made my skin crawl with its calculated tightness.

“Well, Rupert is a name most people recognize, but Jestiny…” He tilted his head and shrugged, as if I should know what he
was getting at. But I chose not to. My doe-eyed innocence shone through as I waited for him to finish whatever asinine thing he
was thinking.

He finally gave in to the dead air between us, knowing that the awkwardness would reflect on him. Not me.

“Well, I’ve never met anyone else called Jestiny.”

“I’ve never met anyone called Rupert!” There was a fake chipperness in my voice because I knew the score. We couldn’t look
hostile to one another, even though we absolutely were. I had to look sweet, jovial, ready to chat. Miss World Idol. Perfect in
every possible way. A woman of complete virtue, who happened to look objectifiable in a swimsuit.

There was a small, polite laugh from the audience. He must have called it a loss, because he coughed as he changed the
subject.

“So, I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask about these headlines. The ones that led to you being nicknamed Diva Difficult. About…”

Don’t ever let a late-night show fool you. It’s not just two people having a pleasant conversation. It is a ping-pong of one
person trying to get more from their interviewee than they want to give. Us, their guests, then battle to make sure we keep our
boundaries intact.

We’re a commodity, and they are selling us to the public. Blood is always more entertaining than sunshine.

“Me throwing a brick at the lens of a paparazzi?” Again, I batted my eyelashes.

“That journalist is now suing you for assault. That’s a very serious crime, young lady.”

Fuck your ‘young lady’ bullshit, you pervert.

“So is sexual assault.” My smile felt tight, as I forced my cheekbones back to ensure that I looked happy, and unbothered. As if
that wasn’t a complete fucking joke. “In the state of New York, upskirting is a Class E felony, and comes with one to four years
in prison.”

I blinked.

He blinked.

Seconds ticked by. He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to the punch.

“Second time offenders, like this man, could receive more punishment. But, of course, he wasn’t convicted at the time. Why is
that?” I knew the answer to my own question, but I wanted to see this prick bluster.

“Oh, come on Jestiny.” Rupert almost looked annoyed at me. It was unusual, since his perfectly curated image didn’t include
such negative emotions. “He was just doing his job…”

“The answer to my previous question,” I interrupted, “was because he committed his crimes - and I certainly do call them
crimes, if not a legal one, certainly a moral one - in London. Not far from here. That kind of harassment is okay, legally
speaking, on this side of the pond, right? Do you think it’s okay?”

Was I imagining it, or was Rupert turning red?

“You’re right,” I said, as if I was conceding. I nodded and frowned, looking askance, as if I was chastened. “His job was to lie
on his back so he could get a picture up my skirt.”

There was a slight gasp from the audience. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t prompted by the big lights that flashed over the stage.

“How much did those pictures sell for last time?” This was a technique I had learned a long time ago. Don’t ever assert
yourself. No, that wasn’t feminine, or sweet. Not princessy enough for the general public. But ask a question instead. “Do you
remember?”

Of course, he remembered. But he denied it, just as I suspected. “I don’t…”

“The tabloids bought those photos for a million pounds the day I turned eighteen.” I let the smile just melt away now, because I
was caring less and less about this perfect pop girl image. “Twenty-four hours before, it would have been illegal to do that. I
had just gotten out of a dinner with my family…”

“Well, let’s talk about that. Your brother was arrested…”

“Yes, because one of them tried to stick his lens up my skirt, literally. Not just aiming them up, but stuck an object between my
legs, to uhmmm…” I caught a look at Jareth at the wings of the stage, clenching his fist. Was it because of the memory, or
because I was turning this into a hostile interview? “Exploit me, right? Is that the right word, Rupert? My English is not so
good, so maybe you can help me. You’re familiar with exploiting women, right?”

He balked and went pale. That’s right, fucker. I know what up-and-coming actresses have to do to get onto your show, you
pathetic, disgusting piece of shit.

“The legalese is too complicated for my little brain but...” I conjured that smile again because I had to, before Jareth’s head
exploded. “That’s called assault and battery, right? Sexual assault and battery, in America. I don’t know about here, after all,
it’s just so confusing.”

It wasn’t confusing. My brother rearranged the paparazzo’s face, and the charges were dismissed because that journalist
deserved worse. He deserved to be killed. Any judge or barrister knew he was a lost cause.

I was sorry we pulled Jorik off of him, but we didn’t want him put away for murder. Not when he was on the brink of his first
championship.

“Well, that’s completely different from what happened a few days ago…”

“It’s less exploitative, I suppose, now that I’m wise and experienced at twenty-three years old.”

I was making him look like an ass. I told Jareth not to make me do this, but he insisted. Now look at what was happening.

“That’s not… that’s not what I’m saying. You’re trying to put words in my mouth.”

“Am I?” Blink, blink. Blink the little doe eyes and make him think you hadn’t meant it that way. “How so?”

Questions. Ask questions. Have them explain.

“Let’s move on.” He cleared his throat, giving a small finger gesture, like scissors, to indicate to his team to cut the previous
interaction from the live broadcast. “You’re from the Philippines, right?”
I let my smile linger, the question hanging in the air between us. He knew I was from the Philippines. Everyone did. That’s why
I was Miss Philippine Idol before I was Miss World Idol.

“They call you the Taylor Swift of the Philippines. How do you feel about that?”

Like the media is too lazy to realize that two women who work in roughly the same genre of music could possibly have their
own personalities. The public imagination could only handle one of every item, and having to consider that pop stars aren’t all
a monolith would just be too difficult to understand for the two working brain cells of the collective Hollywood imagination.

Not to mention, they were basically dismissing my culture, my heritage, and the extensive Filipino Music industry that was at
my back.

But I can’t say any of that, so instead, I smiled. “Well, Taylor Swift is an amazing artist and performer. I’m grateful for the
comparison.”

Without missing a beat, he jumped on my apparent cooperation. “Is it true that you all eat with your hands?”

He chuckled, and the audience laughed along.

There it was again. That deafening pulse, the one that beat like a drum in my ears and pulled my lips back in a tight smile as I
breathed through my nose.

“Why? Do you eat with your feet?”

More awkward laughter…

“I watched you eat potato chips with your hands backstage. That’s what made the grease stain on your shirt.” I pointed my eyes
at the dark finger stain on his purple blouse, all the while keeping my smile. “Is that what you mean?”

Smiling is strength. Smiling is the game…

Rupert was livid, and I loved it. He looked at me like he had just caught me murdering his favorite pet. All the while, I smiled
like I was too fucking stupid to know that I had been unbelievably rude.

“Let's talk about your new album.” He cleared his throat, tapping his pen, but he couldn’t put that mask back on. He wasn’t like
me. He wasn’t used to being challenged at every step. His path had been paved for him.

It didn’t mean that he wasn’t a hardworking man. He was. Of course, no one got to that level without a bit of elbow grease. But
the industry is littered with hardworking talent. He got to where he was by being friends with other influential, disgusting men
who decided to be disgusting together.

A congress of disgusting cretins, if you will.

“It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?” Then he smiled, and I knew I had to brace for impact. “It’s been three years since
your last album. That’s practically a lifetime in music years, no?”

The rest of the interview went by without incident. He asked for a canned line, and I gave the PR response. The audience
laughed at the right spaces, and I knew that all the hostility of before would be cut from what aired for the public.

Still, I knew that the hidden phones, the red blinking lights, and the sleight of hand from beneath blazers and jackets would
release tiny clips for the internet. Rupert’s network would get litigious and have them taken down. But people would know.
People would see. One good scandal, and they’d look at this incident as the moment his empire started going down.

And I was here for it.

Or maybe it would be my empire that crumbled, when people found out my secret…

My brother was quiet when I came off stage. We walked back to the dressing room in silence. He said nothing even though I
could feel his wrath. He was waiting until we were alone… he might even wait until we were in the car to read me the Riot
Act, so I relished the quiet.

Rupert was screaming up a storm outside. I could hear it, even through the closed dressing room door.

“Who the fuck does that cunt think she is? Who put her on the fucking schedule? I want their asses handed to me on a fucking
platter!”

“Oh no! I don’t think I’ll be invited back. Whatever will I do?” I batted my eyelashes at a less-than-amused Jareth.

Whatever. Nothing I did ever pleased him, no matter how hard I tried. It was best that I didn’t even bother.

Then I saw a glass of water on my desk.

Beneath the glass was a single note. The message was written in red.

“Shut your mouth or die, Bitch,” I read out loud.

Jareth clenched his fists, and I could feel the proverbial steam coming out of his ears as he stepped beside me, looking down at
the scrawl.

I tried to laugh. “They get points for brevity, I guess.”

“You’re not funny, Jes,” Jareth said through clenched teeth.

“I’m not trying to be.” I totally was trying to be. Anything to keep him from being mad. Anything to keep Jareth from looking at
me like I was the Barkada that would bring down our rising star. Please don’t think that this is my fault. “Brevity is the
number one sign of effective communication.”

“Jestiny.” My name was a warning, so I clamped my mouth shut.

He brought his black phone to his ear. Without any further word to me, he called in the rent-a-cops of the venue. I didn’t dare
move as they came in with their big, tight t-shirts, their occupation written in reflective, white lettering on their chest and back:
Security. Then there were cops. All the while, I didn’t move. I just waited, staring at the words…

Shut your mouth or die, Bitch.

Don’t threaten me with a good time, asshole.

 Chapter Two

BURN THOSE CLOTHES

Chris
Strathlachlan, Scotland

I was wholly unprepared for the new job. I had been through Airborne, Air Assault, and Ranger School. I went through the Q-
course, and then Delta Selection as a first-time-go, but I was completely unprepared for the sheer humiliation of three months
of Caledonia Security selection. Nothing prepares you to get your ass, proverbially and literally, handed to you by a pixie of a
woman.

Lea MacLachlan, née Bonifacio, was a tiny shrew of a human who walked around with a butterfly knife the way others might
fidget with their keys. She sent us through the ringer with drills, tactics, hostage rescue, bodyguarding, and fucking legal
bookwork. All the while, she berated us.

“Awesome!” She clapped, the sarcasm evident in her posture and the raise of her brow. “Someone asked your client for an
autograph, and you tackled them to the ground. I’m sure that’s going to go over well. Wanna kick a sick kid in a wheelchair
while you’re at it? Really make sure that you end up a meme?”

She cackled when a dozen trainees walked out, voluntarily dropping from the program.

“If you can’t handle me, then you can’t handle our clients.”

All of that made sense, theoretically, since Caledonia served the richest, most elite kind of clientele. Still, it was one thing to
take a tongue-lashing from a spoiled billionaire’s kid, but to take it from our trainer? Some egos just can’t handle that.

She took a mean stance when it came to beating old habits out of us.

“You're a fucking guard now. You’re not in a combat zone. Your job is to catch a bullet, and keep the peace.”

She delighted in beating the ever-living fuck out of us. She had people coming in to play our enemy, our clients, and every
possible scenario in between. She never lost an opportunity to jab at us. By the end of the first month, more than half the class
had called it quits. When she got us down to a dozen, I felt good about my chances of being hired, until the final test was
announced.

Good old fashioned hand-to-hand combat against the woman who had tormented me for months. I was ready - hell, we were all
ready - to give a bit of it back to her. But one by one, they all got creamed, and tucked tail and left. In the end, I was the last one
standing. I figured that I had nothing to lose so I went in, head down, ready to tackle, maim, and beat her into submission, only
to get turned on my ass, my jaw punched by knuckles that felt as hard as steel.
“You fucking bitch!” I was practically shaking in hatred, as I spat blood on the mat, right across her bare foot.

“Gross,” she said, shaking her foot to wipe off my spittle.

I got up and asked for another try. I was unsteady on my feet, and dizzy as fuck from the blow she landed on my head.

“If you keep fighting me, I will kill you.” I had no doubt that she was telling the truth. I knew she could kill me if she wanted to,
but it wasn’t in my nature to quit. So I didn’t.

“Best two out of three?” I brought my fists up to protect my face.

She twisted, lunging and disappearing from view to reemerge beside me. She smacked me on the back of the head and laughed.

“Welcome to Caledonia Security. You’re hired!”

What the fuck?

She ushered me into a side room where the rest of the staff waited, drinks in hand, laughing. The owner, Callum MacLachlan,
signed me up right then and there, but warned me to never call his wife a bitch again.

“That wasn’t my finest moment,” I admitted. If that was all it took, I’d sing her praises until the end of time. “Sorry.”

Lea smirked at my half-assed apology, crossing her arms in front of her. “Please, you’ve all been cursing my name for months.”

She had no remorse.

Caledonia was elite for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was their great rapport with multiple government agencies. They
had a way of making problems disappear, while keeping their clients breathing. The latter was the job, but the former was why
they were paid the big bucks.

On my first official day, I wore my best pressed suit. The big boss was the first one to see me, and he froze in place.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Mr. MacLachlan looked at me like I had just bitten the head off a bat, Ozzy Osborne-style.

I looked down at my suit, then back at him, confirming that this wasn’t a nightmare where I walked into my first day with no
pants. My shoes were shined and matched my belt. The suit was black, the shirt was white. Was the tie the problem? I thought it
was a bit fancy with the plaid-looking navy and white stripes, but it wasn’t garish or anything.

“What’s the problem here?” The mini-sadist, Lea, called from the other room.

“Darling,” Mr. Callum MacLachlan - or was it Baron MacLachlan? I had no idea what to call the man - looked over his
shoulder. “Your compatriot is not done with his training.”

I heard a chair shuffle, and Lea appeared at her husband’s side. She took one look at me, and her head fell forward.

“Jesus,” she rolled her eyes, backhanding her husband on the chest. “You can close your mouth. It’s not that bad, you snob.”

Damn. Other than “you’re hired!” that was the nicest thing she’d ever said to me.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the central hall into an office. A wooden plank on the door had my name emblazoned
on it, so I guessed it was my new home away from home. She slammed the door shut with a kick of her black leather boot and
pushed me into the chair behind the desk. The seat rolled with the impact of my weight, and she started opening up the drawers,
searching for… something.
“These fucking rich people,” she grumbled, until she found a piece of paper and pen. She slammed them in front of me. “Take
notes.”

I pulled off the gold-colored cap from the fancy pen. “Caledonia Security” and the office phone number were laser-printed on
the side.

“First, you need to change how you dress.” She took the seat across from me and crossed her legs, an ankle on her knee. “That
outfit makes you look poor.”

I looked down at my black suit and inspected the tie.

“Huh?” I examined the lapels as if it said “Juicy Couture.”

“You bought it at the mall?” She raised a pencil-thin brow.

“Well, yeah, there was this tailor-”

“Yeah, you’ll need to stop that. The mall is for poor people.” She looked at the door as if she could see beyond it to the posh
Europeans on the other side. “Working class, even white collar, is considered poor for our clients. You’re going to stick out
like a sore thumb wearing those clothes. You’ll look less like our client’s entourage and more like a fan.”

What she was saying made perfect sense. It really did, when you took a look at the dignitaries that populated the client list. It
still stung, though. I had picked out these clothes because I thought they looked good. It wasn’t like they were on the clearance
rack.

“Write this down.” She listed off a ton of names. I vaguely knew they were designers, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it. I just
wrote them down anyway and was too scared to ask how to spell them.

“Your tie is too narrow. Your shoes need to be leather, not the plastic fake-gloss stuff. Shine them, old school, with polish and a
rag. You match your outfit to the formality of the client, so get comfortable wearing $200 t-shirts.”

Had I been drinking water I would have spat it out my nose.

There was no way she said that. Either she misspoke or my hearing was starting to go. Being too close to one too many
explosives could do that to a man.

“Say again?”

“You heard it right. Two. Hundred. Dollar. T-shirts.” She winced. For once, she looked apologetic. I was amazed, since I
didn’t think that was in her repertoire of emotions. “Did you grow up in the suburbs?”

The question surprised me so much that the words took a second to register.

“I mean, yeah, I did.”

“It’s a rhetorical question. You’re like me.” She leaned forward, and brought both her feet to the ground. Her elbows rested on
her knees. “We did a full background on you. Your parents moved into the neighborhood because it had a good public school
system. It was a dual income household. You went to a prom and got your outfit from the mall. It probably looked a little bit
like what you’re wearing now. You may have even splurged and gotten a limo with your date and a few friends…”

She was hitting the nail right on the head. Even though she said she had the same background, she was still a fucking baroness.

She may have gone to a mall once, but I had a hunch that she now employed personal shoppers that brought clothes to her
mansion, or castle, or whatever. They probably even had models do a private catwalk.
Was that something rich people still did? I wasn’t sure. I had seen it in an old movie once. Maybe it was when my sister and I
watched Gigi, starring Leslie Caron.

I hated how fuzzy my memories were getting.

I tuned back into what she was saying just in time to hear, “… but we play in a different stratosphere, and we have to change to
match. Even me.”

I looked at her skeptically. She was a baron’s wife, and while information on her was sparse, there was nothing about her that
screamed rags to riches.

“You’re going to be shepherding around some of the richest and most famous people in the world.” She suddenly got a little
quiet, changing the tone of the conversation to one of instruction and counsel. “We dress like them, and to some degree, we eat,
and act like them, too. We blend into the local population… except the local population are the One Percenters. Remember that
for all the glitz and glamor that we rub elbows with, we’re not one of them.”

I wondered where this advice was coming from. Was it from lessons she had learned? Or did I just look like the social
climbing type? If the first, then I felt sorry for her and the Baron. If the latter, then she had misread me.

“And for fuck’s sake, don’t go on duty and start using your associations to get you laid in the bar.” She pushed herself up with
the arm rests of the chair.

I snorted, “Don’t worry. It’s not really my style.”

She returned with a skeptical snort of her own. “Really? What are you? The only celibate Delta guy in existence?”

“That has generally been my experience, yes,” I deadpanned, trying not to react to her raised brow.

“Sure, bro.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Go buy new clothes and come back tomorrow morning.”

Using company time to go shopping? This was a pretty sweet gig.

Holy fuck. My car didn’t cost as much as the clothes I had bought. CLOTHES! It burned through half my signing bonus.

I came in with a new suit and the Baron looked me up and down. He did that weird frowny smile and said, “Burn what you
wore yesterday. I wouldn’t wish that on the thrift stores.”

Was he out of touch or sarcastic as fuck? I wasn’t sure.

I passed him without a word and went to my assigned office. I finally took the time to feel the seat under my ass and ran my
hands over the hardwood office desk. It was far nicer than anything I’d had in the Army. I was leveling up! But, shit, I felt a bit
like a charity case. Like I was the token poor guy in a room of millionaires.

I checked my phone. One missed call. I clicked the button to re-dial and heard a high-pitched, audible squeal as soon as it
connected.

“I got in!” My sister said without preamble.

“What?” My heart leapt to my throat as complicated feelings came to the surface. “You’re kidding! You got the big envelope?”

“Yes! They accepted me! I can’t believe it! Ah!”

I could almost see her dancing on the other end. A little happy dance she had done since she was a toddler.

“Congratulations, Elyse, you deserve it!” And she did. She deserved this chance. “Julliard! Jesus! That’s amazing!”

There was a wistful sigh on the other end. Then she cleared her throat.

“It’s okay, right? I know you wanted…”

“It’s not about me,” I said in mock sternness. “Just because I had to change my dreams doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to have
yours.”

“Really?”

“Really, really!” I swallowed the bitterness down, staring at the palm of my right hand. The jagged, long cuts were forever
marked across my skin, disfiguring the lifeline. I could still feel the tug of stitches even now, five years after the fact. Long ago,
I had dreams. The Army was a stepping stone. Then it was gone. “What were you gonna do? Not be a musician because I can’t
be one? That’s crazy talk!”

“And the tuition…” Christ, I knew it was killing her to ask. I put her out of her misery.

“I got the job.” I heard another squeal from her. “We can sell Mom and Dad’s house and get you a tiny place in New York. You
might need roommates until you’re big and famous, but we’ll make it work.”

“I love you, Chris.” I knew she was wiping a tear from her eye. My little sister was prone to fits of extreme emotion. Not
tantrums, but extreme and overwhelming joy, sweetness, and happy tears. Just one after the other in a rolling high of feeling.
“Things are really happening for us.”

“They sure are, kiddo,” I whispered, as we said our goodbyes.

Problem was, I had no fucking idea what my job really was, other than the bodyguarding part. That was the easy bit. But
outside of that, my only experience was getting my ass kicked by the owner’s wife. And she was the most approachable of the
crew.

I was about to look for Lea when a man walked in. His shiny black hair was slicked back, and his dark eyes darted around the
room as he knocked on the door frame. He wore a navy suit with the slightest plaid pattern. His burgundy tie was held with a
gold pin that had a stylized letter I. He peered into my open door, and I immediately came to attention.

“Hello, I’m Christopher Ambrose. Chris. I’m new here…”

The man raised a brow. His head tilted as his eyes raked my body with a judgment that made me uneasy.

Jesus, did he hate my clothes too?

His eyes stopped at my shoes. Yup. He was judging my outfit. He pursed his lips with a nod as if he approved of what he saw,
then looked over his shoulder before turning back to me.

“I’m Jareth Barkada,” he said with a posh British accent.

His name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. His deep, smooth tan made me wonder if he was one of those lesser
known royals – AKA, not the British, but maybe he was a Thai prince or something? I wasn’t sure. He was most definitely a
“client”, and not an “employee” type.

“I’m looking for Callum.” He looked over his shoulder, his almond-shaped eyes darting from closed door to closed door. “His
office was locked. Is he at work today, or on assignment? I can talk to George Campbell instead, if he’s available.”
“Do you have an appointment?” I have no idea why I asked. I wouldn’t have the first clue on where to find the appointment
book.

“No, just dropping in, I’m afraid.” He threw out his arm so that the sleeve of his wrist rode up to reveal a blue-faced Rolex
Watch.

“Of course.” I don’t know why I said that either, but I definitely felt like the butler in one of those fancy BBC shows. I came
around the desk as he turned his body to let me slip past him. “Let me just see if he’s in Mrs. MacLachlan’s office.”

I glanced up and down the small central conference area, and almost sighed with relief when I saw Lea’s door was ajar. That
definitely meant she was in, so I went over and knocked.

“Ma’am?” I asked tentatively as I pushed the door open.

“Lea,” she corrected, and I could hear the eyeroll. She twirled a butterfly knife in her hand, the metal scraping together as the
blade flew. It was a habit she had. She didn’t fidget. She just opened and closed that butterfly knife in a round, sweeping
rhythm, over and over again.

“Someone’s looking for Callum…”

A high back chair in front of her swung around, and her husband’s redheaded mane poked up.

“I’m right here, just trying to spend some quality time with my wife.” The Baron smirked up at me. “Having twins at home
means I rarely see her, so I figured I’d work in here to stare at her lovely face through my workday.”

“Fucking creep…” she grumbled, though she couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at her plump lips.

“Callum!” The man I had escorted there brushed past me, his arms out as the two embraced like old friends. “Good to see you.
Where’s Geordie?”

“Handling something in Greece! You’ve just missed him. What can I do for you Jareth?”

Without invitation, the newcomer took the other seat on this side of the table as Lea looked at him like he was some kind of
bomb, ready to explode.

“This is my wife,” Callum said, turning slightly in the chair so that all three of them were staring at each other.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to slowly back out like Homer Simpson into a hedge, but I hadn’t really been dismissed, so I wasn't
sure if that would be seen as rude. I was scared of breaking some ridiculous social norm and attracting the ire of my bosses.

“Filipino?” Jareth asked of Lea, apparently that one word was a question in itself.

“Ah!” she smiled. Probably the first real genuine smile I had ever seen. “Marunong ka ba magtagalog?”

“I do!” He stood up and rounded the table, and the two embraced like old friends as well. Whatever she had said apparently
made them the best of friends. “But for the sake of Callum, who looks like he’s about to punch me in the face, I think I’ll stick to
English.”

Jareth chuckled as he went back to his seat. I took a look at the Baron of Strathlachlan, who was, indeed, staring daggers at his
friend.

“No harm meant, old man. Though it’s funny to see you so protective. You were never this way with Pippa.” He leaned an
elbow on the armrest, bringing a pensive hand to his chin.
“Pippa was…” The Baron started, but his wife cut him off.

“Don’t you dare say anything mean about her.”

Callum wiped his large palm over his face in agitation. “They’re now the best of friends.”

“Oh!” Jareth almost laughed. “Your ex-fiancée is close with your wife? You must have truly been awful in a past life.”

“They're very open about taking each other’s side during arguments,” Callum grumbled. “But enough about the state of my
marriage. What can I do for you Jareth? We’re not close enough for this to be a social visit.”

Jareth placed a theatrical hand over his chest and pretended to be offended, but it was obvious he was anything but. “I’m
wounded! I thought chocolate was thicker than blood.”

I had no idea what that meant, but it made Callum sit up. “Aye, it is thicker than blood. Are you in trouble?”

“Not me. When we were in St. Michael’s, I told you that I had younger siblings, yes?”

“Aye, the famous Barkadas. You’ve all made quite a way for yourselves since you all adopted the same last name.”

“Indeed. Barkadas are the Kardashians, but without the sex tapes.” Jareth looked incredibly proud of that fact. “A track record
we intend to keep, or else my siblings will end up in an iron-clad conservatorship, and be sent to a nunnery or monastery until I
choose to forgive them.”

I had a hunch that he was only half kidding.

I had actually seen that comparison in a headline. Families were trying to keep up with the Barkadas. One of them was a
famous pop star. Another was an MMA champion. The other was a musical genius and composer, like this generation’s John
Williams.

“You’ve never been a forgiving type,” Callum chuckled.

“True.”

None of this involved me, so I took a tentative step back. If I took enough, then I’d be out of sight, and they’d forget I was even
there.

“So, which of your siblings are you here to see me about?”

Another step. I was almost out of the doorway…

“Jestiny, the youngest,” Jareth said. “She’s in America, recording her next album in LA. But we’ve seen some…”

“Don’t sneak out, Ambrose.” Lea’s voice froze me in place. “Christopher Ambrose is our new American member, and the one
with the requisite permits to start immediately. My brother and I will join once we know our conceal carry permits are in
order. You can trust him.”

Shit.
 Chapter Three

I’M CHRISTOPHER AMBROSE

Jestiny

in the house!” Kuya Jareth’s anger was palpable, even through the phone. “If you’re not recording, you need to stay
“S tay
home. No restaurants. No coffee shops. Nothing.”

I stood at the lobby of the Dryden Studios, the phone to my ear, begging, like a child, for permission to go out to a restaurant, a
coffee shop, or… something!

Ever since the death threat was found in my dressing room, I had been under house arrest. Work, home. Work, home. Rinse,
repeat. No deviations, no exceptions. I was going mad.

“What if I’m hungry?” I was grasping at anything that could lift this stupid ban.

My brother’s word was law. That was the hierarchy of our family. The eldest sibling ruled over us like a parent. But that didn’t
mean that I couldn’t push back occasionally.

“Darling, you can Uber Eats from any restaurant in LA County.” He took a deep breath. I could almost see him trying to gain
that famous Jareth self-control. “It’s just until we get you proper security. Okay?”

“But I’m bored!” I yelled.

Was that the hill to die on? No. Was that the thing that would change my hyper-logical, robot of a brother’s mind regarding my
incarceration? No. But I wanted something. Anything. Would it kill him to give in to me, just once?

The failures from the studio came home with me, into the silence of the beach house. Another day without a song. Another day I
wasn’t closer to finishing an album… one day closer to being exposed for the fraud I was.

The sound of the waves crashing on the sand helped, a little. It really did. But it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the black
emptiness that took over my mind. The silence was so vast, peppered only by the pulse at my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Stay. In. The. House!” My brother bellowed.

He must have been saying something and gotten no response from me.

“Kuya!” I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream.

“I don’t care if you’re bored!” Jareth’s voice was measured and calm. A certainty that he was about to rage at me at any
moment. “Go home and stay home.”

“Please…” I said in a whisper. “Please don’t…”

Don’t what? Don’t keep me in my prison made of golden bars and take-out food? Don’t force me to look out of the floor to
ceiling windows at California’s glorious sunsets?

I couldn’t say it, but I hated it all. I just wanted to get out and distract myself from how miserable I was. I had worked so hard
to get here, but it could all be ripped out from under me. One wrong move, and I’d be nothing.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ll take you to the jazz club down in Santa Monica, okay?”

It was a concession. A small one. But it was enough.

“Salamat, Kuya,” I said. Thank you, big brother. “Sige, bye.”

“Bye.” I heard the click as he hung up the phone.

I put my phone in my custom Yves St. Laurent bag and hoisted the gold strap over my shoulder.

“Miss Jestiny?” Brian was my 60-something driver, built like a brick in a polo shirt. His white hair was in disarray, as he
looked at me from beneath his low, silver brows.

I really liked him, and his white nose hairs. He was the reason for my most recent fight with Jareth, but it wasn’t really his
fault. He was under strict orders to not deviate from the work-home route.

“We’ll go home, Brian,” I said, with a reluctant nod. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Miss.” He opened the glass front door of the building, and with a sweep of his arm, let me go through it first. “I just think
that Mr. Barkada is right. We need to keep you safe.”

Hot air hit me as soon as I stepped outside. It swirled around my ankles, before it danced upwards, tossing my hair around. It
was the warm air of the Santa Ana winds. Joan Didion was an author that “got” California. She wrote entire prose about the
magic of these winds, and the strange, tensed stillness that came with it. A natural, annual phenomenon that filled me with
unease, every time the hot, dry air hit my skin.

I looked up at the glass skyscraper of the Dryden Studios, vaguely wondering how such tall buildings didn’t sway.

It was the best studio in LA county. The entire building was set up with all the latest tech, and they put just as much money into
the look of the place as the equipment inside. The Dryden name advertised old Hollywood money, and that meant they needed
the newest gadgets.

Artists who brought in the big bucks worked here. Artists who liked their own reflections looking back at them from the high,
mirrored walls. My face stared back at me, wearing Jimmy Choos, and a gold Gucci thigh-length dress. She was a doll that
could carry a tune, but not much more…

She had done terrible things to ensure her place in this echelon.

I had stolen from other girls who had worked just as hard, and probably had more talent.

“Do you like me, Brian?” I asked, looking at my driver.

His face softened, the wrinkles along his brow seeming to smooth out with his concern. “Of course, I do, Miss Jestiny.”

“Could you just call me Jes?”

I had always suspected that, at some point, we’d get close enough that he’d just make the transition as naturally as a work
colleague turned into a friend. Still, three years later, it hadn’t happened.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Jestiny.”

My heart sank. So maybe he wasn’t that fond of me after all.

“You’re a lot younger than me, and my boss. I can’t be that informal, no matter how fond I am of you.” He tried to smile, his
white caterpillar brows crawling over his eyes. “You’re a young, beautiful woman, and I’m an old man. It’s just not right. I
wouldn’t like that for my daughter.”

Huh. The one old man I wanted to be close to was keeping his distance. Only the worst people wanted a piece of me, and the
good wanted to keep me at arm’s length. Was I a bad person in a past life? Did I do something heinous? Why am I shattering to
pieces in front of the world as it looks on, criticizing how I’m not doing it gracefully enough?

Everyone is watching. But no one sees me. I’m invisible in the spotlight.

“Jestiny!” a strange, male voice cried. The paralyzing, terrible whirr and click of a telephoto lens carried on the breeze.
“Jestiny! Are you recording your next album?”

Whir-click-snap! A camera. A big one. I had been spotted and found.

“Jestiny!” Another voice. Another camera. Another click.

“Miss Jestiny.” That was Brian this time.

Click-Click. Snap.

“Take off your shirt!” Someone screamed.

“What if your next album is a flop?”

I was out in the open, but I felt like walls were closing in. I was being squeezed under a vice, cutting off my air. I wanted to
run. To hide and be away from noise, and people.

“Come on, Jestiny! Smile!”

“Miss Jestiny?” Brian tried to push me back to the car without touching me. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Jestiny!” A body crashed into me, slamming me against Brian. He tried to catch me but my heels snagged on the pavement. I
stumbled, barely righting myself.

Another body crashed into me, and click, click, click! Photo, after photo. It was as if the bulbs were in my head, beating like a
drum, threatening to bust my skull open, cracking it like the shell of an egg.

Keep your legs closed, Jes. The voice inside my head reminded me that these fuckers wanted a picture of me compromised. If
I was ever betrayed, or battered, they would take a picture between my legs and sell it for a million dollars.

Fucking vultures.
“Miss Jestiny,” Brian was insistent, pushing me back like a dog barking at the heels of the sheep. “Come on, now, we have to
get you into the car.”

Someone crashed into him, and he tripped, falling onto me as I lost my balance. I tried to regain it, but in three steps, I had
fallen from the sidewalk, onto the hot, steaming asphalt. A horn blared. Tires squealed. Click, click, whir, snap. “Jestiny!”

No one tried to help me. It was my nightmare. I was broken on the ground. People could see me, but no one cared.

A car door opened and slammed. The heel of my palms bled from where I fell.

“Come on.” I blinked from my daze as warm hands picked me up from the street. I didn’t know him. But he smelled like
autumn. Like apples, leather and earth.

“Who are you?” I asked, in a low whimper.

“I’m Christopher Ambrose.” His voice was deep, and impassive. Like he hadn’t just found me in the middle of traffic with
cameras buzzing all around.

“Where’s Brian?”

“I’m right here, Miss Jestiny.” Brian came up, as he ran to the side of our parked car.

Christopher Ambrose picked me up bridal style. I tried to push him away.

“Put me down,” I said weakly.

The wind blew again, throwing strands of my hair in front of my eyes. I had to hold them back, tucked behind my ear so I could
get a look at this… Christopher Ambrose. He went to the car and opened the door with the hand holding me below the knees.
He placed me in the back as Brian got into the driver’s seat.

Christopher Ambrose barked, “Get her out of here!”

I wanted to get out and tell him never to yell at my driver! No one had a right to do that. Not even Jareth!

But Brian bowed his head and started the car, locking the doors. He pulled out into LA traffic, and that was that. Because he
had been my driver for almost three years, he knew to put on music. Nothing with lyrics. Just classical, orchestral music that
could drown out the silence in my head.

I don’t know why his consideration made me want to cry.

“It’s okay, Miss Jestiny.” He stared straight ahead as he took the on-ramp to the highway. “It’s okay. You can cry if you want to,
Miss. It’s just us in here.”

That was all I needed. I practically broke down in the back seat, curling over my thighs, and whining like a child.

“That’s alright, Miss Jestiny. It’s going to be alright.” He kept on crooning the words. “That was your brother in the other car.
He’s gonna meet us at home real soon.”

Nothing was alright. It hadn’t been alright in a long, long time.

 Chapter Four

A KILLING LOOK

Chris

“A reat me
you a music fan, Ambrose?” Mr. Jareth said, staring at me through the rearview mirror. His expensive watch glinted
from beneath that navy blazer sleeve. From only a couple days with him, and my copious amounts of research,
navy blue was his go-to color. I wondered if I needed a signature color too.

Was that a thing? I made a mental note to ask Elyse about it the next time we spoke.

Jesus, I hated thinking about clothes. It was dumb. I miss the days of having a uniform. Everyone wore the same thing, and
conformity was the name of the game. Those were the good ol’ days.

“Ambrose?” Jareth lifted that thick, dark brow.

“Sorry, what?” I tried to keep the flush from crawling up my neck. I had totally daydreamed into a whole other place.

“Do you like music?”

I fucking love it. It had been my reason for breathing until the possibility of it as a career was cut from my hands – literally.

“I do.”

“What kind?” He volleyed. I was under the distinct impression that there was a right and wrong answer to this.

“All sorts,'' I said, noncommittally.

“Have you heard of my sister, Jestiny?”

“Caledonia Security does full background checks on all their clients, so I’m very familiar with her.” Again, I was staying
diplomatic. We never want to offend the client.

I especially didn’t want to tell him that his sister was a musical hack that basically regurgitated the same teeny-bopper, barely
legal jailbait songs that were as tired as tired could be. It wasn’t my thing.

“Have you listened to her music?” He wasn’t going to let this go, was he?

I really wanted to know what Jareth Barkada’s point was. I felt like I was a pig, being led by the snout to a troth.
“What’s on the radio, yeah.” As if on cue, the music on the stereo surround sound changed, and the woman in question crooned
on about being a girl, trying to find her way into womanhood. It sounded like money and merchandising. Pop, for the sake of
chart toppers that were churned out in a formulaic four chords in 4/4 time, ending with a big, trilling belt.

“Do you like it?”

Mayday! Mayday! It’s a trap!

“Sure,” I lied. I slowed onto the off-ramp of the freeway into the Los Angeles side street, covered in bougainvillea and other
shrubs. “Who wouldn’t?

I saw Jareth rub the back of his knuckles on his lips as he pensively stared out the window.

“Do you think she likes her own music?” Well, that’s a weird question.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Does her voice sound like she’s enjoying what she does? Just… I don’t know. Never mind.” He kept looking out the window,
at the passing parcels of land. We drove between expensive, Spanish, and adobe-style homes and wove into the main streets of
large buildings. Traffic was light for this time of day. I expected LA traffic to be more oppressive. Or maybe that was because I
spent a lot of time in New York City.

Jareth was a strange man. The principal client, Jestiny, was probably just as strange. But what the hell did I know about the
dynamics of siblings? Elyse and I were two very different people who shared the same parents. Our age gap meant that by the
time she was born, I was so, so, so ready to have a little brother or sister. I was ten years old when they plopped her in my
arms. I felt so important and responsible. I loved feeding her, changing her, burping her. I took her care to heart. Still do.

“My sister does not know that there have been other threats,” Jareth finally said, staring impatiently at his watch. “She’s seen
one, and that was enough. The rest I kept from her.”

It was a statement, and an order for me to keep my mouth shut.

“Yes, sir.” I stopped at a redlight. A brown fast-food bag rolled along the road, carried by the strong wind that rattled the car.

“Do you play chess?”

“What?” I took a quick look in the rearview, just to make sure he was, in fact, talking to me, and not on his phone or something.
The change in subject was so abrupt that I wasn’t totally sure.

But he had no phone in hand. No Bluetooth in his ear.

“Do. You. Play. Chess?” he repeated, slower, as if I was the slow one.

“Not really.”

“Have you ever heard the phrase, Gardez la Reine?” His eyes suddenly met mine in the mirror, as I kept checking the road.

“Protect your Queen.” No one needed to be a genius to know that phrase, right?

Another quick glance in the mirror, and he was still looking at me, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Jestiny is our Queen,” he finally said. “She is our most powerful player.”

I wasn’t sure I understood what he was getting at, so I waited.

“I do not love one sibling more than another, but I do see the role we all play as a family. Jestiny is the most powerful piece on
the board.” He looked away, staring out the window again. “She’s beautiful, and talented. She’s special. Do you understand
what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, sure.” I had no fucking clue, but maybe I’d pick up what he was putting down if I talked it out. “In Chess, if you lose
your queen, you lose the game.”

“Exactly.” He looked unconvinced about my conviction. “More importantly, if anything happens to her on your watch, I will
jam my boot so far up your arse, you’ll taste Kiwi shoe polish long after I’ve buried you six feet under.”

I guess we were done with the good-natured tap dancing. I appreciated the straight talk.

“Poetic,” I deadpanned.

“I’m not sure why Callum thought some new guy off the street was good enough to protect my sister, but I trust our long-time
friendship.” Jareth’s eyes darkened, and even if I didn’t see it in the mirror, I could fucking feel it in the cold air around us.
“However, I am reluctant to trust strangers. One false move, and I will have you shipped to Scotland in a box.”

“I’m not exactly off the street.” I shrugged, mentally relaxing every muscle of my hand as I continued to drive. He was taking
my measure. I had to stay calm and take his hot-winded bluster on the chin. If I could handle Lea’s incessant berating, I could
certainly handle him. “I was Special Forces and did ten years in the Army. I’m also the first man to pass Caledonia Security’s
rigorous training program.”

“Yes,” he said, in that nasally British way those limey snobs do. “They say you’re the first in over a hundred candidates. I
suppose that makes you feel special.”

The man was a tough nut to crack. I’ll give him that. But I bet I could win him over.

The flash of a camera lens blinded me from the sidewalk. Not just one, but hundreds. A small, golden figure fell into the road.
Who the fuck is that?

I slammed the breaks, fishtailing to the side, the tires squealing loudly in my ears. The car came to a stop within a foot of the
girl.

“What the…” Jareth shouted from the back seat. “Jestiny!”

Well, that answered my question. The woman in the street was none other than the principal client: Jestiny Barkada.

Jareth jumped out of the back seat faster than I could blink, slamming the door closed behind him. I followed suit and strode
right to the girl I was hired to protect.

“You fucking bastard!” Jareth’s voice made me turn my head, even as I continued to move towards his sister. He grabbed a man
by the collar and shook him until the camera strapped around his neck rattled. “You could have killed her, you fucking…”

I picked the girl - Jestiny - up off the road. She was light, frail, and stunned. She had the faintest scent of marigolds, or
something else as yellow as her dress. She fit perfectly in my arms, her wide, glassy eyes looking back at where she had come
from. I had to get her somewhere safe. Somewhere not here.

Hell, where the fuck was her car?

“Over here!” an old man with bushy brows said, his pale skin wrinkled and pock-marked with sun damage. Brian. The driver. I
had known that from the docket I’d received on their close associations. Jestiny had family, no friends to speak of, and spent
most of her time with this old guy.

Cameras still clicked sounding like the rattle of angry chains. I could feel the hovering presence of the photographers who
chronicled our every fucking move. They were malignant birds, feeding off the chaos.

Brian rushed to open the back passenger door of a parked car and I carried her over as fast as I could. I dropped her into the
leather seat as Brian got into the driver’s side.

“Get her out of here!” I bellowed and slammed the door shut.

When the car rumbled away from the curve, I almost let out a sigh of relief. Crisis averted!

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a fist slamming into delicate flesh.

“If I ever see you go after my sister again, I will have you up to your eyeballs in litigation. You’ll be shitting out subpoenas and
die of rectal paper cuts, you worthless son of a bitch!”

A photographer sprawled on the ground, his red-rimmed glasses bent haphazardly over his snub nose. The helpless man raised
his arms defensively as a menacing Jareth lifted his foot, ready to land a possibly killing blow to his ribs.

“You arseholes learn nothing!” I grabbed Jareth by the shoulder and pulled him back before his Kiwi-polished leather shoe
could break some paparazzo’s rib cage. Jesus, he was intent to kill. It wasn’t to injure or intimidate. Hell, it wasn’t even a loss
of temper. His black eyes told a story of a man intent on complete, pre-calculated murder.

“Come on, man.” I pulled him back into the car we had come in.

He lunged forward against me, still trying to reach his target – that specific journalist with the funny looking glasses. I couldn’t
let him go. I held him around the ribs with all my might.

I could not let him curb stomp someone with this kind of audience around.

“Mario Pesci, I will fucking bury you!” Jareth growled, as I turned him around and pushed him into the open back seat of the
car.

I could taste his fury in the air around us, creating more electricity than the desert winds that howled between LA’s tall
buildings.

I rushed into the driver’s seat, ready to get us the fuck out of there.

I have known many killers in my time. You can see their disregard for others, and themselves, in their eyes. Most killers are
quite reconciled with their mortality. It made their souls, and expressions, blacker than ink. Jareth had that look in spades.
 Chapter Five

CHARLOTTE GAINSBOURG

Jestiny

“M iss Jestiny?” Brian nudged me with a can of cold, sparkling lemon-flavored fizzy water. “Do you need to talk?”
I was sitting on my cream-colored couch in the middle of my Malibu beach house. The sliding doors to the enclosed garden
were open. I could hear the sound of the distant ocean waves, and the cry of seagulls overhead.

“Miss Jestiny?” Brian had gotten me home, opened the doors, and sat me here. If I didn’t respond, he’d go and get me
something to eat. If that didn’t work, he’d tell my brother, or sister, or… someone. I don’t know. Either way, it would get worse
if I didn’t find a way to open my mouth and speak.

“You never sit down,” I remarked, as the pain of that small discovery seeped into my soul. “You always stand up in my
presence, and you never sit down with me. Not to eat, or to talk or…”

I let out a sigh.

The person I spent the most time with wasn’t a friend. He was a person I paid. An employee. What did that say about me? What
did that say about this gilded life?

I looked around. There was a large Baldwin piano in the middle of the floor. Glass surrounded us instead of walls, so I could
see the fecund garden from the living spaces. There was a stone fireplace, for a chill that never really came. There were
expensive rugs, a vaulted ceiling, and $400 minimalist lamps. Even the slight scent of Sandalwood and Mahogany was meant
to convey money. That I was a Barkada, and the Barkadas had made it in the world.

It was such a long fall from where I was standing, wasn’t it? And everyone just wanted to see me jump to my ruin.

What a change this all was from where we had come from – when my siblings and I had all shared a room in a run-down house
in Makati Village. The worst house in the neighborhood. We were hungry, but we were closer.

Brian put the water down on the coffee table and looked down at me with sympathy in his old eyes.

“Miss, I should tell you…”

I waved him off. “That’ll be all, Brian. Thank you.”

He closed his mouth. I could see it in my peripheral vision. He stood for a moment, before he walked away, and I was left
alone in the grand house.
Alone. That was the consequence of what I had done. They say that the Miss Idol crown rested on a thousand broken dreams. I
had broken those dreams. I had shattered them when I broke the rules. When I cheated my way to the top.

Something that isn’t earned can’t be kept. That’s why I had no voice, no soul, nothing…

The weight of that nothingness crushed me every day until I was a pile of rubble.

I used to be so strong, and so certain. Now, I couldn’t even choose something off a brunch menu without begging someone to
tell me I was doing the right thing. Where had I gone wrong? Where had I lost myself?

It was a dumb question. I knew when and how. And it was all my fault.

I put my face back in my hands and concentrated on breathing. If I just let myself hear the ocean waves, the white noise might
drown out the deafening silence that threatened to blacken my mind. I don’t know how many minutes passed in this restless
meditation. It could have been a minute. It could have been an hour.

“Jes!” The front door opened without a knock. I jumped, almost slapping the can of water on the table, and narrowly saving it
from tipping over.

This was technically my house. But it had five suites, one for each sibling. There were five copies of the key, and five people
drifted in and out at their leisure. It was the same for Jareth’s Swiss Chalet, Jomari’s London Flat, Jorik’s East Village
brownstone, and Jasmine’s Upstate New York mansion.

Five residences, five roommates.

“You’ll stay in Jomari’s room,” Jareth said, as I realized there were a second set of footsteps echoing on the marble and tile
floor. Was that the tall man? The one with brown hair? What was his name? It was such a strange name because it sounded
made up. Like Lance Steel, or Johnny Everyman.

“Yes, sir.” That voice was definitely Mr. Johnny Everyman. The same low rumbling voice that I had felt across my skin as he
carried me to my car. It was all too Whitney Houston for me.

“Who’s with you?” I called, turning my head to face the foyer where my brother stood, with one hand in his trouser pocket.

He turned his head slightly in my direction but didn’t make a move towards me.

“The head of your security team.” Jareth stared at his watch, not bothering to look at me as he spoke. “He’ll be with you 24/7
until we figure out what’s going on…”

“I already have security.”

“You don’t have personal security. You had security at the studio and…”

“Brian is my security.” That was enough. And I wasn’t completely helpless. If only he knew how I had defended myself in the
past…

“He’s your driver.”

“He’s both.”

“It’s not the same.” Jareth was using that tone. The one that said his word was law. The one that made me want to poke at him
until he lost that cool demeanor.

“Yes it is. I don’t need to be surrounded by more people.”

The only thing worse than silence was to be surrounded by people who couldn’t see you. Not really. They see the space I
occupied, but I was invisible to them.

“You don’t like being alone in your own house.”

“It’s not the same.” I threw his words back at him. “I don’t want to be in a fishbowl either.”

“You won’t be in a fishbowl.”

“I’m going to have someone following me around all the time. What? I can’t piss with the door closed anymore?” I was already
feeling that constriction. The eyes. Another person to watch everything I did wrong. Another person to judge and hate me.
Another person who’d want to watch me fall.

Every little movement would be scrutinized. Every moment judged. Every word, misconstrued to show the worst parts of me.

“Jes, you need more than just Brian to protect you! Look at what just happened!” He gestured to the front door, but I knew that
his long reach went far beyond that. Out the door, down the freeway, to the street outside the Dryden Studio.

“That was an accident, and…”

“You’ve got a new security team, and that’s that!” Jareth ran a hand through his straight, black hair. “You are the most visible
member of our family. We do not let you just gallivant around unprotected. Would you rather I bring Jorik here and have him be
your guard?”

I winced. No thank you.

What’s worse than having a stranger watching your every move? Having your brother do it, while updating the family group
chat. Jorik couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

“Please don’t make me do this,” I whispered. I wanted him to hear me. To give in to me. To understand why I was begging
him…

But he stood his ground. “The decision has been made.”

“Please…” I knew there was no bargaining now.

I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t handle another choice being taken away, another sliver of my privacy cut from my skin. More
supervision. More faces and eyes judging every breath, every look. “I don’t want a team of guys on top of me all the time. I
already have so many people staring at me.”

“You wouldn’t have a team, ma’am.” That voice. That deep, low, calm voice sent a shiver up my spine. It wasn’t unpleasant,
but I disliked it all the same. “Only one of us would be with you at a time. Most of us you won’t see at all. It’ll mostly just be
me, ma’am.”

Johnny Everyman had materialized in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his head slightly downturned as if he was doing a
little ‘aww shucks’ routine. He was too tall to make himself look harmless. His arms, his hands, his face… I didn’t trust the
look of him.

“Who are you?” I stood up, crossing my arms in front of my chest, suddenly self-conscious that this dress didn’t allow for a
bra. “And drop the whole ‘ma’am’ thing. It’s so gross.”

If he was affected by my rebuke, he didn’t let it show.

“I’m Christopher Ambrose.” He reached a hand to me, as if we were going to shake. I glared at his palm, where a red scar
bisected from over the pad of his thumb, all the way to the pinky-side. “Your Security Manager.”
I scowled at my new babysitter.

He was a very good-looking babysitter. His short brown hair had a natural wave that he parted and gelled back. His square
jaw was something that belonged to a Marvel hero in a lycra suit. But he was still an asshole.

“I don’t shake hands with the help.” Because the last thing I would allow was to have some kind of fondness for my enemy. I
could make him quit within a week.

“Jes, don’t be rude!” Jareth chided.

“Nope, it’s fine,” Christopher Ambrose chuckled. Then he tilted his head down, and lifted a brow as he gave me a smile
worthy of a toothpaste ad. “I get it. It’s not easy jamming a stranger into your life. I imagine I’ll get really annoying.”

That lopsided, toothy grin belonged on a Disney Prince instead of a real person. His emerald eyes were laser-focused on me,
daring me to notice how handsome he was. Then he winked. He fucking winked!

I tore my eyes away, unwilling to like this person.

“You’re already annoying,” I grumbled, plopping back down onto the sofa, my gold dress puffing around me.

“Jes!” Jareth was two seconds from smacking me upside the head.

I had no choice but to accept the new arrangement. Still, I’d make sure that everyone knew I wasn’t happy about it. What kind
of a name was Christopher Ambrose, anyway? What? Was Liam Hemsworth taken?

“We’re going to the Black Bird Jazz Club,” Jareth was talking to the Captain America-wannabe. “It’s in Santa Monica. Brian
will be driving. You’ll come with us.”

I hated when Jareth pretended I wasn’t there. Like I couldn’t hear him. Like I didn’t matter.

“What’s the dress code?” Even Christopher Ambrose’s voice was heroic sounding. It was insufferable.

“Business casual. Blazer, no tie.”

The two of them discussed security, as I tried desperately to tune them out. If my brother was going to pretend I wasn’t there,
then I would do the same. I hated how much I wanted my family here with me. But when they were here, I missed them even
more than when they were gone.

“Where are you on this new album?”

“Huh?” I lifted my head as if I had just come out of a deep sleep.

“Where are you on the new album?” he said, slower, with a little more bite.

“I-I-I…” I had dismissed all the terrible pop songs they’d tried to send my way, and we were back at zero. “It’s coming along.”

That was a lie.

“How many tracks are finished? How much longer until the release? Do we have any other names to market…” My brother
didn’t know shit about the music industry. Not really. He just knew business. Numbers. Marketing. “Return on Investment” was
his favorite phrase. He could take a dollar, plant it in the ground, and a money tree would grow.

“I don’t know!” I did know. I knew it so well that I didn’t want to talk about it. I was behind. I was so far behind schedule that
the label was talking about canceling the release until I had something more concrete to show them. The only thing that kept
them from kicking me off the label was Michael Dryden himself.

But maybe they should cancel it. I had enough money that I’d never have to work in my life, so why didn’t I just do that? Just…
disappear. Like Charlene after she released “I’ve Never Been to Me.” Now she was a business owner, somewhere in Fort
Worth, Texas or something like that.

That seemed… nice.

“Jes, if you don’t release another album, you won’t get your momentum back. What have we been working for all these years?”
Jareth said, slowly, quietly, as if he was pleading for me to understand what was at stake.

I knew what was on the line as well as he did. I just couldn’t get myself to do what I needed to. I was paralyzed. I felt like I
was asleep, and knew I was in a nightmare. I could try to wake myself up, but each time I thought I had done it… I’d open my
eyes and find myself in another dream, still asleep.

“Jes, not a lot of artists will recover from a long gap between releases.”

It was true. But it had been done. “Charlotte Gainsbourg had almost twenty years between her albums.”

“Charlotte Gainsbourg had famous parents, and an acting career.”

“Maybe I could do that, then,” I said slowly. “I can act.”

“You don’t like acting,” he said with a frustrated groan, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “You love to sing.
So why aren’t you singing?”

I didn’t know. The moment my dreams came true, the music just… stopped.
 Chapter Six

CLOSE YOUR MOUTH

Chris

W ell, that introduction went over like a fart in church.

I tried to be good and diffuse some of the tension, but all it did was turn those laser-focused, amber eyes in my direction. Her
look scalded me. Literally, burning my skin. She made me feel like the human equivalent of a hernia.

She was exactly how she portrayed herself in the media: a pain in the ass. She was combative and rude, and far more of a bitch
than her looks could excuse. She was going to be a nightmare of an assignment.

The one saving grace of this gig - other than paying for Elyse to go to Julliard - was that the scenery was good. Not just the
beach, and the mansion, or the swanky cars we’d be driving as a part of Jestiny’s entourage. No, the thing that was making me
all gooey on the inside came with 88 ivories in pristine condition.

A black, beautiful, Baldwin Baby Grand piano stood in the place of honor in front of a small fireplace. It was in a space where
the light from the windows wouldn’t touch it, standing below a vaulted ceiling. It was a good enough distance away from the
fireplace that the flames couldn’t warp the wood, but close enough to be the centerpiece of the entire open plan living space.

I could practically hear the glorious acoustics. The moment everyone was asleep, I was going to sneak in and touch it. Some
guys might get off on seeing tits. I salivate at the sight of a well-kept instrument.

I hoped that Diva Difficult didn’t have some paranoid rule about touching the thing, though, since she clearly had it placed with
care. Then again, maybe she paid someone to do it. But I knew that in this case, with a beauty like that Baldwin, it would be
better to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.

The lid was open, showing off the beautiful, parallel mechanisms inside. I almost drooled at the idea of watching those levers
and hammers moving in the rhythmic wave of a gorgeous song. My right hand tensed, and I felt the shortened, scarred tendons
already protesting the workout I wanted to give them. The music I wanted to make, but couldn’t, because of the fucking scar
that planted a knife in my dreams.

“I don’t know!” Her voice sliced through my brain, and I realized that they were talking about her album.

Christ, she reminded me of Elyse when she was four years old, stomping her little feet because she didn’t want to take piano
lessons anymore. Elyse had outgrown it, of course. But Miss Jestiny was, most definitely, still well into that angry toddler stage
of life. She might be their Queen, but she sure looked more like a brat to me.

“Do you understand that Dryden might drop you if your album is anything less than a hit?” Her brother was talking to her like
she was a particularly stupid child. One that needed everything laid out and explained before they would cooperate.

I knew the name Dryden. Anyone in music did. His wife owned one of the biggest record labels in existence. She came from
money and brought that label up from nothing. As her husband, he managed to ride her coattails until he became the second-
biggest music exec there was.

Being dropped by him was a one-way ticket to obscurity. That would be like having the goose that laid the golden egg and
eating it for dinner.

“He would never drop me.” Her words surprised the fuck out of me.

Execs were ruthless. Hell, the industry was ruthless. Unless she had some kind of bizarre contract, no one was immune from
getting dropped. Was she his mistress? Was she his illegitimate daughter? What kind of hold could she possibly have on that
man?

Then I felt the burn of her stare. The light from the window slanted towards her, placing her soft features into a harsh light. The
sun in her irises made them glow a deep brown, almost red. The color of it reminded me of ripe apple orchards in the fall. I
was about to get lost in them, like a mouse before it was swallowed by a snake.

At least, until she spoke… that broke the spell real quick.

“Why do we have to discuss this in front of the help?” she grumbled. “I bet he wouldn’t know good music if it bit him in the
ass.” She looked me up and down with a sneer. “Lemme guess, your Karaoke go-to is Journey?”

Actually, my Karaoke go-to was “As Time Goes By” by Dooley Wilson. But I wasn’t above singing Journey if the crowd was
into it. My most crowd-pleasing moment in a Karaoke bar was “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls.

Still, she was funny. I’d give her that. She almost made me laugh, but because I was a professional, I refrained.

I was glad for it, because if I had taken my eyes off of her for just a second, I would have missed a little flash of… something.

Her eyes turned to the side, grew distant, and she bit the corner of her thick, lower lip. In small, almost unnoticeable ways, her
brattiness gave way to a look of complete and total anguish.

There was a wound there that ran deep. One that she didn’t even know she had. I wanted to reach out and turn her head, so I
could look into those fiery eyes and pluck out a song from the deep, tumultuous calm behind her mask. I wanted to look into
those irises and see if I could decipher the darkness that lurked beneath.

Christ, what happened to her? More importantly, with a brother and family as protective as hers, how did it happen? I had a
hunch that whatever it was, it could break my heart.

Still, I refused to feel down. I was going to the Black Bird, which was the most famous jazz club on this coast. Every music
legend had touched that immaculate, 1910 Steinway Baby Grand on the stage, and it would be an honor to breathe the air that
was in its presence.

Hell, there was a photo of Charlie Chaplin at that piano, plucking away at the keys. The place was a legend, and it would be a
better reward than the paycheck from Caledonia Security.

I excused myself to change, trying to forget the distress in Jestiny’s eyes and focus on the night ahead. When I came back to the
living room, Jareth stood alone, staring at the instrument I had so coveted, his hands in his pockets, and his lips in a stern line.
He was looking at it as if it owed him money.

“Who is Mario Pesci?” I asked, casually.

It was anything but a casual question, though, since he had almost curb stomped him in front of a murder of photographers.
Jareth’s head popped up, as if he had been dreaming until I woke him.

“He’s a vulture of the worst kind.” Jareth looked me up and down. Unlike my Caledonia colleagues, he wasn’t judging my
clothes. He was judging my character in a glance. Whatever he concluded must have been in my favor because he gave me a
morsel of truth. “He was the first man to point a camera up Jestiny’s skirt the day she turned eighteen.”

There was a creeping, sickening anger that came over me. So that was the bastard that did it. His anger was perfectly
justifiable then.

“The man earned millions of dollars for that cheap trick.” He turned back to the piano and scowled. “The guy has since pissed
it away on alimony, and parties, thinking that a million dollars would last him forever. Now he’s back, trying to recreate his
former glory by going after my sister again. The man will stop at nothing to get a salacious image of her.”

He walked into the kitchen of the open common area, heading to a wet bar behind the counter. I watched him, wondering what
he was doing.

“Fucking asshole…” I said through my teeth, wondering what I would do if someone went after my sister that way. I’d
probably murder him with my bare hands. They’d never find a body.

Jareth took out a plain glass tumbler, then opened a fresh bottle of Don Papa Rum before giving himself a generous pour.

“Those Paparazzi won’t stop until they’ve killed her like Princess Diana.” Jareth’s fist clenched around the glass so tightly that
I could hear it crack under the pressure. “Then they’ll photograph her corpse and put it on the front page.” He swallowed the
drink in one gulp, and looked at me, pursing his thick lips to the side. “I’d offer you one but…”

He nodded towards the bottle of rum.

“I don’t drink while on duty,” I confirmed.

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

T he“Misty”.
smell of wine and whiskey perfumed the famous club. The pianist, Lawrence, led everyone in a lazy, swinging version of
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 a real vocalist 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. This felt like 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.

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach.

“Get up there.” Jareth poked me in the arm.

I could feel my pulse in my ears again. My breath came in ragged and rough. Shit.

“They’re going to think I’m some kind of hack,” I whispered, leaning over to grab Jareth’s forearms, pleading for him to put a
stop to this. “Please don’t make me, Kuya.”

I’m not dumb. I know what people say about me. I know what they think of my music. I am a hack. An overexposed, talentless
hack with the right proportions and dance moves to get the attention of teenyboppers with control of their mommy’s wallet. But
I was not like the musicians on the stage.

I had no business up there. If I went, they’d know… they’d all know that I was only here because of a sin I committed years
ago. Everything would come crashing down, and I’d bring shame to my family, and myself, and to everyone who ever hitched
their wagon to my flailing fraud of a rising star.

“You said you like this. Jesus, Jes, I thought you’d want this!” He wiped his hand over his face again, scratching at his smooth
cheeks. When his dark eyes turned to me, I wanted to hide under the table and disappear. “I thought this would make you
happy.”

Disappointment. It was written all over his face.

He shook his head, his fist clenched. “Fine, I’ll fix it.”

“No,” I interrupted him. “I’ll do it.”

“Jestiny…”

“It’s okay, I’ll go.” I’ll do whatever I have to, so you don’t look at me like that anymore.

Before he could say anything else, I got up and went to the side of the stage. I looked at the brick backdrop, taking a few slow
breaths to pull back the tears that were ready to flow. Because I needed to, I let one drop. Then I wiped it away. Wiped it, and
me, away, and put on the “Superstar” mask.

I shut my eyes.

“Which one of my shitty songs would they even know?” I asked in a low whisper, shutting my eyes as I felt the pressure
knotting my stomach. I hated this. They wouldn’t know any of my stupid, pop songs. Why would they? They were terrible.

“Sing a classic,” a quiet voice said beside me. It came into my thoughts like a light burning through a fog. It was so sweet that I
didn’t feel the need to open my eyes to look at the source. “‘What’ll I Do’, in E flat major.”
I opened my eyes and looked at the lips that spoke to me. Pale, thin, on a square jaw, framed by short, cropped hair and warm,
green eyes. Somehow, the sounds of the bar, the dinner guests, and even the light shuffle of the musicians on stage had
disappeared, and there was no one else but us. Just me, and my bodyguard.

“You know it, right?” He smiled, tilting his head at me. “It’s a very Ella Fitzgerald key. It’ll suit your voice.”

“What do you know about Ella Fitzgerald?” I muttered in disbelief, as if I was asking for a little help with a prayer.

I did know the song. Of course, I did. It was a classic. But how did he?

He placed his large, warm hand on the small of my back, pushing me up to the stage. I wanted to lean into him and take a
moment. He smelled exactly how a man should. Like wood and spices.

Then the sound of the club came back into focus: the clinking of glassware and scraping of forks, the shuffle of instruments and
light chatter.

“Get up there.” He leaned over my shoulder and tilted his head my way. I could feel his breath on my shoulder. “Sing with your
heart.”

He pushed me up the steps onto the stage. And I went, suddenly feeling like this was the right thing to do - to follow his advice
and his instructions. A bodyguard, guiding me about music. How ridiculous was that? But, then again…

I looked down at him, and he smiled. It wasn’t large and fake. It was slow, like the warmth peeking from behind the clouds.
Then he winked, and I almost jumped in surprise.

“Hey, how’s everyone doing tonight?” I jutted out my hip, putting on that one-sided smile that had won me Miss World Idol.
“I’m Jestiny.”

There was some applause, but it was unenthusiastic.

“Miss Jestiny,” Lawrence said, with a slight bow. “What would you like to sing for us tonight?”

I leaned toward Lawrence and told him exactly what I wanted. No, not what I wanted - what Christopher Ambrose had told me
to do.

Without any prompting - because of course everyone in the band knew the song - Lawrence brought the piano in nice and slow.
Just one single solitary note at a time. Then the bass joined in. Then the saxophone.

Then me. I could feel my entrance. I didn’t count or mark my time. I just started to sing, letting the words come out easy. I
wasn’t even sure if my lyrics were accurate, but they felt right. One verse turned into another and before I knew it, I had done
several versions of the chorus.

“When I’m alone with only dreams of you, that won’t come true… What’ll I do?”

Jazz was a music genre of complicated chords, polyrhythms and improvisation. So, we improvised together, only as trained
musicians could - through feeling and heart. We all knew when the song needed to end. We knew it, because we felt it from the
audience and from one another.

We closed out the song much as it began, with the single, lonely notes of Lawrence’s piano. We let the silence linger.

No one booed me. So that was good, right?

But the silence lasted too long. The silence again. It was too quiet. Thump. Thump. Thump…
Then there was a clap. Then another. It turned into applause. Then I heard the whistles, and roars; the hoots and hollers.

I exhaled such a sigh of gratitude; it almost brought me to my knees.

“Encore!” They cried, and I curtsied. I never did encores. We had decided early on that it was best to just perform what was on
the schedule, then leave them wanting more. That was it.

I curtsied off the stage, coming down the stairs on the side, almost stumbling with relief.

When my foot slipped, a hand grabbed mine, keeping my stumble from turning into a fall. I felt his hot breath on my cheek as he
righted me, his free hand coming to touch my lower back again.

“I’ve got you, little Songbird.”

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Lailaa pyöritettiin ympäri.

*****

Laiva tulla töhötti jo selän toisella rannalla. Koetettiin pysyä

rohkeina. Laila lasketteli pilojaan, mutta ei saanut poikia enää
nauramaan. Pianpa hänenkin täytyi kääntyä poispäin ja salata
kirkkaat pisarat, joita alkoi vierähdellä.

— Voi, että kesä on niin lyhyt, sanoi tyttö tukahtuneesti.

— Ja kaupunki niin ikävä, kun sinä et ole siellä, sanoi Heikki.

— Onhan siellä paljon muita.

— No ei yhtään niin reipasta ja mainiota kuin sinä, tokasi Paavo.

Laiva laski laituriin eikä kauan siinä viivytellyt. Laila jäi

kyyneleisenä laiturille.
PUNIKKI JA PORVARI.

Osmo oli päässyt äidin kanssa maalle, ja kesä oli kulunut hauskasti
kylän lasten kanssa leikeissä ja onkimatkoilla. Keskikesä meni niin,
ettei sitä oikein huomannutkaan ja joutui marjojen aika. Osmokin oli
jo saanut maistaa äidin poimimia ahomansikoita, ja eräänä päivänä
halusi hän lähteä itsekin äitiä auttamaan marjojen poiminnassa.

Äidillä oli sinä päivänä muuta tehtävää, ja niinpä hän lupasi

Osmon marjamatkalle naapurimökin pojan kanssa.

— Mökin Arvo tietää kaikki hyvät marja-ahot ja hän on hyvä poika,

saat mennä hänen kanssaan, sanoi äiti.

— Mutta minä en lähde punikkien kanssa marjaan, tuhahti Osmo.

— Jääköön sikseen koko puuha.

— Punikkien?

Äiti hämmästyi koko lailla Osmon huudahdusta. Oliko hänen

hyvän ja kiltin poikansakin poveen kylvetty puoluevihaa ja
kovaosaisten halveksumista?
 — Eihän Arvo ole mikään punikki, sanoi äiti. — Se nimityshän on
jo vanha ja sopimattomana jätetty pois, eikä poju saa enää
milloinkaan sanoa ketään punikiksi.

— Sanovatpa koulussakin hyvin monet pojat punikiksi sosialistien

poikia, varsinkin yläluokkaiset, jotka olivat vapaustaistelussa
mukana, sanoi Osmo.

Äiti ajatteli tätä ja se koski häneen kipeästi. Hän ei ollut tällaista

edes aavistanutkaan. Nyt täytyisi hänen Osmolle puhua tästä ja
saada hänen nuori mielensä oikealle tolalle.

— Tulehan Osmo tänne puutarhamajaan, niin puhutaan siitä

asiasta, sanoi äiti.

Osmo oli kovin halukas kuulemaan, mitä äiti sanoisi. Ainakin kaksi
poikaa, joita toiset sanoivat tuolla rumalta kuuluvalta nimeltä, olivat
oikein ahkeria ja eteviä poikia. Opettajatkin heitä kiittivät. Oli tosin
joukossa sellaisiakin poikia, jotka sanoivat taas vuorostaan
toverejaan porvareiksi, ja sanoipa joku poika lahtariksikin muuatta
toveriaan, mutta sai siitä karsseria. Osmo ei tietänyt, rangaistiinko
poikia punikki-nimityksestä, mutta ainakin kerran hän kuuli rehtorin
opettajahuoneessa ankarasti nuhtelevan muuatta poikaa sen
johdosta.

— Etköhän luule, että jos opettajat kuulisivat tällaiset nimitykset,

rankaisisivat he siitä ankarasti? kysyi äiti Osmolta.

— Kyllä kai, mutta he niin harvoin sitä kuulevat, jos joku koulun
pihassa niin sanoo, virkkoi Osmo.
 — Silläpä se saa jatkuakin. Ja sellainen on kovin rumaa aikuisille
ja vielä rumempaa lapsille.

— Eikö joku paha ole yhtä rumaa lapsille kuin aikuisillekin? kysyi
Osmo.

— On kyllä, mutta kuulehan nyt mitä sanon.

— Eivät kaikki ne, joita on punikiksi sanottu, ole itse siihen

syyllisiä, mistä tämä nimitys on heille annettu. Jos he erehtyivätkin
tekemään pahaa, niin se oli vain sen syy, ettei heitä oltu opetettu
hyvää tekemään jo lapsena, niinkuin teitä koulussa ja kotona
opetetaan. Heillä oli nälkä, eivätkä he osanneet erottaa pahaa
hyvästä, ja pahat ihmiset saivat heidät tekemään pahaa
lähimmäisilleen. Heille oli harvoin opetettu lausetta: "rakastakaa
lähimmäistänne, niinkuin itseänne". Ja nyt on jo se aika, jolloin
tällaista veljesvihaa oli unohdettava, ja kaikkien lasten pitää olla
hyviä toisilleen.

— Entäpä, jos joku poika sanoo minua porvariksi? kysyi Osmo.

— Sinun pitää sanoa hänelle, että se on väärin ja että lapset eivät

saa siten nimitellä toisiaan ja olla oikein hyvä ja ystävällinen hänelle.

— Mutta onpahan pahojakin ihmisiä olemassa, väitti Osmo.

— Se onkin kokonaan toinen asia, sanoi äiti. — Pahoja ihmisiä on

kyllä olemassa, jotka koettavat myrkyttää hyvien ihmisten mieltä,
mutta sellaisillehan ei voi mitään. Ihmisten täytyy kärsiä heitäkin
joukossaan ja koettaa tehdä paremmiksi. Jos he taas eivät tahdo
tulla hyviksi, niin he pysyvät pahoina ja saavat siitä kerran
rangaistuksen.
 Osmo näytti miettivän tiukasti muuatta asiaa.

— Sanohan äiti, miksi maailmassa on rikkaita ja köyhiä? kysyi

hän.

— Siihen on niin monta syytä. Hyvin usein ihmiset ovat

laiskuutensa vuoksi köyhiä ja siinä tapauksessa pysyvät he aina
köyhinä, vaikkapa heitä alituiseen avustettaisiinkin. Työ ja tarmo
pelastaa aina ihmisen köyhyydestä. Ja hyvin monet tulevatkin sillä
rikkaiksi, että tekevät oikein lujasti työtä. Mutta sitten on sellaisiakin
rikkaita, jotka keinottelulla ovat koonneet rikkautensa ja se on väärin
ansaittua rikkautta.

— Mitä se keinottelu oikein on? kysyi Osmo. — Minulta kerran

koulussa koetti yksi poika keinotella sinun antamaasi rahakukkaroa.
Onko se sellaista?

Äiti naurahti.

— Siitä olisi toverisi hyvin vähän hyötynyt, vaikka se ei olisikaan

ollut hänelle oikein saatua tavaraa. Keinottelu on sellaista, kun
tahtoo elää toisen kustannuksella ja päästä niin vähällä työllä
rikkaaksi kuin mahdollista. Jos joku tavara myydään moneen kertaan
ja jokainen tahtoo sillä voittaa mahdollisimman paljon, on se
keinottelua. Ja sitä on niin monenlaista, mutta puhutaan tästä sitten
toisella kertaa. Mene nyt Arvon kanssa marjoja poimimaan ja ole
kiltti hänelle.

— Kyllä, minä koetan olla. Mutta sanohan äiti vielä yksi asia
minulle, pyysi Osmo.

— No mikä se olisi?
 — Ketkä sinun mielestäsi, äiti, tekevät oikeata työtä?

— Kovinhan sinä nyt uteletkin, naurahti äiti. — Oikeata työtä on

niin monenlaista. Nämäkin maamiesten työt ovat oikeita ja
hyödyllisiä ja opettajanne koulussa tekevät oikeata työtä; ne jotka
rakentavat taloja ja häärivät tehtaissa, ja tiedemiehet ja keksijät,
jotka työllään onnellistuttavat ihmiskuntaa, ja monet muut.

— Ja merimiehet, sanoi Osmo. — Minä varmasti rupean

merimieheksi, äiti. On niin mukavaa, kun saa kävellä laivan kannella
ja pääsee vieraisiin maihin.

— Mutta mene nyt ensin marjaan ja muista olla hyvä Arvolle.

— Kyllä, äiti. Enkä minä sano enää koskaan vasikoitakaan

punikiksi, lupasi Osmo urhoollisesti.

*****

Arvo oli samanikäinen poikaviikari kuin Osmokin, mutta hirveän

äkäinen. Hänet oli ärsytetty äkäiseksi ja epäluuloiseksi. Hänen täytyi
saada ensin miettiä, ennenkuin suostui lähtemään Osmon kanssa
marjaan.

Puhuessaan sorisutteli poika pahasti ärrää.

— Jos minä lähden sinun kanssasi mar-rljaan, niin sinun pitää olla
siivolla minun kanssani, muuten minä mätkäytän har-rltijasi tanter-
rleeseen, sanoi hän Osmolle.

Osmo lupasi olla niin siivolla kuin osasi.

— Mutta osaatko sinä olla hyvä minulle? kysyi hän Arvolta.

 — Sepähän nähdään, sanoi tämä.

Se kuului kovin salaperäiseltä Osmosta.

Mentiin aholle, josta ei löytynyt paljon mitään.

— Puoskat ovat vieneet, sanoi Arvo ykskantaan.

— Mitä ne puoskat ovat? kysyi Osmo.

— No etkö sitä tiedä, vaikka kouluakin olet käynyt? Musikoitahan

ne ovat.

— Eikös lapsia, huomautti Osmo. Sehän kuuluu kauniimmalta.

— Rr-likkailla niitä on vain ja talollisilla, mökkiläisillä on puoskia ja

musikoita ja kakar-loita, sanoi Arvo.

Osmo alkoi hieman valistaa toveriaan.

— Yhden arvoisia ne ovat köyhien ja rikkaitten lapset, kun vain

ovat hyviä toisilleen, sanoi hän.

— Nyt out er-rleyksissä, ei ne yhenar-rlvoisiksi tule milloinkaan,

porlvar-lien lapset ja köyhien kakar-rlat.

Osmo katsoi silmät suurina toveriaan. Hän tuntui olevan kovin

varma mielipiteissään.

— Ei meidän lapsien sovi sanoa porvari. Ei se ole oikein, sanoi

hän ja huomasi nyt Arvon vuorostaan uteliaasti tarkastelevan häntä.

— Sanovathan meitäkin köyhiä punikiksi, virkkoi Arvo.

 — Isontalon Toivo sanoo minua vielä ynnikiksi ja se pistää niin pir-
rlusti vihakseni.

Osmo katsoi pitkään toveriaan.

— Sinähän kiroat, sanoi hän. — Se on kovin huono tapa.

— Taitaa olla, mutta kun isä ja äitikin kir-rloaa, niin siitä on opittu
mekin puoskat noituilemaan. Isä noituu syödessäänkin, jatkoi hän.

Osmo tunsi ihan vilunväreen selkäpiissään.

— Vaikka isä tekee niin, niin elä sinä enää kiroa milloinkaan,
etkös?

Arvo oli äsken tuntenut jostain syystä hyvästyvänsä Osmoon ja

hänen teki mieli olla hyvä Osmolle. Osmohan ei pitänyt siitä, että
lapset haukkuivat toisiaan.

— Enkä kirloo, lupasi hän. — Jos satun muistamaan.

— Kyllä sitä muistaa, kun oikein tahtoo, sanoi Osmo.

Mentiin toiselle aholle ja siellä oli runsaasti marjoja.

— Etkös sinä sitten olekaan por-rlvar-rli? kysyi Arvo Osmolta.

— En, eikä hyvät pojat ole sitä koskaan keskenään.

— Mutta saattaa sinustakin tulla, kun koulua käyt, arveli

epäluuloiseksi kasvanut mökin poika.

— Minusta tulee merimies.

 — No ne eivät vissiin ole por-lrvar-rlia, tuumaili Arvo, ja yhä
enemmän tunsi hän voivansa luottaa toveriinsa.

Osmolla oli siistit ja puhtaat vaatteet ja siinä oli Arvon mielestä

kuitenkin hämärä seikka; olikohan tuo toinen tosissaan? Hän
huomauttikin siitä toveriaan.

— Minun isäni ja äitini ovatkin ahkeria ja minä saan hyviä

vaatteita, sanoi Osmo. — Äiti sanoo, että kun on vain ahkera, niin ei
puutu mitään.

— Se on valetta, jurahti Arvo. — Minun isäni ja äitini tekevät aina

työtä, mutta meillä puoskilla on vain tällaiset vaatteet. Porr-rlvarlit ne
niin sanovat, että kun on ahkeria niin kaikkea saa, päätteli Arvo.
Olihan hän sen niin usein kuullut isän ja äidin sanovan.

Taaskin tuli se Osmolle kiusallinen porvari esille.

— Puhutaan onkimisesta ja muusta, tokasi hän toverilleen. —

Oletko sinä käynyt ongella?

— Olen minä käynyt ja saanutkin, oikein isojakin ahvenia.

Heinälammessa onkin oikein suurlia vvotkaleita, kun vain onnistuu
saamaan. Yhtenä päivänä oli siellä Isontalon Toivokin ja kun se
rlupesi tekemään minulle kiusaa, löin minä sitä terlvanahtarlilla
päähän.

— Ei olisi pitänyt… mitäs siitä seurasi, tuliko tappelu?

— Ei tullut Ei se Toivo toki uskalla tulla kiinni minuun, semmoinen

rlruipelo. Kintutkin kuin itikalla. Selkään uhkasi minua annattaa,
mutta eipä tuota ole kuulunut.
 — Tule minun kanssani ongelle, niin ei riidellä, sanoi Osmo. —
Mitä se sinulle teki?

— Heitti rlierotuohiseni järlveen.

— Se onkin sitten paha poika, päätteli Osmo. — Silloinko se sinua

ynnikiksi sanoi?

— Silloin.

Istuttiin kivelle ja Osmo jakoi äidin antamat eväät; antaen niistä

puolet Arvolle.

— Minä annan sinulle marjoistani, kun sinulla on vähemmän,

sanoi tämä.

— Kyllä minä vielä saan astiani täyteen, pidä sinä vain omasi.

Arvo söi ja mietti. Pienet aivot ponnistivat kaikkensa,

selvittääkseen syyn, miksi Osmolla oli niin makeita voileipiä ja hänen
kotonaan syötiin mustaa leipää ja voita ei ollut kuin toisinaan.
Osmolla oli kauniit vaatteet, mutta hänen omasta takalistostaan
riippuivat riekaleet. Väliin ei ollut housuja ollenkaan.

Jospa sittenkin Osmo on porvarien lapsi, joita kaikkia isä ja äiti

vihaavat.

Osmo antoi kuitenkin hänelle voileivistään ja puheli ystävällisesti.

Olkoon miten tahansa, Osmo on hyvä poika ja hänelle täytyy olla
myöskin omasta puolestaan hyvä. Kaiken tämän vastapainoksi kun
ajatteli Toivoa, repäisi kiukku pientä povea. Niinpä Arvo sanoa
tokaisikin:
 — Toivosta ei tule miestä. Rliivattu on koko poika.

Osmo ihmetteli toverinsa ajatusjuoksua. Mistä hän nyt Toivon sai

päähänsä? "Ynnikki" johtui Osmon mieleen ja häntä rupesi
naurattamaan.

Arvon epäluulo heräsi.

— Mille sinä naur-rlat? Minulle vissiin.

Poika käänsi kasvonsa poispäin Osmosta ja hänen silmissään

välähti pidätetty viha. Noin sitä saatetaan nauraa, vaikka ollaan
olevinaan hyviä.

— En minä sinulla naura, sanoi Osmo. Sillä ynnikki-sanalla vain,

kun se on minusta niin hassu.

Arvo ei virkkanut mitään. Ajatteli, että parasta olisi ollut lähteä

yksin marjaan. Osmokin saattoi pilkata.

Se tuntui melkein kipeältä ajatella, kun hän oli kuitenkin osoittanut

hyvyyttä köyhän mökin pojalle.

Osmo kertoi läksyistään ja minkälaista oli koulussa ja Arvo unohti

pian mielipahansa. Hänkin olisi tahtonut niin mielellään kouluun,
mutta isä ja äiti olivat köyhiä. Ei käynyt koulua ajatteleminenkaan.

Mentiin taas toiselle aholle ja lehmäkarja tuli heitä vastaan.

Villainen sonni möyrysi ja väänsi niskaa pojille.

Osmo pelkäsi.

Arvolla oli nyt hyvä tilaisuus näyttää pelottomuuttaan.. Samalla

hän tahtoi suojella toveriaan.
 — Elä möyrr-rlyä siinä. Kyllä minä näytän sinulle…

Arvo otti seipään ja ajoi elukan metsään.

— Se oli Isontalon härlkä, selitti Arvo palattuaan. — Minä annoin

sille kurlanssia. Rlikkailla on nuo hä-rlätkin niin ylpeitä, ettei köyhä
tahdo päästä ohi kulkemaan, sanoi hän.

Osmo ihaili Arvon rohkeutta. Hän ei malttanut olla siitä sanomatta

Arvolle. Ja sitten jatkoi hän kuin hyvitykseksi:

— Tule vain minun kanssani ongelle.

Kun palattiin, erosivat pojat hyvinä ystävinä.

Arvo hipaisi lakin reunaa Osmolle hyvästiä sanoessaan niinkuin oli

nähnyt aikuistenkin tekevän ja huusi vielä hänen jälkeensä:

— Kyllä minä otan sinunkin va-rlallesi onki-rlieroja.

LOKKILUODOLLA.

Kesä, ihana, kouluhuolista vapaa kesä. Rannan pojat, Jaakko ja

Lassi, valmistelivat veneretkelle lähtöä. Naapurissa oli muutamia
kesälomaansa viettäviä poikia ja heitä oli pyydettävä mukaan.

Lokkiluodolle, selän keskellä olevalle saarelle, oli aikomus mennä

ja ottaa onget ja uistimet, padat ja pannut mukaan. Saaressa oli
vanha verkkomökki ja siinä sopisi nukkua sateella, ja poudalla oli
kallio lämmin.

— Eikö oteta vilttejä mukaan? kysyi Jaakko.

— Mitä me niillä, partiolaiset…

Jaakko oli viidentoista ja Lassi kuudentoista ikäinen, vahvoja,

punakoita poikia. Läksyt eivät liioin tehneet heille kiusaa, ne
koulussa ollessa sukaistiin sukkelaan valmiiksi ja sitten pötkittiin
kaupungille hurjailemaan.

Väliin tästä hurjailusta saatiin muistutukset ja kerran jo

karsseriakin, mutta eihän siitä sen pahempaa kuitenkaan tullut,
vaikka äiti oli sanonut usein heille, että he varmaankin saavat pian
eropassit koulusta rajuutensa takia.
 Pojat hakivat aina naapurista Jallun ja Mikin toverikseen ja sitten
leikittiin intiaanileikkejä ja oltiin sotasilla, ratsastettiin ja soudettiin
selkäluodoille onkimaan jukuripääahvenia.

Se oli hauskaa ja siinä ei joutanut mitään huonoa ja nuoruudelle

vaarallista ajattelemaan. Illalla oli niin väsynyt, että nukkui heti, ja
aamulla juostiin suoraapäätä sängystä järveen.

Ja vaikka joskus leikeissä saatiin pikku mustelmia ja kuhmuja,

unohtuivat ne pian. Reippaus ja rohkeus olivat Jaakon ja Lassin
ihanteita.

Vaikka äiti joskus hieman kieltenkin keikkumasta, oli hän

tyytyväinen pojistaan ja isä vielä sitä enemmän.

„Tulee teistä miehiä, kun vain ette syrjäytä koulutehtäviä”, sanoi

hän.

Venheessä oli jo onkivavat ja mustakylkinen pata kekotti

keskituhdolla.

— Juoks' hakemaan kahvipannu ja kahmaise kannuun

kahvimaitoa, sanoi Lassi. — Minä otan sill'aikaa kastematoja
tuohiseen. Tänä päivänä kiskotaan taas ahventen suut vääräksi.

Jaakko juoksi pihaan ja Lassi luikkasi vielä hänen jälkeensä;

— Pyydä äidiltä piparikakkuja ja sokeria.

— Joo, joo!

Kesänaapurit tulivat ja molemminpuoliseksi tervehdykseksi

kajautettiin aikamoinen sotahuuto. Jaakko juoksi syli täynnä äidin
antamaa evästä; kahvipannu lekutti käsikynkässä.

— Suolaa ei ole unohdettava, sanoi Jallu, toinen kesänaapureista.

— Sitä on kahmalomitta kontissa.

Oli kohtalainen alahangan tuuli, ja omatekoinen purje nostettiin

pystyyn.

Lassi istui vanhimpana perään ja Mikko souteli Jallun kanssa.

Jaakko hoiteli purjetta.

Pojat olivat yhtämittaa äänessä. Kuohahteleva nuoruuden voima

ei antanut aikaa vaikenemaan. Puhuttiin puuta heinää ja
pikkukaupungin koulumurre tahtoi väkistenkin tulla totutulla tavalla
puheeseen. Siitä oli jo päätetty luopua, mutta kun oikein innostuttiin
jostakin asiasta, ei muistettu sitä välttää.

Lassi vaikeni ja näytti miettivän.

— Kuulkaahan pojat, nyt me vihdoinkin lopetamme tämän

sekasotkun puhumisen, sanoi hän. — Kun meillä on kuitenkin jotain
niin kaunista kuin kirjakieli, ja tässä kielimiehiksi aiotaan, niin nyt
tehdään pyhä päätös, ettei enää sanaakaan koulumurretta, eikö niin
pojat?

— Olkoon päätetty, sanoivat toiset.

Rannat jäivät taakse ja laine lipatteli venheen laidoissa. Väkevän

sininen ulappa huikaisi silmiä. Pojat olivat lukeneet Jack Londonin
merijuttuja ja kuvittelivat olevansa etelämerillä. Siitäkös hauska leikki
syntyi.
 Taival oli kuitenkin merimatkaksi liian lyhyt ja venheen kokka
kolahti saaren rantakallioon. Eväät kannettiin kallioluolaan, ettei
alkuasukkaat, sammakot ja vesilinnut, niitä löytäisi, ja sitten
kiskaistiin venhe kanervikkoon.

— Ja nyt pojat uimaan!

— Ja sitten paahdetaan pinta auringossa ruskeaksi!

— Niinkuin se jo ei ennestään olisi, sanoi Lassi ja kietaistuaan

paidan yltään paljasti toisille pojille niin ruskettuneen ihon kuin
tervan.

— Miten sinä olet pintasi saanut noin kauniiksi? kyselivät pojat. —

Neuvo meillekin.

Lassi selitti:

— Kun paahdoin päiväkaudet itseäni auringossa, eikä tullut nahka

mielestäni oikein ruskeaksi, otin hienoa tervaa ja notkeaksi
lämmitettynä vetelin sitä nahkaani ja nytpä se onkin noin kauniin
ruskeata joka paikasta.

— Me tervataan kans', innostui Mikki.

— Minä ihmeen aikana sinä nahkasi tervasit? ihmetteli Lassin veli,

joka ei ollut toimituksesta tietänyt mitään.

— Silloin, kun sinä olit äidin kanssa kaupungissa käymässä, sanoi

Lassi.

— Voi, jos nyt olisi tervaa, niin minäkin saisin nahkani kauniiksi,
arveli Jaakko.
 — Ei siitä ole puutetta. Venheen kokkatuhdon alta löydät
tervakipon.
Vedä vain nahkaasi!

— Saammeko mekin tervaa, sano saammeko, pyysivät naapurit

— Saatte, saatte. Kyllä se riittää kolmelle.

— Pannaan se pataan ja lämmitetään notkeaksi, niinkuin Lassekin

on tehnyt, sanoi Mikko.

— Täss' on terva, missä pata?

— Siihen ei panna tervaa, ennenkuin sillä on keitetty ainakin

kerran kalaa, sanoi Lassi.

Jaakko tahtoi heti pataa. Syntyi riita ja käsikähmä padasta, jolloin

sen mustasta kyljestä saivat riitapuolet nokiläikkiä ihoonsa.

Lassi sai padan ja kiipesi kuuseen ja ripusti sen kuusen oksalle.

Sitten mentiin uimaan.

Lähellä oli pieni saari. Sinne olivat Lassi ja Jaakko jo kerran

ennenkin uineet Lokkiluodolta.

— Lähtevätkö pojat saareen? kysyi Lasse. — Mennään etsimään

vesilintujen pesiä. Niillä taitaa olla jo pian poikaset.

— En minä taida jaksaa, arveli Mikko.

— Noo, iso poika, ja kyllä me autamme, jos hätä tulee, lupasi

Jaakko.
Lassi oli ensiksi saaren rannalla. Mikko pääsi sinne lopen
väsyneenä.

— Minä en jaksa uida takaisin, sanoi hän.

— No jää sitten tänne, sanottiin arvelematta Mikolle, ja hänen

täytyikin jäädä rannalle, kun toiset lähtivät takaisin.

Mikko pui rannalla nyrkkiä ja lopulta jo alkoi möllöttää, — Kyllä

minä vielä teille näytän, senkin vasikat. Malttakaahan, kun pääsen
saareen, niin revin tukan päästänne.

Päästyään Lokkiluodolle, eivät pojat näyttäneet olevan Mikosta

tietävinäänkään. Menivät ongelle ja kun Mikko näki, miten hyvin
ahven söi onkea, kiukutti häntä vielä enemmän. Hän karjui äänensä
käheäksi ja kuuli, miten toiset vain nauroivat.

Vihdoinkin, kun kalakeitto oli valmis, souti Jaakko häntä

noutamaan.

— Minä olisin tullut jo ennemminkin, mutta eivät laskeneet, sanoi

hän.
— Nyt. jos syövät meiltä vielä keiton kaikki, hätäili Jaakko.

— Mennään ongelle ja keitetään uutta. Sano Jaakko, mitä me

oikein tekisimme heille?

— Mietitään. Ehkäpä joku keino keksitään, lupasi Jaakko.

Mikosta tuntui hyvältä, että Jaakko näin asettui hänen puolelleen,

kun kerran toiset olivat käyneet hävyttömiksi.

— Minä tiedän, sanoi Jaakko.

 — No?

— Kun huomenna palataan ja lähtiessä uidaan, otat sinä Jallun ja

Lassen vaatteet ja kätket visusti. Antaa heidän mennä Aatamin
paidassa kotiin.

— Sinäpä olet mainio keksimään. Niin me teemme.

— Mutta jos pojat alkavat vaatia vaatteitaan? Meitähän he voivat

siitä kuitenkin syyttää. Taisi tulla keksityksi huono keino.

— Niin, ja he saattavat meitä vaikkapa mukiloida eikä se käy,

sanoi Mikko. — Minä en halua tulla peitotuksi. Koetetaan miettiä
parempi kolttonen.

Jaakko tuijotti venheen pohjaan ja näytti miettivän. Mikko tarkkaili,

aloittaisivatko toiset ruokailun, ennenkuin he joutuivat rantaan.

— Pistetään vaatteet venheen kokkaan ja lasketaan venhe

tuuliajolle, sanoi Jaakko hiljaa, etteivät pojat kuulisi. — Sittenpä
saavat uida tarpeekseen.

— Niin me teemme, riemuitsi Mikko. — Mutta ei sanaakaan siitä.

Ei olla tietävinämmekään koko puuhasta.

Noustiin maihin ja hyökättiin kalapadan kimppuun. Pojat

möykyttivät jo mureita ahvenia suihinsa.

— Semmoinen lellipoika olisi saanut jäädä saareen, sanoi Jallu. —

Olisimme me auttaneet, jos olisit ruvennut välille jäämään.

— Mitenkä te olisitte auttanut, kysyi Mikko.

— Yksi tuommoinen mies ei paljon selässä paina, virkkoi Lassi.

 — Menkää hakemaan luolasta lisää leipää ja tuokaa piimähinkki,
komensi
Jallu. — Kun me kerran keitonkin keitimme.

Jaakko ja Mikko menivät.

— Ei saa edes uhkailla mitään, pojat muuten arvaavat, sanoi

Jaakko
Mikille.

— Eipä ei. Se on siitä hyvä keino, ettei meitä voida epäillä

syyllisiksi venheen karkaamiseen, sanoi Mikko.

— Entäs, jos vene menee niin kauaksi, ettei pojat saa sitä kiinni?
Tämä taitaa olla vähän vaarallista peliä.

— Noo, ei ne lähde sitä takaa ajamaan, jos niin kauaksi ehtii

mennä. Ja se riippuu siitäkin, minkälainen on tuuli, arveli Mikko.

— Tuokaa pian piimää ja leipää, huudettiin heille, ja poikien piti

jättää neuvottelu sikseen.

— Kyllä se hyvin käy, rohkaisi Mikko Jaakkoa.

— Mikä?

Jallu kurkisti luolan suulta.

— Tuumailtiin tässä Jaakon kanssa yhdessä laskea illalla

pitkäsiima, eikä huolia teitä mukaan, koskapa olitte minulle
hävyttömiä, sanoi Mikko, eikä ollut muusta tietävinäänkään.

— No menkää vain. Me laitamme Lassen kanssa sill'aikaa oikein

komean illallisen, lupasi Jallu.