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.
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Viola Canadensis, 42
Viola canina, var. Muhlenbergii, 232
Viola lanceolata, 42
Viola pedata, 230
Viola pedata, var. bicolor, 230
Viola pubescens, 118
Viola rotundifolia, 126

Zizia aurea, 126

 INDEX TO ENGLISH NAMES

Adder’s Mouth, 185

Adder’s Tongue, White, 116
Adder’s Tongue, Yellow, 114
Agrimony, 156
Ague-weed, 106
Alder, Black, 52
Alder, White, 104
Alum-root, 281
Anemone, Rue, 26
Anemone, Wood, 24
Arbutus, Trailing, 173
Arethusa, 248
Arrow-head, 98
Arrow-wood, 48
Aster, Blue, 266
Aster, Golden, 160
Aster, Purple, 266
Aster, White, 105
Avens, White, 86
Azalea, Clammy, 58
Azalea, Pink, 182
Balsam-apple, Wild, 105
Baneberry, Red, 52
Baneberry, White, 50
Barberry, 142
Bay, Sweet, 56
Beach Pea, 264
Bean, Wild, 284
Bearberry, 46
Beard-tongue, 254
Bedstraw, 76
Bee Balm, 224
Beechdrops, 283
Beechdrops, False, 283
Beggar-ticks, 166
Bellwort, 50
Benjamin-bush, 114
Bergamot, Wild, 256
Betony, Wood, 218
Bindweed, Hedge, 190
Bird’s Nest, 96
Birthroot, 216
Bishop’s Cap, 38
Bishop-weed, Mock, 97
Bitter-sweet, 77
Black-eyed Susan, 158
Bladder Campion, 84
Bladderwort, 128
Blazing Star, 270
Blood-root, 22
Bluebells, 234
Blueberry, 66
Blue Curls, 269
Blue-eyed Grass, 241
Blue-eyed Mary, 234
Bluets, 232
Blueweed, 258
Boneset, 106
Bouncing Bet, 196
Brooklime, American, 246
Buckwheat, Climbing False, 83
Bugbane, 78
Bugloss, Viper’s, 258
Bunch-berry, 54
Bur Marigold, 166
Bush-honeysuckle, 134
Butter-and-eggs, 146
Butterfly-weed, 222
Button-bush, 82

Calico-bush, 57
Campion, Bladder, 84
Campion, Starry, 84
Cancer-root, 283
Cancer-root, One-flowered, 236
Cardinal-flower, 226
Carrion-flower, 39
Carrot, Wild, 96
Cat-brier, 39
Catchfly, Sleepy, 180
Celandine, 116
Celandine Poppy, 118
Chamomile, 71
Checkerberry, 72
Chickweed, 74
Chicory, 266
Choke-berry, 44
Cicely, Sweet, 97
Cinquefoil, Common, 120
Cinquefoil, Shrubby, 120
Cinquefoil, Silvery, 122
Cleavers, 76
Clover, Bush, 194
Clover, Hop, 144
Clover, White Sweet, 72
Clover, Yellow, 144
Clover, Yellow Sweet, 145
Cohosh, Black, 78
Cohosh, Blue, 282
Colic-root, 86
Columbine, Wild, 214
Cone-flower, 158
Coral-root, 284
Corn Cockle, 252
Cornel, Dwarf, 54
Corpse-plant, 74
Corydalis, Golden, 192
Corydalis, Pale, 192
Cowbane, Spotted, 97
Cowslip, 114
Cowslip, Virginian, 234
Cow Wheat, 136
Cranberry, 185
Cranesbill, Wild, 238
Cress, Spring, 29
Cress, Winter, 130
Crinkle-root, 29
Culver’s Root, 77
Cuphea, Clammy, 202
Cynthia, 132

Daisy, Blue Spring, 235

Daisy, Ox-eyed, 68
Daisy, White, 68
Daisy Fleabane, 70
Dandelion, 132
Dandelion, Dwarf, 132
Dandelion, Fall, 164
Day-flower, 256
Deer-grass, 200
Devil’s Paintbrush, 224
Dittany, 270
Dockmackie, 48
Dodder, 102
Dogbane, Spreading, 188
Dogwood, Panicled, 49
Dogwood, Red-osier, 49
Dogwood, Round-leaved, 49
Dutchman’s Breeches, 34
Dyer’s Green-weed, 145

Elder, Common, 78
Elder, Red-berried, 54
Elecampane, 162
Enchanter’s Nightshade, 76
Evening Primrose, 157
Everlasting, Early, 32
Everlasting, Fragrant Life, 112
Everlasting, Pearly, 112
Everlasting, Plantain-leaved, 32

Fever-bush, 114
Fireweed, 208
Five Finger, 120
Flag, Larger Blue, 244
Fleabane, Daisy, 70
Fleabane, Salt Marsh, 200
Fleur-de-lis, 244
Flowering-moss, 28
Foam-flower, 36
Forget-me-not, 235
Foxglove, Downy, 168
Foxglove, Smooth False, 168
Frost-weed, 140

Gall-of-the-earth, 284
Garget, 92
Gentian, Closed, 272
Gentian, Five-flowered, 272
Gentian, Fringed, 274
Geranium, Wild, 238
Gerardia, Purple, 210
Gerardia, Seaside, 210
Gerardia, Slender, 210
Gill-over-the ground, 238
Ginger, Wild, 278
Ginseng, 40
Ginseng, Dwarf, 40
Golden Club, 126
Golden-rod, 160
Gold Thread, 28
Goose-grass, 76
Grass of Parnassus, 110
Green-brier, 39
Ground Cherry, 100
Ground Ivy, 238
Ground Laurel, 173
Ground-Nut, 40
Ground-Nut, 284
Groundsel, Common, 122
Groundsel Tree, 110

Harbinger-of-Spring, 30
Hardhack, 198
Harebell, 241
Hawkweed, European, 224
Hawthorn, 50
Heal-all, 254
Hedge Bindweed, 190
Hellebore, False, 38
Hemlock, Water, 97
Hemp-weed, Climbing, 108
Herb of St Barbara, 130
Herb Robert, 193
Hobble-bush, 48
Hog Pea-nut, 262
Holly, Mountain, 52
Honeysuckle, Bush, 133
Honeysuckle, Fly, 28
Honeysuckle, Trumpet, 228
Honeysuckle, White Swamp, 58
Honeysuckle, Wild, 182
Hop Clover, 144
Horse Balm, 158
Hound’s Tongue, 222
Huckleberry, Common Black, 66
Huckleberry, Squaw, 68
Huntsman’s Cup, 236
Hyacinth, Wild, 108

Indian Cucumber-root, 127

Indian Fig, 138
Indian Hemp, 188
Indian Pipe, 21
Indian Poke, 38
Indian Tobacco, 262
Indian Turnip, 280
Indigo, Wild, 144
Innocence, 234
Iron-weed, 269
Ivy, American, 65
Ivy, Ground, 238
Ivy, Poison, 65

Jack-in-the-pulpit, 280
Jamestown Weed, 104
Jewel-weed, 154
Joe-pye-weed, 210
June-berry, 22

Knotweed, Common, 83
Knotweed, Pink, 212
Knotweed, Sand, 212

Ladies’ Tresses, 108

Lady’s Slipper, Pink, 180
Lady’s Slipper, Yellow, 124
Lambkill, 185
Larkspur, 240
Laurel, Great, 60
Laurel, Ground, 173
Laurel, Mountain, 57
Laurel, Sheep, 185
Laurel Magnolia, 56
Lily, Meadow, 136
Lily, Turk’s Cap, 220
Lily, White Water, 88
Lily, Wild Red, 219
Lily, Wild Yellow, 136
Lily, Wood, 219
Lily, Yellow Pond, 128
Linaria, Blue, 257
Lion’s Foot, 284
Liparis, Lily-leaved, 283
Liver-leaf, 229
Liverwort, 229
Lizard’s Tail, 56
Lobelia, Great, 260
Loosestrife, Four-leaved, 138
Loosestrife, Purple, 198
Loosestrife, Yellow, 140
Lousewort, 218
Love Vine, 102
Lungwort, 234
Lupine, Wild, 240

Mallow, Common, 206

Mallow, Marsh, 206
Mallow, Rose, 206
Mallow, Swamp, 206
Mandrake, 30
Marsh Marigold, 113
May-apple, 30
Mayflower, 173
Mayweed, 71
Meadow-beauty, 200
Meadow Lily, 136
Meadow Rue, Early, 283
Meadow Rue, Tall, 86
Meadow-sweet, 88
Melilot, White, 72
Melilot, Yellow, 145
Milfoil, 94
Milkweed, Common, 192
Milkweed, Four-leaved, 193
Milkweed, Green-flowered, 110
Milkweed, Orange-red, 222
Milkweed, Purple, 193
Milkweed, Swamp, 193
Milkwort, 186
Mitre-wort, 38
Mitre-wort, False, 136
Moccason-flower, 180
Monkey-flower, 250
Moonseed, 56
Motherwort, 250
Mountain Holly, 52
Mountain Laurel, 57
Mountain Tea, 72
Mullein, Common, 150
Mullein, Moth, 152
Mustard, Black, 130

New Jersey Tea, 71

Nightshade, 258
Nonesuch, 144

Orchis, Green, 82
Orchis, Orange, 152
Orchis, Purple Fringed, 249
Orchis, Ragged Fringed, 82
Orchis, Showy, 176
Orchis, White Fringed, 92
Orchis, Yellow Fringed, 152
Oswego Tea, 224

Painted Cup, 219

Parsnip, Common Wild, 126
Parsnip, Early Meadow, 126
Parsnip, Meadow, 126
Parsnip, Water, 98
Partridge-pea, 148
Partridge Vine, 80
Pennyroyal, American, 249
Pennyroyal, Bastard, 269
Pepperbush, Sweet, 104
Pepper-root, 29
Phlox, Wild, 235
Pickerel-weed, 257
Pigeon-berry, 92
Pimpernel, 226
Pine Sap, 283
Pink, Deptford, 198
Pink, Moss, 235
Pink, Sea, 202
Pink, Swamp, 182
Pink, Wild, 178
Pinxter flower, 182
Pipsissewa, 68
Pipsissewa, Spotted, 68
Pitcher-Plant, 236
Plantain, Rattlesnake, 94
Plantain, Robin’s, 235
Plantain, Water, 98
Pleurisy-root, 222
Poison Ivy, 65
Poison Sumach, 64
Pokeweed, 92
Polygala, Fringed, 186
Polygala, Moss, 188
Pond-lily, Yellow, 126
Poor-man’s-weather-glass, 226
Poverty-grass, 134
Prickly Pear, 138
Prince’s Pine, 68
Pyxie, 28

Quaker Ladies, 232

Queen Anne’s Lace, 96

Radish, Wild, 130

Ragwort, Golden, 122
Raspberry, Purple-flowering, 190
Rattlebox, 145
Rattlesnake-plantain, 94
Rattlesnake-root, 284
Rattlesnake-weed, 132
Red-root, 71
Rheumatism-root, 30
Rhododendron, American, 60
Rhodora, 184
Rich-weed, 158
Robin’s Plantain, 235
Rocket, Yellow, 130
Rock-rose, 140
Rosemary, Marsh, 269
Rue Anemone, 26
Rue, Early Meadow, 283
Rue, Tall Meadow, 86

St. Andrew’s Cross, 150

St. John’s-wort, Common, 148
St. John’s-wort, Marsh, 204
Sarsaparilla, Wild, 42
Saxifrage, Early, 36
Scabious, Sweet, 70
Sea Lavender, 269
Self-heal, 254
Senna, Wild, 146
Service-berry, 22
Shad-bush, 22
Sheep Laurel, 185
Shepherd’s Purse, 29
Shin-leaf, 66
Side-saddle Flower, 236
Silver rod, 162
Simpler’s Joy, 252
Skull-cap, Larger, 242
Skull-cap, Mad-dog, 244
Skunk Cabbage, 276
Snakeroot, Black, 78
Snakeroot, White, 106
Sneezeweed, 166
Snowberry, Creeping, 46
Soapwort, 196
Solomon’s Seal, 44
Solomon’s Seal, False, 46
Sorrel, Violet Wood, 236
Sorrel, Wood, 62
Sorrel, Yellow Wood, 156
Spatter Dock, 128
Spearwort, 127
Speedwell, 248
Spice-bush, 114
Spiderwort, 257
Spikenard, 42
Spoonwood, 57
Spring Beauty, 32
Spurge, 80
Squaw-weed, 122
Squirrel Corn, 36
Staghorn Sumach, 64
Star-flower, 26
Star-grass, 86
Star-grass, Yellow, 142
Steeple-bush, 198
Stick-tight, 166
Stitchwort, 74
Stone-root, 158
Succory, 266
Sumach, Poison, 64
Sumach, Staghorn, 64
Sundew, 96
Sundrops, 157
Sunflower, Swamp, 166
Sunflower, Wild, 166
Swamp Cabbage, 276
Sweet Cicely, 97
Sweet William, Wild, 235

Tansy, 170
Thimble-weed, 76
Thorn-apple, 104
Thoroughwort, 106
Tick-trefoil, 194
Toadflax, Bastard, 71
Toadflax, Blue, 257
Toadflax, Yellow, 146
Toothwort, 29
Touch-me-not, 154
Trailing Arbutus, 173
Traveller’s Joy, 102
Trillium, Painted, 46
Trillium, White, 39
Trumpet-weed, 216
Turtle-head, 100
Twin-flower, 176
Twin-leaf, 30
Twisted Stalk, 178

Venus’s Looking-glass, 242

Vervain, Blue, 252
Vervain, White, 90
Vetch, Blue, 264
Vetch, Common, 264
Viburnum, Maple-leaved, 48
Violet, Bird-foot, 230
Violet, Canada, 42
Violet, Common Blue, 230
Violet, Dog, 232