Page 2 of Protect Your Queen

“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 myrealtriumph tonight.

Jareth was going to go findTitaJen. 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,manyways.

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, Idependedon 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

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