Page 21 of Protect Your Queen

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,pleadingfor him to put a stop to this. “Please don’t make me,Kuya.”

I’m not dumb. Iknowwhat people say about me. I know what they think of my music. Iama 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 wasnotlike the musicians on the stage.

I had no business up there. If I went, they’d know… they’dallknow 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 whatIwanted - whatChristopher Ambrosehad told me to do.

Without any prompting - becauseof courseeveryone 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.

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