Page 46 of Protect Your Queen

I had a full day booked at the studio. It was meant to be a writing session to go through the songs needed for the new album. It’s not the creative pursuit that the words imply. Rarely is creativity made for the sake of the art. It’s made for the sake of the marketing team. We were packaged and primed, going through songs already written, or we’d attempt to write something that met the same criteria. The latter, of course, wasn’t really something open to me.

Just like the rest of my sleep-deprived morning, it moved in a blur of people talking, pulling me here, tugging me there.

Then I found myself in what was termed a “writing room”. It was a glorified office, with instruments and all the things necessary to “brainstorm” creativity and marketing. Abutcher block easel leaned in one corner. There was a coffee maker, and couches. The red brick walls ensured that we were soundproofed in, so as not to disturb the other “artists” creating their masterpieces up and down the halls.

“We need to get more ballads on this album,” Loïc, the French songwriter who was “so in” right now, said to Simon, the studio rep assigned as my manager.

“Why? She’s not known for her ballads,” Simon shot back. “We need more dance hits. The clubs are where she does best.”

“She needs to show versatility…”

Jareth never wanted to be in these meetings. He preferred to wait in the break room or he would duck out to have a cigarette – a habit he swore he kicked after he became my legal guardian.

“She’s young and hot. No one wants to know that she has feelings. Remember Britney Spears? After her diary-ballads…”

I sighed, standing up from the little coffee table we huddled around. I went to the piano in the corner of the room: a Yamaha upright. I wondered if Chris could make this one sing the way he made my Baldwin?

Simon and Loïc didn’t need me for this conversation. I was just the face of the music, and I was auto-tuned to death.

“Hey, little Songbird.” Chris dropped down onto the piano bench beside me, looking at his phone. He put his phone in his pocket, then turned to me. Just like last night, his left hand hovered over the C4 octave. “How are you doing?”

His voice was gentle and sweet. Sitting like this, our shoulders touched, just like they had last night. I leaned into him ever so slightly, and I felt him pressing back. The heat of his skin warmed me through his clothes. Had we truly been alone, I might have placed my head on his shoulder.

“Will you play something for me?” I asked. “Like you did last night?”

“Hmm…” He looked around. “I don’t think they’ll appreciate that.”

“I don’t care.”

“Youdon’t, Songbird. But your team won’t appreciate me meddling with their process.”

“They don’t appreciate me meddling with it either,” I stage whispered.

Simon and Loïc were up and gesticulating wildly. Simon wanted club hits. Loïc wanted to show an emotional range. I favored Loïc’s approach, but his choices were thesame sappy songs about a young woman blossoming into womanhood. It’d probably involve a midriff, and a man in the music video as I whisper-sang words thathintedat virginal innocence wishing for more.

I sat, hunched over, letting out a sigh.

“I’ll play a little thing, Songbird,” he said, his left-hand resting, but not pressing, the keys. “Just to get that dreadful look off your face.”

I blushed.

“Hmm, that might be worse,” he groaned.

“What do you mean?”

“When you look sad, I want to kiss you,” he said, matter-of-factly, his eyes never leaving the keys of the piano. “When you blush, I want to kiss you. When you sing, I want to kiss you.”

I gasped. No one had ever really said something like that to me before. A dozen disgusting men had tried to solicit more than a kiss. But this was more intimate. A kiss from Chris would be so much more than anything else from another man. I was sure of it.

It would be earth shattering. Goosebumps spread over my arms, and a warm shiver crept up my spine.

“So why don’t you?” I don’t know where that boldness came from. I turned my head to face him fully, and he sighed.

“Because your brother would kill me, and I’d be kicked off your team.”

“Would that be so bad?” My question made him turn to me. He lifted that angular, full brow and smirked. “Not the getting killed part. But not being on my team. Would that be so bad for you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he plucked two keys, his foot on the sustain pedal, letting the notes linger in the air. Then he started to play, his right hand staying on his lap.

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