Page 1 of Protecting Her

Ember

London, United Kingdom

My fingers strummed the strings of the guitar as they moved easily from one chord to the next in the song. I forgot about the frigid cold that made my fingers ache, the far too familiar pang of hunger in my belly, and the way passers-by either grumbled about beggars on the street or flung coins into the guitar case. I’d also forgotten the way the knit wool cap over my hair made my head itch. In that moment, I was lost in my song and the memories it evoked for me.

That was why I didn’t notice the man at first. My mind was in the past, in a time when my grandmother’s guitar was all that gave me peace. Whether my parents were zoned out on their drug of choice, or hyper and frenetic as the drugs made them manic, that old guitar was what kept me calm and unafraid. Some nights, I’d go to bed hungry because I hadn’t been able to steal any money from my mom so I could buy food. Some nights she would bring food home, and I’d ferret things away to eat once her mood switched and she forgot about me again. Other nights, I’d go to bed afraid of the sounds I could hear outside of my room, of the shouts and screams that could be laughter or anger. I never knew which and hid under my covers so I didn’t have to find out.

Gran had taken care of me from the time I was born until she died when I was six-years-old. I’d managed to hang onto the guitar, though Mom had sold all of Gran’s other possessions, as if she hadn’t cared about her mother at all. When Mom had reached for it, I’d run to the guitar, clutched it to my chest, and glared at my mother with hatred in my eyes until she looked away and moved on. The guitar had been by my side ever since. I’d even had a locker at the bus station I’d put it in when I knew Mom was really hard up for cash, just to make sure she didn’t sell it.

I’d also learned to hang out in the park until the very last light of day. Little girls with curly blonde hair and round brown eyes could be a target to some of the men who came home with my mother, and I’d learned a long time ago how to avoid them. Stay in the park, go straight to my room and find my stash of food, and shove my dresser in front of my door. It had kept me safe so far.

It had been this old guitar that had drawn Graham to me. He’d been nineteen my senior year of high school, and he’d completely swept me off of my feet. He’d approached me in the park I used to hang out in and asked me about the guitar, as if he knew I was a sucker for that guitar. I hadn’t protested when he’d asked me to play it, but I hadn’t been too sure about my ability to do the guitar justice, even if those sweet blue eyes of his had told me I could. I’d been nervous to play for an audience, but my fingers soon stopped slipping off the wrong chords, and I’d begun to sing.

I thought I’d captivated him with my voice and guitar the way he’d captured me with a sardonic smile. That smile had said he’d known I could play and he’d never doubted me. I thought he’d fallen in love with me then that the world had forever changed for us. Turns out, he just saw a way to panhandle without doing any work himself.

Oh, not right away. Graham had given me time to graduate, or to at least finish my last classes, before he’d swept me away to a new life. He’d even left me, ahem, untouched, until we made it to his hometown in Kentucky. We’d panhandled our way up to the small coal town, well, I had, and we’d arrived in the middle of the night. His friends had found him, us, a house there, and he’d waited until he had me totally alone, totally of legal age, before he’d laid a finger on me. There’d been kisses and promises of passion before that, but he’d always waited, and that had made me love him more.

For a moment, a scent intruded into my reverie, and I looked up to see a rather handsome man sat on a bench across from me. I noted his interest, but the song caught me again, and I was in the past. Graham had gone out with his friends a lot, but he always came home with lots of money. He was a poker player, and if he’d had a good night, he’d tell me. I let it go, because I was too stupid, too naïve, to think otherwise about the man I loved.

I could deal with the fact that he wasn’t a great lover, though he wasn’t bad. I wasn’t naïve enough to not know what good sex was supposed to be; I’d seen movies, and I had read avidly. Graham always seemed to finish just as things really started to get good for me, but I didn’t complain. Sex wasn’t everything, and he always made sure I was warm, comfortable, and fed. He’d called me his little woman, and it made me proud.

He needed me, he needed me to cook, clean, and to love him. Graham was an orphan, and he’d never known a real home. I gave him that, and in return, he made sure I had what I wanted. So what if he earned his money through poker? It was better than working down in a mine or at a factory. I had to admit now, I let a lot pass me by.

One day, Graham came with a new plan. Sometimes he had some of these off the wall ideas, and I’d learned they rarely went far, so I didn’t pay much attention to this plan. He wanted to take me to England, a place I’d always wanted to visit, and get me into the music industry there. He’d show me castles and manor houses during the days, and in the evenings, I’d play music in pubs and other places in these giant cities.

“Oh, they love Americans there, Bridget, you’ll be a star,” he’d said as I stared at the application for a passport he’d brought to me. “We will have to change your stage name though.”

“I thought I might.” I’d stared glumly at the papers, at the name printed there. Bridget Jones. I’d always caught a lot of flak over that name. My mother had thought it was hilarious and had always told people she’d named me after the movie. I never kept a diary, though I probably should have because of that movie.

“You can use my last name if you want?” he’d said tentatively. He knew I wanted to get married, we’d been together over two years, but he’d always shied away from the subject.

I glared at the papers with enough anger that flames should curl the edges. “No, I’ll call myself Ember Jones. Embers is Mom’s maiden name. I’ll just use that.”

“Oh, cool; yeah, that will work. Great.” He was flippant now, happy that he’d dodged another bullet.

I wasn’t about to start another argument with him then anyway. I’d learned quickly it got me nowhere and only made him act irrationally. I’d signed the papers, taken them in with the money he’d given me to have it all processed at the passport facility in the post office, and had quickly forgot about it all. By the time the passport actually arrived, I’d started to think maybe it was time to leave Graham and head back to Alabama.

His behavior became erratic, and I kept finding white powder on the sink in the bathroom. I had a drug addict for a mother; I knew what that white powder was. But Graham had led a hard life, and I wanted to be there for him when others weren’t. I’d left all I knew behind for him, and I knew we could fix this.

From the day I first saw him when I was seventeen, on the verge of eighteen, I knew Graham was the one for me. I’d wanted nothing more than to run away from my mother, to a place where people didn’t know I was her daughter, or that my mom slept with men for money sometimes, and where I wouldn’t get pity or scorn because I’d have a good man at my side. Yeah, he could be cranky, and sometimes, he was a downright asshole, but I loved him, and he loved me. It was us against the world, and that was all I’d needed.

When he’d come home with expensive luggage and plane tickets one day, I’d nearly lost my mind. He’d made all my dreams come true, so far, and this was one I wouldn’t admit I’d really wanted to happen. I hadn’t let myself dream that he could really take me to England, but there was the proof.

I’d always wanted to go, my favorite television shows were all British, my favorite books took place in England, and I loved the history of the country. I’d wanted to see the place where my great-grandmother came from, and to enjoy the life I didn’t think I could have. I’d put away my protests and turned a blind eye to so much because I’d wanted to go.

For five and a half months, it had gone well. I’d played in pubs, met other singers who taught me new ways to play, who had taught me old folk songs, and introduced me to so much more. I’d learned to get over the fact that the language was so different and that the food wasn’t the same at all. Although, sometimes I would go to KFC just for something familiar. I’d made friends and wanted to stay, but I knew the time was almost up.

That was when Graham had changed the world for me all over again. He’d said we were out of money, and had wanted me to do something I refused to do. He’d bought some drugs and wanted me to sell them to the friends I’d made.

“How dare you?” I’d croaked out around a sob of heartbreak. I’d stared at him, the heartache a burn in my eyes, as I’d tried to figure out who this guy was. “You should know better, Graham.”

“Yeah, so what? Your mom was a meth whore, who doesn’t have a sob story? Take this and get rid of it, or you can get the fuck out, Ember.” He’d emphasized my stage name as he shoved a plastic bag full of packets of cocaine into my hand. I’d dropped the bag as if it had burned my hand and backed away from him.

“I’m serious, Bridge, you either get rid of this for me or get the fuck out.” He’d stared me down, disgust and hate in eyes that had turned colder than ice. I could only stare at him, again lost for words.

“No.”

“No?”