The bartender laughs at me and then says to her. “You can’t cry if it’s the truth.”
Jane isn’t crying. She sighs into an angry growl and tries to ignore him. “I ask for coffee, and instead receive an unsolicited opinion on my looks. Disastrously unequal and a complete nightmare—Moffy.” Fear spikes her voice, grabbing my wrist when I try to step towards the bartender.
Farrow and Quinn break our hands as they shift around us. The bartender opens his mouth to speak again, and I hear the beginnings of the word slut and Quinn growls, “Fuck off.”
Farrow raises a hand to him, and I hear him hiss, “Cool down. Just focus on getting her out of here.”
Quinn’s nose flares and he nods. Quickly, Quinn begins to lead my cousin safely out of the pub. I hear Jane protesting and shouting, “I leave no one behind!”
Farrow rests a strong hand on my shoulder. Trying to steer me towards the exit.
With one move, I tear out of his hold. I’m seething from the inside out. My skin is crawling. Our eyes meet for a heated second. Both of us are headstrong. And I’m not moving on his accord.
Farrow warns beneath his breath, “Don’t jump out in front of me.” He rotates, protectively shielding me from the bartender. Using his body as a barrier between me and that bastard.
Bodyguards are required to deescalate aggressive situations. Calm them. Stop them.
Not fuel or even win fights.
In case you aren’t already aware: I make that difficult.
I should leave right now. I should forget the bartender’s crude gaze. And malicious intent. I should. And Janie won’t leave until I do. Even if Quinn drags her out, she’ll dig her feet into hardwood or pavement and claw herself towards me.
I want her somewhere safe. Far away from here.
So I open my wallet and toss money on the table. Unable to leave without paying. Even if I’m paying a fucking douchebag.
“And you’re Maximoff Hale,” the bartender says. Don’t engage, my parents always tells me. Ignore the hecklers, they say. They’re trying to incite you, they remind me.
They want to fight you.
No shit.
I can handle overwhelmed, overzealous fans. I can handle competitive paparazzi. I can handle the tears and the autographs and the selfies. I can even handle tonight. The fucked-up part of fame.
The sick hatred. Chipping bit by bit at our humanity.
You want to know what the few other people in the pub are doing? They’re filming. With their cellphones. Like I’m the star of a fucked-up drama. And the title is This Is My Life.
Welcome. Take a seat.
I put my wallet in my jean’s pocket.
“How does it feel,” the bartender starts up again, “knowing a thousand-plus dicks have been inside your mom? She must’ve been stretched out when she had you. Bet you just fell out of her vagina.” He laughs right at my face.
I have tunnel vision. I see red. I see the bartender.
I see how devastated my mom would be if she heard someone say this shit to me. She’d cry herself to sleep—and you know what that does to me? It makes me want to fucking scream and throw my knuckles at a face. And by a face, I mean his fucking face.
I charge.
Farrow restrains me, gripping my fist in his palm, and forcing my hand to my side. He walks me backwards. “Look at me, Maximoff.”
I’m glaring beyond Farrow. At the bartender.
His lips are against my ear. “He’s not worth your attention.”
I’ve said all those words before: be the bigger person. Walk away. You’re feeding into their bullshit. Violence solves nothing. You’re the CEO of a nonprofit. Stop.
Stop.
Breathe.
Leave.
I let about fifteen feet divide me and the bartender. Backing up. Backing away, all the while he’s talking shit. “What about your sister,” he laughs mockingly. “Luna Hale—another wet slut. Bet she puts out twice as much as your mom. Is she a little sex addict too?”
I taste acid on my tongue, but words burn the back of my throat. Dying inside of me.
And Farrow can’t provoke the bartender. If these insults eat at him, he can’t show me either. I’m in a thundering boat of one.
Trying to steer myself towards the door. I almost get there.
And then he says, “I hope she locks her doors at night.”
I go rigid.
Motionless and still faced towards him. “What’d you say?”
He laughs. “I hope she keeps her doors locked. You know how many men would break through just to taste her—”
I lose it. Tearing out of Farrow’s hold, I take a few lengthy strides. And I swing. The instant my knuckles crack the bridge of his nose, Farrow cuts off my path and then he thrusts back three men who spring up from the barstools.
Blood gushes out of the man’s nostrils, and he shouts the word, sue.
“Go ahead and fucking sue me.” I turn around with rage in my eyes, leaving the mess I burst behind. I forget that Farrow isn’t Declan. My old bodyguard would’ve stayed to cool down the pub. Instead, Farrow sprints and reaches my side.
Step-for-step with me, and I glance at him. His hard gaze holds a raw understanding that says you’re not alone. And as we face forward, his hand falls to my wrist, then my palm—he’s holding my hand for a strong but brief moment.
No one has ever held my hand like that.
He lets go, and we both push through the pub doors. Walking side-by-side towards my Audi parked on the city street. Philly lit up at night.
Paparazzi are here.
I glance at my phone that says:
I saw you leave. I’m in the car, driving home. I’m safe. Text me as soon as you are. – Janie
I text quickly: I’m on my way home.
While I find my keys in my pocket, three cameramen near with their lenses. Asking the same question, “Why are your knuckles bloody?!”
“Did you get in a fight, Maximoff?!”
Farrow pushes a camera aside. “Get out of his face.”
“Sorry,” the paparazzi apologizes, pretty sincere. He takes more than a few steps backwards.
Silent, I unlock my car, and I climb into the driver’s seat.
Farrow is in the passenger, doors locked, and I drive out onto the highway. Like it’s just another day of my life.
I move forward.
I don’t look back.
Flicking on my blinker, I switch to the left lane. Speeding ahead of trailing paparazzi that race after my car.
Farrow reaches across my body. I stiffen, my eyes flitting from him to the road. He seizes the silver buckle by my shoulder and pulls the strap over my chest. Clicking the belt in by my ass.
“You’re not dying today,” Farrow reminds me. “Let me see your hand.”
I grip the wheel with both hands. Skin busted on a few of my knuckles. “I thought we’ve been through this. You’re not my damn doctor; you’re not my assistant. Not a caped crusader or a fortuneteller or my friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. You’re just…”
Farrow.
I swallow a lump in my throat and then I take a chance and look at him.
He wears only the same understanding.