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 beenstretched 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 byaface, I meanhis 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 ofone.
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. Theinstantmy 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 saysyou’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
