The man turns his eyes to me. “What do you think of Boston?”
“Barely noticed it,” I say. “All I care about is Spencer.”
Spencer laughs. “He means to say he loves Boston.”
“I love Boston,” I agree. “I saw Queens of the Stone Age here when I was first hitting it big. Literally blew my mind. One of the best shows ever.”
“Should we expect you around more often?” the man asks.
“We’re bicoastal,” I say. “I’m keeping my place in Seattle for now. Spencer will be out in a couple of weeks, in fact.”
“Gabriel is working on his album,” Spencer says. “It’s the best thing he’s ever written.”
I wish that were true. Spencer has no idea that he’s adding to the pressure when he says that, expecting something from me that I’m scared I can’t deliver.
I flash a smile to the camera. “You know what they say about muses.” I give my husband a wink. “Ready for dinner?”
“Willll-chins! Willlll-chins!”
The deep voice booms. Near the street, a man in a red jacket has his hands cupped over his face as he yells Spencer’s last name, drawing it out each time.
“What the fuck is that about?” I ask.
“Ignore him,” Spencer says quickly. He waves his hand to the man interviewing us, who puts the phone away. Since he was called in by our teams, I at least don’t have to worry about him filming whatever this is.
The yelling stranger walks toward us.
“It’s my father’s chant,” Spencer explains quickly. “It’s what the whole damn arena yells when they’re cheering him on, over and over just like that.”
“Willll-chins!” the man yells again, which is when I realize he’s quite drunk.
“You’re right,” I say, taking Spencer’s arm to guide him away. “Ignore this dude.”
“Hey!” the man yells, attracting more attention. “Number thirty-six would be ashamed of his son if he saw you. You’re fucked up, dragging his name through the mud like this. You little—"
I’m moving before my brain can think to stop me. The second I realize what he’s saying to Spencer, I totally lose control.
“You son of a bitch piece of chicken turd bigot, I’m going to—"
The breath empties my lungs as Spencer grabs me from behind, stopping me in a bear hug. The man is still yelling and slurring his words, but I can only hear Spencer’s voice in my ear.
“Stop it. Let’s go.”
“But—”
“Let’s. Go.”
I’m raging. How fucking dare someone talk to Spencer like that. But with his arms wrapped around me, my brain works again.
This isn’t my call to make.
“Okay,” I manage, still tense, and even though I want to unleash my holy fury on the drunk man, I let Spencer pull me away.
“Are you okay?” I look over my shoulder. “Fuck that guy. Don’t listen to a word he says.”
If his dad would actually fucking stick up for him, this probably wouldn’t happen, and that enrages me.
“I’m fine,” Spencer says, but his voice is tight. “He’s just some prick. It’s nothing.”
