Page 178 of Headstrong Like Us
I thrive in unruly, strange chaos. And all of SFO might be off-duty tonight, but I know I can protect my groom and our son without a radio or team behind me.
If I had any doubt, I wouldn’t put them in this situation.
Extra security is currently fighting through these idiots who ram each other and act like Maximoff and I are a main headliner at Coachella.
Maximoff yells something back at me. His voice buried beneath shrill questions, “look heres!” and the sound of clicking camera flashes.
“What?!” I shout at him, dipping my head slightly towards the opened door. I keep an eye on the shoving masses.
“You still have the earplugs?” Maximoff asks. “I gave them to you this morning.”
I dig into my pocket, and I notice Ripley cupping his hands over his ears. He’s not crying or in distress. Just glancing expectantly between me and Maximoff like,what’s happening next?Trusting us wherever we go, wherever we take him.
I’d smile, but the pandemonium is at an all-time high.
Ripley babbles incoherently while I pass earplugs to Maximoff. I nod to our baby boy. “That’s right, little trooper. Your papa’s about to silence all these noisy fuckers for you.”
He beams, especially as Maximoff fits in the earplugs.
A cameraman trips, about to crash into Maximoff’s ass, and I push him. “Back up!”
“I didn’t mean to!” he shouts, panicked.
I skim the crowds, and a younger guy tries to fit his expensive equipment over the door. To peer down at Maximoff and Ripley.
I thrust a hand withwarningforce at his chest.
“I have Rip,” Maximoff tells me, holding our son against his body.
Shutting the door, I lean close to whisper, “Stay with me. I have to go first.”
“Alright.” He’s not arguing.
The best way to protect Ripley is for us to be in a single-file line, with our son shielded between his chest and my back.
Maximoff pushes against paparazzi with his forearm while I lead. Forcing through the cameras and creating a pathway. It’s all fine and well. Until a hand reaches out for Ripley, and I see this idiot’s crazed, media-fueled eyes, looking to stoke havoc.
His hand is descending on Ripley’s head.
He’s innocently unaware. He’s a baby.
He’smybaby.
I lose my shit.
I catch this fucker’s wrist andtwist.Hard, beyond a warning.I feel the bone split and crack in my iron-grip.
He drops the camera, his pained cry smothered by other media yelling, “MAXIMOFF, LOOK HERE! FARROW, LOOK HERE!”
I don’t stop. Or look.
We keep moving towards the restaurant.
Maximoff has a firm clutch around Ripley and shoves off more paparazzi, his forest-green eyes like daggers. He’s strong, forcing men away like a bodyguard would. Still, I glance back at him, sweeping him. And honestly, he’s checking on me just as hardcore.
Along the road, the rest of the famous ones are parking and pushing through this madness.
And behind me, I hear, “You broke his arm!”
