Page 32 of Headstrong Like Us
“Fair enough.” I let go of his bicep and hold his waist. He turns forward, revs the throttle, and drives between stationary cars.
Vehicles honk at us as we squeeze past their parked asses. I flip them off, and Maximoff speeds up and veers onto the nearest exit ramp.
Free of traffic, we’re back in the middle of the road, and we reach the bakery on time. But we drive into another issue.
At least a hundred rabid, screaming fans are congesting the parking lot. Some even hoist homemade signs. Maximoff slows so he doesn’t run anyone over, but hands are all over us.
I’m not getting used to the “I touched a celebrity” pet. I’m not letting this be normalized for me. I want to always protect Maximoff from ass-grabs and dick-grabs and caustic hands, and I’m not resigning to the fact that this is just a burden of fame. That this is his life and my life and the only way to rise above is to sayhave at me.
My lips lift at a thought:
I’m going to be his Winter Soldier.
For decades.
For life.
Keeping one hand on him, I motion the overly emotional boys and girls to stay back, most of them tear-streaked and screeching. I lower my feet, my boots lightly scraping the pavement, and Igentlypush some fondling hands off Maximoff.
I shake my head as they stand in front of the fucking bike. Quickly, I tear off my helmet. “Back up! We’re trying to park!”
Some teenagers pull their friends out of the way, and they create a path for us.
Thatcher Moretti is in my ear, and surprisingly, his strict voice isn’t as grating as it used to be. “Thatcher to Farrow, the bakery’s location has been leaked.”
Obviously.
Maximoff parks, and girls bum-rush us. A few ask us to sign their posters, and I hand Maximoff a pen. But I’m not participating.
I have a cold-shoulder reputation, and most fans don’t expect me to do anything but protect him.
Maximoff quickly scrawls his name in the corner of aMARROW 4 LIFE!poster and another one that reads:please invite me to the wedding! 267-555-8898
Sorry not sorry, the guest list is set.
* * *
We boughtout the bakery today, but Thatcher and I guard the glass entrance for a few extra minutes. Partly to ensure the locks aren’t completely worthless and that no fans, hecklers, or paparazzi can crash inside.
Mostly to give Maximoff and Jane time to catch up before we taste cake samples.
They’re in view, seated around a horseshoe, peach-hued booth. The bakery is very Jane Cobalt with pastels, dainty doily cloths, and crystal chandeliers. Cake is cake. I’m not that picky.
I scan the emotional crowd outside the door, then Thatcher. “Have you met Owen Erickson? He’s one of the new temps.” He’s been on my mind, and if anyone is all-knowing about the ins and outs of security, it’d be Thatcher or Akara.
Plus, as it turns out, Thatcher isn’t that bad. He hasn’t made my job harder in almost a year, and his personality outside of work isn’t grating. He’s actually unintentionally funny. Last month, he told me he made Ben Cobalt vegan pancakes, and in his words, “The kid spit it out like I served him cow shit.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. The Cobalt who would eat dirt-covered cardboard couldn’t stomach Thatcher’s cooking. Which is above average. Back when we lived together, he used to make meals for the townhouse, and I’ve tried some of his chicken parm.
Thatcher is easy to be around, and that’s how I like my friends.
More than that, the way he’s staring at Jane—before he turns to me—is what she deserves.
Just incomprehensible love and devotion.
“Erickson?” Thatcher has a hand on his radio, half his attention on the entrance. “He has a military background. Navy.”
I heard most of the temps for Akara’s new company were referrals from Loren Hale’s bodyguard, Bruno Bandoni, who’s also Navy. “Who trained Owen?”
