Page 85 of The Ballad of Us
“Are you back together for love or publicity?”
A microphone is shoved into my face so aggressively that it clips my cheek. I stumble backward, but there's another body behind me, another camera, another voice demanding answers to questions that feel like invasions of every level of privacy.
“Please, I need to—” I try to push through, but they're everywhere, a wall of aggressive strangers who smell like cigarettes and desperation.
“Come on, sweetheart, give us something! You're the woman who tamed the wild rock star!”
“Did you use tough love? Threatened to leave if he didn't get clean?”
“How much is the record label paying you for this redemption story?”
The accusation stings. It sends a shock through me. They think this is all fake, that our relationship and everything we've worked to rebuild is just a publicity stunt. My heart pounds. Each beat is loud in my ears. My cheeks burn. My breath comes fast and shallow, as if the air is too thin. The smell of sweat, perfume, and cigarettes is choking me. People crowd closer, making it harder to breathe. Duke starts barking. His sharp yelps match my panic.
“Back off!” I manage to say, but my voice is lost in the chaos.
A hand wraps around my arm—not gently, but with the demanding grip of someone who thinks they're entitled to my attention. “Just one photo, honey. One photo of Gray Garrison's savior?—”
“GET YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HANDS OFF OF HER!”
The voice that cuts through the chaos is unlike anything I've ever heard from Leslie. Gone is the eccentric interior designer with his expressive vocabulary and dramatic gestures. In his place stands a man I don't recognize—six feet six inches of pure, protective rage.
Leslie barrels through the crowd like the linebacker he was in a past life, his designer clothes doing nothing to diminish the very real threat in his posture. He positions himself between me and the cameras, and suddenly I understand why people sometimes cross the street when they see large men walking toward them. Leslie is terrifying.
“Every single one of you parasites has exactly three seconds to back the fuck off before I start remembering my boxing days,” he growls, and his voice carries the kind of authority that makes people listen. “And trust me, I was known for my aggressive defensive tactics.”
Leslie glances over at a photographer who has been whispering instructions into a headset, aware that this is more orchestrated than a random frenzy. It’s vultures with a plan. “Do you think you're clever with your setups and code words? You've picked the wrong day and the wrong person. Y’all are going to fuck around and find out, you hear me say?”
“Hey man, we're just doing our job?—”
“Your job?” Leslie wheels on the photographer who spoke, and the man takes a step back. “Your job is harassing women on the street? Your job is a physical assault? Because I'm fairly sure that's called a crime, not a career.”
He wraps a protective arm around my shoulders, using his body as a shield. “We're leaving. Anyone who follows us, anyone who takes another photo, anyone who so much as breathes in her direction is going to discover exactly how much damage a former boxer can do to expensive camera equipment.”
“You can't threaten us! We'll sue!”
Leslie's laugh is cold and utterly unlike his usual warm chuckle. “Please do. I'd love to explain to a judge how you were physically assaulting my friend. I'm sure the security cameras from every business on this street caught the whole thing. Mrs. Chen is calling the police right now.”
As if on cue, I hear sirens in the distance. The paparazzi exchange glances, and several start backing toward their vehicles.
“Move,” Leslie commands, guiding me through the path that's opened. “Duke, come.”
Duke follows immediately, still growling at anyone who gets too close. Leslie maintains his protective stance all the way to his house, only relaxing once we're inside with the door locked behind us.
“Are you hurt?” He immediately shifts back into the Leslie I know, his hands gentle as he checks my face where the microphone hit. “Those bastards. I cannot believe they touched you.”
“I'm okay,” I manage, though my hands are shaking. “Leslie, I've never seen you like that.”
“Most people haven't. I save that version of myself for special occasions.” He guides me to his kitchen, where he grabs me a bottle of water from his fridge. “Hydration first, then we're getting you to Gray. He needs to know what happened.”
“It's going to be everywhere,” I realize with growing horror. “Photos of me, stories about us, probably multiple videos of the whole thing.”
“Let them publish it. Let the world see what vultures they truly are.” Leslie's phone is already in his hand, fingers flying across the screen. “I'm texting Gray now. We'll sneak out the back way to get to the studio.”
Within minutes, we make our way through Leslie's back garden, through the gate he had installed for exactly this kind of situation, and down the alley that leads to Belvedere Street. My phone has been buzzing nonstop, but I can't bring myself to look at it.
“When I was at the height of my career in New Orleans,” Leslie says as we walk, “I had a client who was being stalked by paparazzi. They made her life hell for three months, all because she was dating an actor. She ended up moving to Canada just to get away from them.”
“Is that what's going to happen to us? Are they going to destroy our lives here?”
