Jane and I wanted to go to a brewery, but here we are.
She shakes her head. “No need to apologize. I love watching you do your job,” she says. “It’s dreadfully interesting. Like seeing more of who you are.”
I rub my lips. Something strains my chest. This is a fake date, I remind myself. For the op. But what we’ve been talking about, it’s been real. I don’t want any of our interactions to be anything less than that. “Where were we?” I ask her and pick up the small plastic spoon.
“Veni qua,” she says into a bright smile, saying the Italian words I’d just taught her almost perfectly. It means come here. “I like that one. I think I’m going to use it for Licorice when I can’t find him.” She picks a cookie dough piece out of her yogurt. “I tried putting a collar on him. One with bells. It was a pitiful sight. He’s just not a collar kind of cat. Not like Carpenter who loves his bejeweled ones.”
I love when she talks about her cats. She can do it for hours, and there’s love and light in her entire being.
Out of my peripheral, I check the windows again but keep my eyes on Jane. “So Carpenter loves attention. Licorice hates it. Walrus is the rebel. Ophelia is the princess. Toodles is a sloth, and Lady Macbeth a wise, old owl. That about right?”
Her lips part, and she looks like I just agreed to eat her out at this table.
“Jane,” I say.
Flush rises up her neck. “You know my cats very well,” she says, recovering. “It’s very attractive. But you already know that I’m attracted to you. So that’s redundant. But important. An important redundancy.”
My eyes sweep her for a second. “I don’t think our attraction to each other has ever been a question, honey.”
She smiles. “True.”
“Gomesegiam’,” I say in Italian. “That means How do you say? ”
“Gomesegiam’,” She repeats. “I like that one, too.” She’s liked every word I’ve said in Italian. I’m beginning to realize it’s not just the language. She likes me. There aren’t many people that get off on other people’s happiness. Other people’s interests. Jane is that rare kind of person.
“Ma che bell’,” I say another phrase. Our eyes latch for a hot second. “How beautiful. ”
Her lips part.
My muscles strain underneath my shirt, and she doesn’t look away. It’s an intense moment of silence, just drinking each other in.
Then she crumples her napkin and puts it in her empty cup. “So I’ve decided,” she says softly, her eyes still on me. “That’s my favorite.”
“It’s a good one,” I agree and then look down to her cup. “Done?’
“Only if you are.”
“We can push out,” I say. “But the crowds are bad, so you’re going to stay behind me. I’ll have the temp bring up the rear.”
She cranes her neck to the window. Fans and paparazzi line the sidewalk, snapping photos of us through the windows. She’s blocked them from her mind thus far. It’s easy for her to just forget they’re there. Like background noise.
I can imagine that comes with twenty-three years of practice living in the spotlight.
Jane meets my gaze and secures her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
Minutes later we’re outside the frozen yogurt shop. Swarmed.
“Jane! Jane! Look here!”
“Thatcher! Thatcher!”
Jane is fisting my shirt, her fingers tightened on the fabric. I have one arm wrapped behind me, hand on her hip and pressing her chest up against my back. My other hand shoves a cameraman in front.
Create a path.
Clear the way.
Objective: her Beetle.
Distance: one block.
Targets: every shitbag in my vision.
A Canon is inches from smacking me in the eye. Pissed, I knock it back with my wrist. The cameraman looks like I assaulted his child.
I growl, “You take my eye out, I’m going to put you on the ground.”
“Dude, back up!” Another pap yells at him. They do that a lot. Dissociate from the shitbags like they’re not also here blocking our path.
“Jane! What flavor of fro-yo did you get?!” The question comes from my four. Can’t see who.
“Strawberry,” Jane answers like it’s second nature. She doesn’t sound rattled from the amount of people. Though this is twice the size of the crowds she normally gets.
“Thatcher! What about you?! What’s your favorite flavor?!”
My instinct is to not reply. Ignore. But then I remember my security meeting, where my superiors basically said, give the media what they want. Be compliant. Answer their questions as long as they’re respectful.
So to not be chewed out later, I say, “Vanilla.” My voice is stringent. No-nonsense. Still on-duty.
“Is that also your kink preference?!” someone shouts.
“Highly rude!” Jane yells back.
I squeeze her hip. She doesn’t need to defend me. Also, I don’t want her in a fucking fight. I will kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on her.
“So your relationship is nothing like Rose and Connor Cobalt?! You don’t do any bondage?” a pap asks.
I narrow my eyes. “That’s inappropriate.” I’m one second away from smashing his camera. I’m also one minute from the car. I can see it across the street. But we have to stop at a red light and wait for the pedestrian walk signal. Would have had a temp pull the car up to let us in at the curb, but the crowds are too amassed for that.
“Is that yes or a no?” the same pap asks.
“Shut up, man!” a young fan yells at him. “She already said it was rude!”
“Yeah!” a few people yell in agreement.
“Thatcher! Which of Jane’s cats is your favorite?!”
Innocent. Respectful. Engage .
“I love them all,” I reply.
I can’t see it, but I can practically feel Jane’s radiant smile.
The walk sign appears. We’re on the move again.
“Ugly bitch!” That scream comes from the sidewalk we’re approaching. A group of young teenage guys ride electric scooters and pop wheelies near her car.
“Spoiled cunt!”
That one tries to steal all of my attention. But I’m alert and focused and some mouthy teenager isn’t going to distract me. I grit my molars down, holding back a harsh fuck you.
She tucks her head into my back, and I take out the keys to her car. The crowds grow louder, more aggressive. Some shouting at Jane. Others shouting at the scooter-riding teenagers. Adrenaline pumps into my veins, fueling me along with my purpose.
When I unlock the door, fingers tightening around the handle, the tempo of the crowds suddenly change.
“Jaaaane! Don’t go!” someone screams.
“Jane! You didn’t sign my photo!” an older guy yells angrily.
“Jane! JANE!!! I just want a selfie!!”
I know Jane wants to accommodate them, but I have to make the call. There are too many people here. Not enough temp guards. And by the time she finishes signing everything, it’ll be well past dark. People will be pissed, no matter which way you spin it.
“Jaaaaaane! Please !” A girl holds out her phone.
“She’s running late,” I tell the girl. “Sorry everyone!” I wave them to back up and then carefully open the door for Jane. She squeezes past my waist and into the car. Our eyes lock briefly and she mouths thanks .
“Bitch!” someone yells at Jane as I walk to the other side of the door. The temps leave me for security’s SUV parked behind the Beetle.
“You selfish brat!”
Her “fans” suddenly turn. Wave of angry tears and yells at the car. “We just wanted one photo!”
“You suuuck!” Someone throws a water bottle at the Beetle and it bounces off the tire. Realization hits me, that even though I was the one that told them she’s running late, I’m the one that gave the excuse, they’re all attacking her.
Farrow gets the brunt of the harassment while he’s publicly dating Maximoff. They call him controlling. A shitty boyfriend and bad influence.