Chapter 91
1519words
Horses skipping by amongst the taxis, dragging star-crossed lovers to the nearest coffee shop. People dressed up like the Statue of Liberty—willing to spout off limericks and poems for money. Rats the size of ponies trotting alongside the subways.
Perhaps it was for this reason, that no one really noticed Nicholas as he sprinted in nothing but his underwear down the street.
That is...until he ran into a late-night hot dog vendor.
'Ow—shit! Sorry!" he cried all at once, doing his best to wipe hot grease and mustard from his chest as he took off after the cameraman.
Even from where I was—twenty paces behind him—I was still able to hear the small chorus of profanities the vendor launched his way. The Italians have a way of cursing better than the rest of us, and this man ran with the best of them.
'Are you fucking kidding me?!" The man lobbed a large handful of horse radish Nicholas's way. 'Put on some fucking pants—pretty!"
Nicholas waved desperately over his head in apology, as he continued sprinting down the street. Barefoot. In the middle of a New York winter.
Against all the odds, he had actually caught sight of the man who had snapped our picture as he headed down the street. He'd yelled something threatening, and the man had taken off in terror—only to have Nicholas in full pursuit. Each one was tearing down the middle of the street, but for very different reasons. Skirting taxis. Ducking billboards. Eyes on the prize.
For my part, I was tagging along in the back—trying to keep my lingerie from falling off as I sprinted after the two of them, screaming at the top of my lungs at no one in particular.
'Hey!" Nicholas cried again, jumping past a baby carriage as he raced along the sidewalk. 'I only want to talk! HEY!"
But the man showed no sign of stopping. To be fair, if I looked behind me and saw an enraged naked billionaire in full pursuit, I wouldn't have stopped either. Then again, I couldn't really blame the guy for snapping another picture over his shoulder as he ran. Between the bare chest, the golden-brown hair, and the streaks of mustard—it was paparazzi gold.
'For fuck's sake," Nicholas growled, picking up his speed.
An old woman crossed herself as I ran by, followed by a group of Japanese tourists who made sure to stop and snap my picture on their way back to the bus.
Perfect, just perfect!
I yanked the jacket around me tighter, but actually gave them a little wave as I tore into the street, following after my naked client as he jumped cars, dodged pedestrians, and generally did the ‘super-hero chase' thing down the midnight streets of New York.
'Nicholas—stop!" I screamed. 'Just let him go—it's over!"
But men like Nicholas weren't programmed to give up. If anything, my hopeless resignation only made him run faster. With his hair streaming out behind him, he leapt over a fire-hydrant and darted around a curb—running like his life depended on it.
'There will not be," he leapt over construction grate, 'a single picture," he ducked the shower of sparks that followed, 'of you naked. I swear it on my—"
And that's when he fell into the fountain.
'Nicholas!" I shrieked, skidding to a screeching halt on the wet tile.
It hadn't been his fault. As he'd rounded the corner, a young mother with a stroller had made her way out of a restaurant. Unfortunately, it was at a place where the sidewalk suddenly bottlenecked with no warning, and the only way to avoid them, was by leaping over the railing entirely...and into the water.
He was lying on his back by the time I caught up with him. His wavy hair floating around him as he floated miserably on top of the freezing water. Ironically, every tourist within seven blocks had appeared from nowhere to take pictures. The cameraman, of course, was long gone.
'Nicholas," I said again, gazing down at him in dismay.
His eyes were closed, but his face perked up when he heard my voice. Instead of answering, he chose to tilt the other way—surrendering himself to the karmic gods as the fountain began to overtake him. By now, a little cloud of mustard and hot dog grease had begun to color the water around him—making him look like a highly edible piece of performance art.
I stifled a smile, clutching his jacket tighter around me.
'Honey..." It was the first time I'd ever used the word, and he perked up with that as well. 'Do you want to maybe get out of the fountain? We can get you dried off?"
His lips twitched, but he remained stationary. Lying there like some kind of water-logged Greek god, caught off guard and drowned on a hunting trip. Riddled with condiments.
'What's the point," he sighed. 'He got away."
The crowd tittered, and I tried not to grin. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how despondent he might actually feel—it was like the guy couldn't stop performing.
'Just because he got away, doesn't mean you have to die of hypothermia." I thought it was a pretty solid argument—the logic was sound. 'Why don't you...paddle this way, and you and I can catch a cab back to the Upper East Side."
One eye opened, followed by another.
'The Upper East Side?" he repeated questioningly. 'Isn't that where we are?"
I shook my head regrettably. 'I'm afraid you left Manhattan entirely. By now, we're probably somewhere in Queens."
The crowd tittered some more, and even Nicholas had to smile as he pulled himself slowly to his feet and began wading my way. It was then that the tittering gave way to genuine shock as some people recognized him, and those who didn't, were bowled away by his body nonetheless.
What the fuck was this? Some kind of secret photo shoot? A social experiment in the making? See how long you can keep from touching the models?
As usual, Nicholas was either oblivious or immune. I, for one, kept it together until he stepped onto the sidewalk beside me, leaving freezing pools of water in his wake.
'You look like James Bond," I comforted. 'You know, if James Bond worked somewhere in the Arctic, liked hot dogs, and fell down a lot."
Nicholas flashed me a wry smile, one that failed to reach his eyes.
'That's funny—you look like you lost all your clothes in a game of Strip Poker."
Simple, yet direct.
I nodded briskly, eager to put the whole chase scene behind us. The publicist in me kicked in, and I was suddenly well aware that we had an audience of eager on-lookers.
'Well, that's what happens when you lose your pants in a boxing ring." I extended my hand with a bright smile. 'Shall we?"
Cold as he was, even Nicholas had to smile in return. He lifted a hand to wave at the cheering crowd, before the two of us draped our arms around each other and headed off to find a cab.
A task much easier said than done...
For the record, taxis don't like to stop for passengers who are soaking wet. And they really don't like to stop for passengers who are soaking wet and mostly naked. It wasn't until Nicholas reached into his suit jacket that I was wearing and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, that someone finally pulled to the curb.
At last, the freezing nightmare was behind us. Our getaway vehicle had just arrived.
A look of relief lit Nicholas's face as he held open the door for me. 'Care to head back to my apartment? We can get you warmed up and maybe...maybe pick up where we left off?"
My first thought was to say yes. Honestly, my first thought was to jump on top of him the second we got into the cab. But between the crowd listening anxiously behind him, and the fact that I was still dressed in nothing but a garter and a man's coat, something changed my mind.
'You know, I should probably head home," I answered quietly. 'It's been...it's been a long night. I want to get some sleep if we're getting together again tomorrow."
Nicholas hesitated in surprise, and I realized that he hadn't, for a single moment, considered the fact that I might say no. He recovered himself well, and nodded quickly—opening the door wider so I could slip into the cab. He would take the next one right behind us.
'Yes, of course." He passed a large bill through the grate before I could stop him, and stepped back to pat the thing on the hood. 'Brooklyn, please."
I rolled down the window, as the driver started pulling away—gazing out at my watery Adonis as he stood by the side of the curb. I handed him more money from the suit pocket so he could get home.
'You can ride with me," I said.
