“It’s cold,” I added as an afterthought.
There was a hitch in his stride, and the next second, he lifted up his hand. I tossed him a pair of boxer-briefs, and he slid into them on the spot. He flashed me a roguish grin, and the next second, he threw open the same door the man had vanished through a moment before.
A half-naked billionaire, chasing a paparazzi into the cold Manhattan night.
And just like that, the game was on...
Chapter 11
You live in New York long enough, you become accustom to certain things.
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 Nick 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 Nick’s way. “Put on some fucking pants—pretty!”
Nick 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 Nick 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!” Nick 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,” Nick 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.
“Nick—stop!” I screamed. “Just let him go—it’s over!”
But men like Nick 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.
“Nick!” 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.
“Nick,” 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.