Page 27 of Rushed

Keenan

Christmas dinner by an executive chef, drinks by the firelight, and more drunken escapades in the hot tub, made for a perfect day. It was all so surreal.

I’m home now—or what’s starting to feel like home—being held tightly in Lincoln’s arms. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m excited.

With all my packages and surprises from the first Christmas in the history of Keenan, I was thrown back into reality when I drove up to the brownstone to find ESPN, TSN, and at least ten other affiliates parked across from the club and outside Lincoln’s place. I’m not sure how we’ll get past them to enjoy the ringing in of the New Year, but Lincoln promised he had a plan to get us out to watch the ball drop in Times Square.

He gets up to shower for the second time. The first time was my fault, and the second was his. He told me I need to dress really warm, but comfortable; a cross somewhere between a snowball fight and a ride on the L train is what he said.

“Is it ready?” Lincoln asks the person on the other end of the phone. “Fine, good. We’ll be downstairs in a few minutes.” He disconnects the call and turns to me.

“Ready?” I nod and pull on my coat.

“When we get to the door, I want ya to go to the left. Don’t worry about the reporters, there won’t be any there,” he says with a grin.

“If you smile any bigger, you’ll choke on your own dimples, Linc.” I take his hand and kiss the back of it. “And yes, I got it. Let’s go.”

We reach the doorway and exit to the left, and sure enough, there are no reporters. Not one. I’m suspicious, but happy. What did he do to make this happen? I let my curiosity get the better of me and glance around while he locks the door to the flat. The streets are deserted and silent, which is so very unusual for a very loud night, not to mention one this close to central Manhattan.

“Time to go.” Lincoln takes my hand and leads me down the street towards the iconic square, up Central Park West.

“Lincoln Moore, what did you do?” I ask.

“Oh, not much. I just used my influence with a friend to vacate the area. It seems there was an apparent sighting of a special so and so, proposing at the Central Park Zoo. It’s amazin’ how those hounds will eat up publicity.” Lincoln tucks me into his side, and I graciously accept the heat of his body as he wraps his arm around my shoulder. As we walk along, I notice even the side streets are quiet. The natural noises of the city are there of course, but there’s a definitive lack in traffic.

“Thank you for this. I can’t remember a more peaceful time since everything happened. I truly appreciate it.” His match, the public eye, the holidays, and even me moving into his loft has caused a great kerfuffle of activity in our lives.

“Anytime, Kitten.” As we walk in companionable silence up Central Park, passing the odd revelers and families as they traverse the distance to the square, I feel at peace. Being in the arms of this strong, brooding man, as he shows others in range that I’m his, it’s an amazing feeling, knowing I’m cared for. The old me may not have been, but I am now.

Tucking me closer, he kisses the top of my head. We’ve been walking for about ten minutes, passing bands, street performers, and a guy selling sparklers for the kids, so of course I needed one. I wrote my name and Lincoln’s in the night sky, intertwining them in starlight and fresh air.

The countdown and ensuing party in the square is astonishing. Dick Clark officiates the countdown as everyone watches on in awe. I can’t remember if I’ve ever been here, but I realize it’s a time for rebirth. Not just for me, but for the city. It needs it as much as I do. Maybe even more.

I never want to forget this moment, and I decide that my resolution will be not to worry about what I have forgotten. I will focus on moving forward from here on out.

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