Page 82 of Just Dare Me
All that’s true. While these two worlds will now be forced into the growing pains of coexistence, I can still keep my life out of it. I can slip away from this mess, forever an enigma to the public. A quiet life with Jay is still within my grasp. But that would leave the sole weight of worldwide scrutiny on the shoulders of Nora Jacobs. Alone.
“Don’t do it, Shayne,” she whispers in my ear. “Remember what we talked about on that balcony at Motown Rouge? This is it! It’s over. You’ve got your man back. You can run away.”
I shrug her off and I shift, my eyeline raising up above her height. “What I remember is that you’re the blight and I’m the scourge of this city. You can’t be both, okay? Us antisocial, reclusive, misunderstood outcasts gotta stick together.”
Nora’s face turns red as she surveys the stunned crowd. Becauseof coursethey’re all acting like the most outrageous thing about what they just saw is not that a fox turned into a woman, but that the woman is stark naked in public. They crowd in, tapping their phones to take pictures. Mothers cover their kids’ eyes with one hand and slap their gawking husbands with the other.
I throw my hands up. “Okay, y’all really got to get over this whole nudity thing.”
Charlotte and Russo break through the crowd, barking orders at police to form a perimeter, evacuate this crowd. Nora’s men swarm in to smother her. Jay is with them. He takes his shirt off, offering it to me.
Meh, I don’t need his shirt. I needhim—around me, on me, covering me. Smiling with euphoric relief, I pull him into a long, giddy kiss. The image captured from that moment quickly became the most famous photo in history, even more renowned than the WWII picture of the soldier kissing the nurse, probably because the nurse wasn’t flashing her ass cheeks to the whole world.
Minutes later, a prominent news outlet had already given the viral photo its immortal headline: “The First Kiss of the New World.”
“I’m giving you thirty moreseconds, Elle.”
“Oh, stop being such a baby, I swear.”
“Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-OW!”
Jerking prickly curlers out of my hair, Elle mutters, “Yeah,ow. Fashion is pain, especially if you want it in thirty seconds.”
“It’s been twenty minutes, which is twice as long as you promised.”
“Only because you won’t stop pacing. This is the last time I do your hair without putting you in a seat belt.”
We’re in a narrow alley beside the famous Guardian building downtown. As I pace between parked police cars, Elle chases after me with theclack-clackof high heels.
It’s a bright day, the sunshine on Woodward Avenue almost blinding in contrast to the shadows of the alley. Normally, there’d be constant traffic whizzing past, but police have blocked off a half-mile section of the city behind the Guardian building, allowing access only to vehicles belonging to the government or the press.
A frantic woman exits a side door into the alley. I forget her name, even though she’s told me three times. She’s some kind of producer, or was it a producer’s assistant? All I know is she’s in charge of getting all of us to the right place at the right time, which makes her not only a constant stress ball, but a pain in my ass.
“Ireallyneed everyone inside. Now.”
“Tell that to my stylist.”
“Two more minutes,” Elle snaps. “Unless you want her going in front of the whole world looking like this?”
The woman clenches both hands into fists. “That’s why we have a whole army of hair and makeup peopleinside.” The walkie-talkie on her hip explodes with static and some kind of mumbled request from an urgent voice. Her eyes grow wide. “Cue for Special Agent Hillerman. Where is she? Why is nobody where they’re supposed to be?”
I wave her off. “Would you relax? I’ll send her in.”
I head for the sunlight on Woodward Avenue. Following on my heels, Elle works a brush through my hair, tugging and pulling like a madwoman. I’m about to jerk that brush from her hand and smack her with it, but we both pause after rounding the corner onto Woodward. There’s Charlotte, wrapped in Russo’s arms, their lips locked together. When I hem loudly, they quickly untangle.
“Well, Special Agent Hillerman, I came here to inform you that you’re wanted, but it looks like Danny beat me to it.”
She grins, smoothing her suit coat and matching skirt. With an arched brow at my Tigers jacket and blue jeans, she says, “You didn’t get the memo about the dress code for this thing?”
“Oh, I got it. Just didn’t like it.”
“You know what? Me neither.” She shrugs off the suit coat, revealing a sleeveless white blouse in sharp contrast to the mosaic of black tattoos covering both arms.
Russo beams as he takes the jacket from her. “Loved it before, now loving it even more.”
“Seriously? You’re rhyming now?”
Ignoring me, the couple shares one more peck on the lips before Charlotte strides away.
