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I reluctantly complied, taking the phone and looking at myself in all my whorish glory. “Wow. In retrospect, I should have worn my pink lipstick. It goes much better with my left nipple.”
He pried the phone back out of my hand, his eyes assiduously scanning the picture for my nipple like it was Waldo. “Where?”
“On my left boob,” I said. “Same place it always is.”
He looked at my boob in the photo. “A little bit of exposed bra,” he said, handing the phone back. “Nobody will notice. And anyway, I’m not talking about your boob. I’m talking about your face.”
I looked at my hideous lipstick-smeared visage. “What about it?”
“You’re barely recognizable,” he said. “The picture’s taken in profile, half your face is hidden by your hair, and the part that you can see is smeared with lipstick. No one will recognize you.”
“I’ve gotten about ten texts so far asking me what made me stoop to this level. People recognize me.”
“Who are the texts from?” he said.
“My mother. My thesis advisor. My friends.”
“Exactly,” he said. “People who could spot you in a crowd of a thousand faces. But if you walk down this street right now, no one’s going to associate you with the woman in the picture. Your face is different. Your hair is different. Your clothes are different. It’s like you and the woman in the picture aren’t even related.”
“Then why can’t I get out of the car?” I asked.
“Because the minute Carter sees you step out of my car, he’s taking your picture. And he’ll compare that picture to the picture from this morning and figure out it’s one and the same person. And from there it’s only a matter of time before he plasters every detail of your life across the internet. If you want to keep your name out of the tabloids, you’re going to have to lay low for a while. Literally.”
“So I just have to lie here on my back until this sonofabitch gets tired and—oh my God, no matter what I say, I sound like a hooker. I should just go buy a peekaboo bra and a pair of crotchless panties and get it over with already.”
I waited for him to reply. He did not.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said.
“Like what?”
“I’m wearing a pair of fully-crotched briefs that I bought on clearance at Walmart. We’re talking about the photographer.”
“Right,” he said. “Carter. Don’t expect him to get tired anytime soon. Like I said, he’s extremely persistent. We could be waiting another ten hours.”
My one-track mind immediately went to its favorite subject. “What if he has to pee?”
“He’ll do it in the street.”
“Gross!”
“He can make a hundred thousand dollars off the right picture or video footage,” Ian said. “He’ll do whatever it takes.”
“So we just have to stay like this for the next ten hours?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I told you, I’ll come up with a plan. Just give me a few minutes to think.”
While Ian was lying on his back “thinking” (which I was beginning to suspect was a bold word for what was going on in that head of his), I was lying on my back doing some thinking of my own.
“What ifIhave to pee?” I said. “I’mnot doing it in the street. Not even for a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I think there’s an empty water bottle in the back seat.”
Ah. The “plan” was already taking shape. “Can you take another picture of the guy? I’d like to see the face of the man who may or may not snap a picture of me taking a wee in the back of your car.”
Ian raised his arm above the dashboard and snapped a few more blind pictures, then handed me the phone.
I looked. Carter was half hidden behind his van, a long-range camera in his hand. “Holy crap, is that Army camo he’s wearing?”
